Having read countless books of chivalry of days of yore and having filled his head with errant knights and ladies fair and noble deeds and devious enchanters ... in late middle age it dawns on Don Quixote that this is in actual fact his destiny. It is for him, and him alone, to bring knight-errantry and all the glorious feats and romances entailed therein bang-up-to-date for 17th century Spain. So he sallies forth -- accompanied by skeptical but willingly-deluded faithful squire Pancho and scrawny, disobliging noble steed Rocinante, to the great dismay of his housekeeper and his niece and in spite of the best efforts of his friends the barber and the local priest. His desire for adventure overwhelms him to the point where he is bound to find it even (or especially) where it isn't. And so, he battles fearlessly with monstrous giants (windmills), liberates oppressed captives (convicted criminals), triumphs in bloody combat with devious night intruders (hanging wineskins), takes up arms, repeatedly, to warrant the unequalled charms of 'his' fair lady Dulcinea of Toboso (an exceptionally 'coarse' young peasant whom he has never met), reposes periodically in castles at the gracious pleasure of the lords and ladies resident within (innkeepers, ever-infuriated by his disinclination to remunerate their hospitality -- knights, it seems, don't tarry with base lucre). Everything that happens to him, he immediately and confidently interprets within the elevated narrative of knighthood -- putting that which doesn't square down to enchantment. If a castle seems to resemble an inn, it's enchanted. If the mythic helmet of Mambrino looks rather like a barber's basin, it's enchanted. If the strange men who bundle him into a cage on the back of an oxcart bear some similarity to the barber and the priest, they are enchanted. If reports of Dulcinea paint her as a homely simple lass engaged in humble household duties -- more enchantment, either of herself, or of the witnesses, or (best be on the safe-side) both. The pervasion and incessancy of these trickeries only serve to strengthen Don Quixote's sense of self-important expectation: surely only one greatly revered for mighty past and future deeds could possibly attract such opposition from the natural and supernatural enemies of justice.
There are many advantages to be gained by buying in to a pleasing fictionalisation of one's day-to-day experience. As coping mechanisms go, I can heartily recommend it. Having filled my own head with books and poetry, I write myself into the character of "poet-eccentric extraordinaire". And so I charge around -- oblivious to the weariness, indifference and bewilderment of the unfortunates who share space and conversation with me, riding rough-shod o'er the nuances and difficulties of their concerns, and re-interpreting discouragements and brush-offs in the framework of my own alternate palliative narrative. My papers get rejected -- ah, the research sub-community is made nervous by my perspicacious diagnosis of prevailing ills. My opinions get rejected -- but of course: my bold and independent insights are beyond the grasp of those who only know to blindly follow with the herd. My person gets rejected -- why, this should come as no surprise when I unsettle and intimidate so enigmatically. My 'writings' get rejected -- well, one can't expect uncultivated minds to recognise such greatness in the making. In the middle of the fiction, nothing can touch me. All of the bad things which happen are as a result of my being so very very unique and profound; all of the difficult emotions I contend with are material for my musings; all of the awkwardness I apparently produce in other people is, in actuality, sheer awe. I am a misfit because I am special, unfathomable, inevitably misunderstood.
Periodically (wordplay not entirely unintended [1]) I transition from this story into my 'parallel' reality -- the one I (mostly) grew up in in spite of my ongoing efforts to edit, re-frame it or tipp-ex it out altogether. All of a sudden I see myself ridiculous: I see the vaguely-veiled loathing in the visages of others; I see the hideous short-fallings of my research efforts; I see the embarrassing paucity of my poetic endeavours; I see what an arse I am being and I see all the ways I let everyone down. Sometimes something happens to trigger this; often, absolutely nothing changes in my situation except my perception. Of course, this miserable tale is almost as far-fetched as my wish-fulfilling fantasy: it is highly unlikely that anyone I know has noticed me sufficiently or has the energy to spare to specifically, intentionally, actively despise me. In my flashes of rationality I'm pretty sure that I'm no more the subject of intense concerted negative attention than I am of positive.
My Grand Delusion fluctuates in tone and in the way it makes me feel but in egotistic essence it is pretty constant. Extravagant arrogance or overwrought self-loathing ... are these my only options? Is there any hope of being liberated from these fictions to experience reality as it really is? (Would I want to if I could? Can I handle the truth?)
And so, to the Christian narrative, which I'm rubbish at summarising but which at least includes something like "Jesus demonstrates and makes it possible to submit one's life to God, and in so-doing to participate in something altogether fuller, more abundant" [2]. Amazingly, unlike my earlier-mentioned self-constructed frameworks, this continues to make sense even when I think about it. Not only is it appealing and beautiful but -- after research, inquiry, experience -- I'm increasingly confident to say, with faith, "it's true". And yet, it seems a constant battle of will and intention to reject the distorted versions of events which my unguarded mind is bent on entertaining and remind myself instead to see things in the light of my asserted faith. Why do I struggle to frame my day-to-day experience in the context of the only story which has stood up to my own interrogation? I think, perhaps, it is because it is not a story about me. Even as a Christian, I resist the 'life in Christ' reality because my instinct is to want to be the centre of it all, and not relinquish my agenda, my ambition, my rule and needs and preferences...
[1] (With apologies to Mr. W and other male readers of a delicate disposition...)
There are many advantages to be gained by buying in to a pleasing fictionalisation of one's day-to-day experience. As coping mechanisms go, I can heartily recommend it. Having filled my own head with books and poetry, I write myself into the character of "poet-eccentric extraordinaire". And so I charge around -- oblivious to the weariness, indifference and bewilderment of the unfortunates who share space and conversation with me, riding rough-shod o'er the nuances and difficulties of their concerns, and re-interpreting discouragements and brush-offs in the framework of my own alternate palliative narrative. My papers get rejected -- ah, the research sub-community is made nervous by my perspicacious diagnosis of prevailing ills. My opinions get rejected -- but of course: my bold and independent insights are beyond the grasp of those who only know to blindly follow with the herd. My person gets rejected -- why, this should come as no surprise when I unsettle and intimidate so enigmatically. My 'writings' get rejected -- well, one can't expect uncultivated minds to recognise such greatness in the making. In the middle of the fiction, nothing can touch me. All of the bad things which happen are as a result of my being so very very unique and profound; all of the difficult emotions I contend with are material for my musings; all of the awkwardness I apparently produce in other people is, in actuality, sheer awe. I am a misfit because I am special, unfathomable, inevitably misunderstood.
Periodically (wordplay not entirely unintended [1]) I transition from this story into my 'parallel' reality -- the one I (mostly) grew up in in spite of my ongoing efforts to edit, re-frame it or tipp-ex it out altogether. All of a sudden I see myself ridiculous: I see the vaguely-veiled loathing in the visages of others; I see the hideous short-fallings of my research efforts; I see the embarrassing paucity of my poetic endeavours; I see what an arse I am being and I see all the ways I let everyone down. Sometimes something happens to trigger this; often, absolutely nothing changes in my situation except my perception. Of course, this miserable tale is almost as far-fetched as my wish-fulfilling fantasy: it is highly unlikely that anyone I know has noticed me sufficiently or has the energy to spare to specifically, intentionally, actively despise me. In my flashes of rationality I'm pretty sure that I'm no more the subject of intense concerted negative attention than I am of positive.
My Grand Delusion fluctuates in tone and in the way it makes me feel but in egotistic essence it is pretty constant. Extravagant arrogance or overwrought self-loathing ... are these my only options? Is there any hope of being liberated from these fictions to experience reality as it really is? (Would I want to if I could? Can I handle the truth?)
And so, to the Christian narrative, which I'm rubbish at summarising but which at least includes something like "Jesus demonstrates and makes it possible to submit one's life to God, and in so-doing to participate in something altogether fuller, more abundant" [2]. Amazingly, unlike my earlier-mentioned self-constructed frameworks, this continues to make sense even when I think about it. Not only is it appealing and beautiful but -- after research, inquiry, experience -- I'm increasingly confident to say, with faith, "it's true". And yet, it seems a constant battle of will and intention to reject the distorted versions of events which my unguarded mind is bent on entertaining and remind myself instead to see things in the light of my asserted faith. Why do I struggle to frame my day-to-day experience in the context of the only story which has stood up to my own interrogation? I think, perhaps, it is because it is not a story about me. Even as a Christian, I resist the 'life in Christ' reality because my instinct is to want to be the centre of it all, and not relinquish my agenda, my ambition, my rule and needs and preferences...
"And he said to all, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it. For what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses or forfeits himself?" (Luke 9:23-25)It is hard to 'deny oneself' -- it does not come 'naturally'. After all, one is inescapably the natural protagonist of one's own life story. But to "honour Christ the Lord as holy", as Peter exhorts (1 Peter 3:15a); to submit to his prompting and leading in every action, every thought, every decision; to respond with trust in the midst of life's trials and with praise in the midst of its triumphs, taking our eyes off ourselves and off our circumstances and "fixing them on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith" (cf Hebrews 12)... Well, according to the Bible, and confirmed for me by my experience so far, this is worth the cost and so much more. It's clear from my attempts to fashion my own life that I'm a lousy author: why would I not want to entrust the plot (which I am so exceptionally good at losing) to One who knows me infinitely better and loves me infinitely more than I know and love myself, and is infinitely more able to effect 'good' in and through and for me (whatever 'good' might look like -- submission means that I don't get to choose) ...
Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. (Proverbs 3:5-6)
Trust in the Lord, and do good; dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness. Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the Lord; trust in him, and he will act. He will bring forth your righteousness as the light, and your justice as the noonday. (Psalm 37:3-6)
"If you abide in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free." (John 8:31b-32)
Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you. (1 Peter 5:6-7)
[1] (With apologies to Mr. W and other male readers of a delicate disposition...)
PMS, they say, varies by ovary.[2] Sorry, this is a somewhat inadequate description of 'the Christian narrative'. Try this short essay by (ahem) N.T. Wright (again, sorry) for some interesting thoughts [pdf].
Well, it's clear one of mine's got it in for me:
Some months all's well and good --
I'm like Elinor Dashwood,
Whilst others, I'm more Madame Bovary...
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