Friday Muse: Leaving Ourselves Open to Mystery
Carl Jung, Grace Paley, and the strength in vulnerability
“Overvalued reason has this in common with political absolutism: under its dominion the individual is pauperized.” —Carl Jung, from Memories, Dreams, Reflections
When I was in high school (and after), I went through a Carl Jung phase. I read Jung’s autobiography Memories, Dreams, Reflections and selections from The Portable Jung from Penguin.* (What can I say. I was deep, even then. Ha.)
One idea that stays with me is that the individual must remain open to play, to mystery, to an exploration of one’s inner world, or else risk shutting down an important and rich element of life. As a child and later as a creative adult, I have found myself drawn again and again to mystery. I’ve written about this before, about the way that writing and reading have been, for me, a way to maintain openness to mystery and play:
How might writing memoir and personal essay help us as we claim our role as observers and shapers of our own lives? On a simple level, when I think about writing that I personally love, I notice a common thread of writers who are living the questions—inhabiting life’s inexplicable, wondrous, even perplexing moments with an openness that lets readers in and asks them to inhabit those questions for themselves. What are we doing as writers and as lovers of writing, if not standing in the middle of our lives wondering at it all?
I’ve been thinking about the vulnerability inherent in being open to the wondrous and inexplicable. There’s no immediate “reward” for it under our capitalist system. But for those of us interested in art, poetry, spirituality, and the unexplained (or some combination of those things), such openness is central.
For some writers, interest in mystery is connected to the mystery of human relationships and personalities. The writing may be what we typically consider “realism,” but it explores the mystery of human hearts and minds, nonetheless. I think of Grace Paley in this regard. The voice in her stories is so particular and vigorous. There’s a recognizable strength to it, strength of spirit and of convictions, but in Paley’s openness to exploring the poinsts of tension between individuals, she makes herself and her characters vulnerable in a beautiful way. It’s a both/and. The strength is in the vulnerability, the openness to question what it means to love and survive and be an engaged member of society in the 20th century. In the story “Wants,” the protagonist and her husband are themselves the node of mystery that Paley explores. What does it mean that they had a life together and no longer do? What does each of them value? Where were the points of connection, and do any of them still exist?
You can read Dani Shapiro’s interesting introduction the story here. Shapiro writes, “[T]hough she was my teacher of writing, Grace was much more than that to me. She was my teacher of life. How to be a woman, a wife, a mother, a friend, a concerned citizen? How to walk around in the skin of a writer — which is to say often anguished, easily bruised — and turn that sensitivity into a powerful lens?” Turning sensitivity into a powerful lens is what artists and writers model for the world, and some days the courage required to do this astounds me.
Read “Wants” below.
*I’m still interested in Jungian ideas, though I recognize their limitations, as well as the Eurocentric and racist underpinnings of some of his writing. For more on that, see this open letter from the C.G. Jung Institute of San Francisco.
If you’re interested in taking my self-guided group course “Approaching Mystery: Writing Flash Memoir about Wonder and the Unexplained,” you can still register. The course opens on Monday June 17th! More information is here.
I will also be teaching a two-part Zoom workshop on “Writing from the Unconscious” on August 3rd and 10th. (You can take the parts together or separately.)
Finally, if you’d like to jump into my next generative workshop on Saturday June 22nd, there are spots available. These drop-in sessions are only $40 each.
“Wants”
by
Grace Paley
I saw my ex-husband in the street. I was sitting on the steps of the new library.
Hello, my life, I said. We had once been married for twenty-seven years, so I felt
justified.
He said, What? What life? No life of mine.
I said, O.K. I don’t argue when there’s real disagreement. I got up and went into
the library to see how much I owed them.
The librarian said $32 even and you’ve owed it for eighteen years. I didn’t deny
anything. Because I don’t understand how time passes. I have had those books. I
have often thought of them. The library is only two blocks away.
My ex-husband followed me to the Books Returned desk. He interrupted the
librarian, who had more to tell. In many ways, he said, as I look back, I attribute
the dissolution of our marriage to the fact that you never invited the Bertrams to
dinner.
That’s possible, I said. But really, if you remember: first, my father was sick that
Friday, then the children were born, then I had those Tuesday-night meetings,
then the war began. Then we didn’t seem to know them any more. But you’re
right. I should have had them to dinner.
I gave the librarian a check for $32. Immediately she trusted me, put my past
behind her, wiped the record clean, which is just what most other municipal
and/or state bureaucracies will not do.
I checked out the two Edith Wharton books I had just returned because I’d read
them so long ago and they are more apropos now than ever. They were The
House of Mirth and The Children, which is about how life in the United States in
New York changed in twenty-seven years fifty years ago.
A nice thing I do remember is breakfast, my ex-husband said. I was surprised. All
we ever had was coffee. Then I remembered there was a hole in the back of the
kitchen closet which opened into the apartment next door. There, they always ate
sugar-cured smoked bacon. It gave us a very grand feeling about breakfast, but
we never got stuffed and sluggish.
That was when we were poor, I said.
When were we ever rich? he asked.
Oh, as time went on, as our responsibilities increased, we didn’t go in need. You
took adequate financial care, I reminded him. The children went to camp four
weeks a year and in decent ponchos with sleeping bags and boots, just like
everyone else. They looked very nice. Our place was warm in winter, and we had
nice red pillows and things.
I wanted a sailboat, he said. But you didn’t want anything.
Don’t be bitter, I said. It’s never too late.
No, he said with a great deal of bitterness. I may get a sailboat. As a matter of
fact I have money down on an eighteen-foot two-rigger. I’m doing well this year
and can look forward to better. But as for you, it’s too late. You’ll always want
nothing.
He had had a habit throughout the twenty-seven years of making a narrow
remark which, like a plumber’s snake, could work its way through the ear down
the throat, half-way to my heart. He would then disappear, leaving me choking
with equipment. What I mean is, I sat down on the library steps and he went
away.
I looked through The House of Mirth, but lost interest. I felt extremely accused.
Now, it’s true, I’m short of requests and absolute requirements. But I do
want something.
I want, for instance, to be a different person. I want to be the woman who brings
these two books back in two weeks. I want to be the effective citizen who
changes the school system and addresses the Board of Estimate on the troubles
of this dear urban center.
I had promised my children to end the war before they grew up.
I wanted to have been married forever to one person, my ex-husband or my
present one. Either has enough character for a whole life, which as it turns out is
really not such a long time. You couldn’t exhaust either man’s qualities or get
under the rock of his reasons in one short life.
Just this morning I looked out the window to watch the street for a while and saw
that the little sycamores the city had dreamily planted a couple of years before
the kids were born had come that day to the prime of their lives.
Well! I decided to bring those two books back to the library. Which proves that
when a person or an event comes along to jolt or appraise me I can take some
appropriate action, although I am better known for my hospitable remarks.
Thanks for this post Joanna. It could not have come at a better time. It does indeed take courage to turn that intense sensitivity into a lens through which others can see their own mysterious and curious lives. Remembering how to do that in the midst of one’s most vulnerable times is a trick it’s hard (for me) to turn but I believe it is the only answer that doesn’t feel self-destructive, and has the power to help others. Well timed Teach. Thanks.