“We have said this not in order to say something, but in order not to remain altogether silent.”
— Augustine of Hippo
Not to remain altogether silent. What a modest, humble goal. We don’t know if our words have any innate value or if anyone will find anything of use in them. Yet, we honor our yearnings: to create; to attempt to express our deepest feelings and understandings; to connect, to heal, to empower ourselves . . . one other person . . . anyone upon whom our released butterfly happens to land.
And isn’t Augustine also saying, basically: I don’t know that what I’ve written is for sure the truth. I’m not writing to make a pronouncement, but just to convey my thoughts on what I believe is important. (Augustine explored major tenets of Christianity, like Divine grace, and both Protestants and Catholics still inherit his conclusions.)
In our world (and in Augustine’s) where everyone seems to have such strong beliefs and to be convinced that they have a patent on the truth, isn’t it nice to have permission to say that we don’t have to have it all figured out before we can share our thoughts? That there is Mystery and a universe bigger than us?
And what about that word, “altogether.” Doesn’t that hint that maybe he had more to say but elected to not say it? He has not been altogether silent, but I think he is implying that he has edited his words. There’s definitely wisdom there.
In the previous newsletter, I talked about the difficulties we encounter when we solely define ourselves by what we do, by our goals, or by our product. I was touched by the deep and thoughtful comments that came back to me, so please keep commenting. For example:
“Your post was a lone voice in the cacophony of noise in our culture. The idea of examining the creative process from a deeper perspective is wonderful, It won’t lend itself to the “top 10 things to focus on” kind of list. I wonder what an outcome would look like? Clarity?”
Clarity. Isn’t that what we’re all looking for? We want clear answers to the questions of who am I and what should I be doing and how do I fit into the bigger picture? I’ve talked in the past about Dan Blank’s “Clarity Cards,” and how useful I’ve found them.
But the interesting thing about clarity is that it’s not a one-time deal. We think we should be able to adjust the lens to the proper setting and the whole scene will be in perfect focus. But as any good photographer will tell you, perfect clarity lasts for only minutes—even seconds. The light changes, the fog moves in, some thoughtless person obstructs your line of sight, your own artistic impulse moves you to focus on the lone tree rather than the clouds. And so, like everything real, clarity is organic, breathing, coming in and going out.
Which makes me think of this comment to the post: I write because I need to, and the journey is important to me.
The journey. Clarity is a journey. To see ourselves without our masks, to see our own unique gifts, to find our place—and the place of our art—in this living, breathing universe. To be able to move forward without having all the answers. Simply: to not remain altogether silent.
What a simple, gentle goal and how liberating.
To sum up, I’m going to quote from my novel, which you’re never supposed to do online if you’re shopping it. (I’m finding that I care less and less about these rules.)
This is near the end, and my main character, the Italian writer Giovanni Boccaccio, is writing his epitaph with his trusted servant, Zenobi, who is the first-person narrator of the story. Boccaccio chased fame all his life, always living in the shadow of his friend, the other great Italian writer, Petrarch. In my novel, Boccaccio makes huge sacrifices for his career, yet never achieved the greatness he sought. But, in the end, he wised up.
“The Decameron is great,” I say. “And you know it. That’s why you chose the paper and script of higher texts for this rewrite.”
He smiles. “This last effort has made me so happy, Zenobi. And to return to our task,” he nods toward the paper on the desk before me, “my labors, whatever they cost me, they gave me great joy. My life has been beautiful because of my work.” He gestures toward the pen, drying in my hand. “Say that my life was adorned by my labors.”
“By the worth of your labors.”
He sighs. “Very well, Zenobi. You have worn down a dying man. But in truth, no artist can say if there is any worth in his labors. We are like miners, working in the dark, seeing only the tiny light from our lamps, not knowing where we are going or what we will find. Perhaps this is God’s will for our lives. Or perhaps God doesn’t give a fig. But either way, this enchantment is our curse, our ecstasy, our nobility. Whether we are great, not great, recognized, not recognized—it matters not, Zenobi. All we can do is take up our pens or our brushes or our chisels. We write the next word, strike the next blow, and hope that it exposes . . . truth.”
Under this stone lie the ashes and bones of Giovanni. His soul rests before God, his mortal life having been adorned by the worth of his labors. His father was Boccaccio, his country was Certaldo, and his love was his cherished poetry.
Finding our stories . . . and ourselves.