Such Ones As Us

I’ve talked myself out of writing this so many times. I know it will be difficult, and I’m afraid it might hurt a little, but that’s not really what’s holding me back. Over the past few months, whenever a stretch of several consecutive hours has opened up and beckoned me in to explore this interior world, I’ve shied away because the patronizing adult in me admonishes the wide-eyed child in me, telling her she will one day be embarrassed by it, that she will eventually come to see how naive she was, that things only appear this way now, that her observations and impressions will become stale with time.

Now I, the wide-eyed child, would like to say to her: yes, that may be true. But tell me, what piece of writing, from poetry to scientific papers, does not fall into the category of How Things Appear Now? This will be an attempt, and I have a feeling it won’t be the last. It’s a snapshot of my current understanding, which is all any of us can ever hope to capture.

A year ago I took a sabbatical from my job as a violinist in the Richmond Symphony. For the first few months, I was still quite busy playing chamber music concerts and recitals, but for the entire month of November I decided to leave my violin in its case, resulting in the longest break I had ever taken in my life since starting the violin at age 5. I can’t say exactly why I did this or what I hoped would happen. I just had a hunch that there was this tangle of knots in my brain which needed copious amounts of time in order to loosen.

I’m going to give it to you straight. I loved Noviolinber. I enjoyed it immensely. At no point did I miss playing the violin. I read books, spent time with family, threw a baby shower for my friend, took fall walks, drank tea, took naps. I did not become a different person, nor did I experience a loss of equilibrium. I did not feel lost or empty.

When December rolled around–and with it, all the holiday gigs I’d agreed to play–I felt a familiar anxiety enter my body. The prospect of re-entering The Music World, where the peer-to-peer sizing up never ends, made my stomach drop. I felt sad that my happy, healthy, Noviolinber glow had not caused my baggage to evaporate.

After Bare Minimum December (I got my violin out only for gigs and to prepare for gigs), I got on a plane to Paris where I would be participating in a two-month-long artist residency, supposedly as a violinist, but with writing listed as a secondary discipline. Secretly, my plan was to bring the violin, essentially as a prop, but to use the time to write. (How that turned out is a story for another time, I hope.) Once again, my violin stayed in its case for the better part of a month.

Then, on February 4, I decided it was time to play a few notes. Perhaps I was ready. Perhaps I would be inspired! After warming up my wimpy fingers, I launched into whatever I could play from memory, i.e. music I had studied between the ages of 13 and 23, i.e. music with baggage. Here, miles away and years apart from these negative experiences, they still cut to the quick. It was like my violin case had acted as my Pandora’s box–none of these thoughts had crossed my mind during November or January, but now they swarmed around my otherwise empty atelier. As I observed in my journal the next day, “Not playing regularly, you lose your callouses, and not just on your fingers.”

I didn’t try again for the rest of the trip. I was troubled by the fact that, despite my lengthy supposed rejuvenation periods, I never felt any more ready to come back. I questioned the wisdom of living one’s whole life with the kind of low level anxiety that crept into my body every time I got the violin out of the case, an anxiety I’d never noticed before.

I asked myself why I tried so hard, at this stage in my life, to play the violin well–to keep getting better at it. What was simmering underneath the hours of practicing that no one was asking me to do? I suppose some people might think that there is only one kind of practicing, but there are at least two: the first involves preparing for a specific concert, and the second involves working on playing your instrument well. It is possible to get through a career in music without the second kind (once you get a job, that is). The first is always motivated by money (although there may also be deeper reasons for it), but the second must have its own motivation.

With time and the contemplative air of Parisian streets on my side, I eventually discovered that my motivation for the second kind of practice was this: although the attainment of perfection was not possible, I still held that it was honorable to pursue it throughout my earthly life. Once I articulated it in this way, I realized it had a familiar ring to it. It sounded a lot like something from my religious upbringing. Because we are human, we can never be perfect, except through Christ. That said, you have to show Christ you’re serious by trying your best to get as close to perfection as you can every day. And he will know if you didn’t try your best, so.

It had been 17 years since I’d supposedly rejected this mentality (see: Easter Someday), yet I’d continued to adopt it unconsciously in my musical life, and it had kept me locked in a constant state of self-criticism, a nagging sense of inadequacy, a life sentence of not measuring up. It gave me a certain low level anxiety I thought I’d left in the dust when I was 21.

Naturally, I rejected this mentality all over again, if only because it had enjoyed a free ride for all these years without being examined once. Perhaps, as many people seem to have concluded, this is a way to live a good life, but for now, I’m spitting it against the wall so I can get a good look at it. Denied its presumed legitimacy, it now reveals the absurd implication that I was born a bad violinist and must work to become a good one, as if all people were born bad violinists. Of course, this is true, but it is also absurd.

I returned home in late February with several weeks’ cushion before my first performance. For the first time since December, I had my pick of motivations for the first kind of practice: payment, obligation, binding social contracts, you name it. I got my violin out, did what I needed to do to prepare for the gig, then realized that I no longer had a reason to do the second kind of practice. For two or three days, I floated in this oblivion of meaninglessness, pushing bits of scales and etudes around on my plate.

I ran through some possible alternatives. I practice to…avoid humiliation? To not disappoint my teachers and parents? No, too negative. Plus, those kinds of fears practically ensure their fulfillment. What about bringing the joy of music to audiences? Sure, but let’s face it: I could still bring lots of joy to lots of people without ever doing the second kind of practice again, considering how much work I’ve already done. Ok, then perhaps it’s about doing artistic justice to the composer’s vision? Maybe. But at this point in time, I find it difficult to care enough about that to want to spend hours developing a perfectly inaudible bow change.

Finally, mercifully, the answers started coming, answers that held water, and still do. Here are my new reasons, in the order that they occurred to me.

First, doing that “deep work” kind of practice is how I make myself at home in this world. I read an interview with the poet Derek Walcott this year in which he says that “any serious attempt to do something worthwhile is ritualistic,” and the philosopher Byung-Chul Han writes that, while dwellings are how we find our home in space, rituals are how we find our home in time. Applying myself through deep concentration on a regular basis to the art of violin playing is my way of making myself at home in this world.

The second reason (as if I needed one) is that playing the violin puts me in touch, literal touch, with paradox and mystery. Why does music make sense to us at all? Why does it affect us in ways we can’t fully express? How is it that, the more I relax, the stronger and more stable I become? It’s a portal out of our overly defined, overly certain, overly verbal world, a tangible reminder of our own unknowableness, a front row seat at the meeting of limitation and possibility.

And thirdly, practicing the violin prepares me as a vessel for the New to flow through. Whether it comes as new music or as a new interpretation of old music, I want to be ready for it, and that means honing my skills. After all, what is the point of repeating all the same sounds everyone else has already made? Sounds that people will recognize and approve of? I am reminded of this chilling line, from Jean-François Lyotard’s postmodern fables: “Why all this cultural busyness, colloquia, interviews, seminars? Just so we can be sure we’re all saying the same thing.” The drive toward social acceptance certainly fuels the pursuit of sameness, but it also invites the kind of pain that cripples us as musicians to varying degrees throughout our lives. Falling short of an agreed upon standard reduces a person’s gifts to a unique constellation of defects.

I hesitate to say that this shift in thinking has changed everything for me but, by all appearances, it has. All the weird things that people say to musicians, even the weird things that musicians say to musicians, are like so much noise to my ears now. I am more confident in the strength (not to mention the existence) of my gifts, and the idea that some people may not see them or value them or approve of them doesn’t seem to faze me. I have zoomed so far out that all the little clubs that I am excluded from seem tiny and insignificant. My sense of self-worth is rooted much more deeply and widely than my status in the music world. It’s rooted in my very humanity.

Of course, I leave open the possibility that I’ll come home crying one of these days, or that a painful memory will crop up and stop me in my tracks, but I’m not ruling out that I really have been transformed in some way. As Susan Sontag writes, “an event that makes new feelings conscious is the most important experience a person can have,” and I can never un-have my sabbatical.

There is a feeling that many of us are here for the same thing. We can’t say quite what it is, but we know it must be here. Sitting in the park with a notebook, pushing the stroller with an open paperback, cutting through dense crowds with a camera slung around the shoulder. Where is it? When will I find it? Do I let it come to me? Do I even know what it is? 

It’s some sort of communion. Communion with God, with the earth, with spirit, creativity, the souls of those who traipsed through these streets centuries ago. We came here because we felt something tugging while we were at home, and it seems that people have successfully found whatever that thing is while here, or because of having been here. 

Me, I’m having trouble seeing and hearing beyond the steady stream of traffic beneath my window. Hemingway had a goatherd marching past his window, I have 24/7 ambulances and trucks and cars and scooters and bikes. The more I read about Hemingway, the more I realize how driven he was by ambition. And I suppose I was at that age, too. He was in his early-mid 20’s when he was “just starting into writing” here in Paris. He had been a journalist before that, but now he was devoting himself to the real stuff, the forging of a new modern style. He knew he could do it, and he was highly disciplined. He was not unaffected by rejection. Quite the contrary. But he was so motivated by this desire for recognition that it didn’t stop him. 

If I had not won that job, the job I have now, when I was 23, I would have certainly continued to take auditions. But for how long? Where does determination falter? And who’s to say if it falters too early or too late? All that is beside the point for me now as I embark on this new, possibly short-lived foray of starting into writing. It’s beside the point because my determination to do so is next to nil. 

Whether it’s naturally connected to being almost 38 instead of 23, or because I am doing this on my own rather than under the guidance of mentors, I can’t say. Both must have an effect. There is something intoxicating about being at college, surrounded by inspiring teachers and fellow students, with names hanging on the wall, people practicing like crazy and winning jobs left and right, and having almost no responsibilities except to succeed, and to succeed quickly. 

As it is, I am spurred on only by a quiet longing to express something, an inkling that I have something to say, and a knowledge that I enjoy saying it, figuring out how to say it. That’s it. I know I enjoy it, and I suspect there is an it. What I am doing now is trying to find it. I am lucky to have people who encourage me on this path, and I suppose that adds some extra fuel when my own conviction is sagging. 

Like Hemingway, I do hope to write just one true sentence, the truest sentence I could write. The truth, the naked truth, the kind of truth only dreams can speak, that is what I’m after. I stop myself, probably prematurely, from writing about family, religion, my childhood, because I want to protect people I love who believe in it with their whole heart. But my interest isn’t really in proving any of it wrong. All I can say is what I experienced, what I saw and what I see. 

Perhaps I am simply on a journey to giving myself permission to walk through a door, or to walk up a narrow, spiral staircase, like the one in my dream. I had this recurring dream–still do, occasionally–where I would be making my way down a path, or through a tunnel or hallway, and suddenly I would turn a corner or look up or else just realize that, in order to proceed, I would have to fit through a terrifyingly small passageway, one where claustrophobia was inevitable. I would usually wake up at that moment in a cold sweat.

In one dream, as in many iterations, the passageway was upwards, in this case a narrow, spiral staircase. The fluorescent light flickered green, like in an old, dingy city building. I tried to walk up  the staircase, but quickly realized that I couldn’t fit on the staircase with my violin on my back. That dream was pre-2020, but I’m not sure exactly when.

The most obvious meaning of the dream is that I can’t take my violin with me through the next phase of my life, my real life, if I let it unfold the way it wants to. But I suppose there could be a more nuanced interpretation, like maybe my violin can’t help me through the next phase, or the next phase is irrespective of my career. Something like that. 

The challenge is to remain sensitive, to continue listening to the quiet voice inside, to not settle in too much to an interpretation of the dream. I do feel I am on the path, but I can’t see it. How is that possible? To be on a path I can’t see. The next steps revealed to me are baby ones. 

For instance, what I am hearing now is that it is time to stop speed-walking through the streets of Paris. I’ve been here for a few days now. Thursday, I arrived. Friday, I shopped for essentials. Saturday, I met up with Fred and his family for crepes. Sunday, I went to the Marche Bastille and walked as far as my legs would carry me and there were still a couple of hours of daylight left.

Today is Monday. I’ve already covered a lot of ground and have a pretty good idea of the lay of the land. The voice is telling me that it’s time to slow down, actually go into one of the cafes, stand still and look at some art, have a conversation with someone. Beyond that, I don’t know, except that I knew I needed to start a document like this. I don’t love much of anything I’ve written here, but it’s a start. I can’t write about wanting to be a writer forever, but I could see how I might need to get it out in order to get to the next thing. 

One idea that came up in my journaling this morning was that it would be interesting to explore ideas that coursed through this city throughout the ages. Liberty, for example. Christian mysticism, for another. You can visit the site where a woman was burned (and many people were executed after her) in the 14th century for writing a book about love and God, a book which threatened the established theology of the church. That people would die for their ideas is very humbling. These people thought long and hard about what they really thought. Me, I like to feel my thoughts. That hardly seems respectable. 

This was an idea that crossed my mind yesterday. Would I respect me if I weren’t me? Probably not, and for this very reason. I only feel my thoughts, I don’t think them. Perhaps this is what makes art and creation possible, the feeling of thoughts. But on the world stage, as it were, I can’t be taken seriously unless I devote some serious thought to, well, something. 

Should I try to articulate my dissatisfaction? It would hurt like hell, I’m sure. My emotions are all tangled up in there. And I run the risk of finding out that I am wrong, that I am the asshole, that I owe someone an apology. There is also a part of me that feels it would be a waste of time. I can smell that it’s rotten, I don’t need to dissect it. Where is my compass pointing now?

This is all truly disorienting. And there are two choices. Either I continue to float in space, hoping to land somewhere interesting, or I actively try to root myself in the past, in my past, bringing myself down to earth perhaps prematurely but perhaps not a moment too soon. And I don’t know which is the right thing. All I know is that I need to go easy on myself and try to enjoy this part, this part where I don’t know.

Upon my return from living in France for two months, I found it difficult to answer even the most basic questions, questions that I probably could have seen coming, questions like, “how was your trip?” and “how are you settling back in?” I remembered phrases like “it was great!” and “it was awesome!” but when it came time to elaborate thereupon, I wandered off into strange territory that neither I nor my interrogator could have seen coming.

I was freestyling, baby. Anything that came to mind was fair game: no anecdote too insignificant, no generalization too unexamined, no statement too grandiose. I was philosophizing, thinking out loud, journaling at my conversation partner. In truth, I had no idea how I was settling back in, and only an inkling as to how my trip had been.

I decided that my brain was mush and in need of organizing, lest I continue to leave my friends and acquaintances bewildered and slightly worried. I took out a small piece of paper and scrawled out the title, Modes of Being. Underneath, I made the following list:

• Animal Ellen
• Society Ellen
• Cosmic Ellen

Animal Ellen was the part of me that needed food and water and sometimes felt scared. Society Ellen was the part of me that played a role that made some kind of sense to the people around me. Cosmic Ellen was the part of me that wasn’t really “me” at all, the part that directly experiences the universe and sometimes has thoughts about life.

The plan was that, at any given point in the day, I could determine which of these modes was appropriate for the situation, and could summon it to the fore. If I felt sleepy, Animal Ellen could take a nap. If someone asked about my trip to France, Cosmic Ellen could take a seat and let Society Ellen do the talking. Come to think of it, Cosmic Ellen could pretty much just stay seated.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Society Ellen had a breakdown the day after establishing these delineations. We’re talking full on panic mode. I assumed I had made false distinctions and that I should instead try to be a whole, “authentic” person, thereby not putting so much pressure on Society Ellen. She obviously couldn’t handle it.

As the weeks went by, I slowly regained my ability to talk to people. Granted, I received fewer and fewer questions about my trip, but I managed to navigate the occasional query with my dignity still intact.

It wasn’t until yesterday, after having been home for more than a month, that I realized that Society Ellen’s mini-meltdown was not due to her being an imaginary prop. She was as real as anything else. No, it was due to the fact that she’d been out of commission for two months, and was a little rusty.

I didn’t need her when I was in France. I mean, I still made it a habit to wear clothes in public and not go around destroying other people’s personal property, but as far as answering for myself and making communicable sense of my existence, I was off the hook. In a foreign land, you are fulfilling your place in the world simply by being out of place. It is assumed that your life at home must look very different, and there’s no expectation that you should try to bring that life with you. In fact, a respectable traveler is one who leaves home behind and is willing to truly inhabit a different way of life, even a different persona. When else can you shed Society You?

When it came to probing questions about my life and plans and career and purpose and dreams and intentions, people generally left me alone, but more importantly, I had decided to leave myself alone. I could have easily spent those two months holding my own feet to the fire, “taking the opportunity” to take stock of my life and figure it all out, but I somehow had the good sense to know (call it being 38) that that was a recipe for crumbling if there ever was one, and I did not want to have a breakdown overseas.

I made it my sole aim to simply be in Paris. At the end of each day, I asked myself, “was I in Paris today?” If the answer was yes, Animal Ellen could sleep well, and Cosmic Ellen could dream. Society Ellen tried to bully me a couple of times, riddling me with questions like, “what are you doing here?” and “what’s your plan, Stan?” But I gave her the hand because she wasn’t even really supposed to be there.

I will be mulling over what my time in France meant to me for a good while, but for now, it feels supremely important to realize just how much time, attention, and energy I had been giving Society Ellen before the trip, and how I’d deemed Animal Ellen a nuisance and Cosmic Ellen a luxury. After all, Society Ellen adds value, Animal Ellen is an inconvenient fact, and Cosmic Ellen adds and subtracts nothing. Post-France, however, I can see that Society Ellen is expendable, Animal Ellen is an unthinkable gift, and Cosmic Ellen is eternal.

I can see that you’re getting worried again. Let me clarify that, when I say expendable, I do not mean disposable. I mean it in the following sense, the Oxford’s English sense: of little significance when compared to an overall purpose, and therefore able to be abandoned.

After spending most of the day nursing an acute sense of failure, it suddenly occurred to me that I had only the vaguest idea of what it was I was failing at. Initial investigations into the subject pointed to some pretty grandiose visions, so naturally I assumed that if I could just get my expectations out in the open, we could all have a good laugh and I could go home. I began listing them as they came to me. I, Ellen, expect myself to:

• Develop a deep understanding of the human condition
• Learn about what various cultures, religions, and philosophers have made of it
• Note the physical and material effects those ideas had/are having on the world
• Read all the books, see all the art, listen to all the music, and learn about the ideas and cultures that birthed them
• Really see the culture I grew up in (20th-21st century American/Pacific Northwest/Seventh-day Adventist/Suzuki method/classical music), understand what contributed to it historically, and recognize how I have been shaped by it
• Fully synthesize/digest/process all of the above information, hold it in my heart and mind, and respond sensitively and creatively and in a way that only I can or will.

This should sound impossible, if not for any one human, then at least specifically for me. I’ve read books which pertain to these topics, but my brain seems incapable of retaining such information. I could not tell you today what the main takeaways of those books were, so to think that I could amass the amount of knowledge described above is laughable.

Yet I must confess that, when I read over the list, I get really excited. The impossibility of it doesn’t scare me off, for some reason. One can imagine that all artists, philosophers, and scientists have felt similarly called out beyond themselves. They stretched and gave us the world we have today.

I’d expected to discover that my expectations had been heaped upon me by society, and that simply naming them would rob them of their power over me. I thought I would look at them and say, “Ha! Patriarchy much?” Or, “Ha! Puritanical work ethic much?” But instead, I discovered that I quite like my expectations for myself. I am beginning to wonder if they might actually be desires, not expectations.

What is funny about all of this is that something like 0.5% of my daily life is spent pursuing these goals, so I’m not actually failing because I’m not actually trying. Maybe the desire is to understand, to synthesize, to respond, and the expectation is to try. I do think I might have picked that one up somewhere.

The meaning and mattering of music is a slippery thing. Now you see it, now you don’t. When you see it, there could be nothing more magnificent. When you don’t see it (and you’re a professed musician), it is mildly discomfiting at best.

I’m not sure how common it is to lose heart in this way. It’s not something we talk about. In fact, there are many subjects considered to be taboo in musician circles, a whole slew of topics swept under the rug of We Should Be So Grateful. I do know of a couple of musicians who have voiced their discomfort with the idea of performing for some of the most privileged people in our society when we are faced with so many urgent crises of climate, hunger, violence, and all manner of suffering that humans absolutely could do something about.

For whatever reason (personal shortcomings, obviously), that particular darkness hasn’t come for me. No, my recurring dark night of the soul is the dreadful feeling that we musicians are mere participants in a system that makes busy people even busier.

Maybe that sounds crazy to you. Outrageous, even. Or maybe you think it’s a huge bummer and I should keep such negative thoughts to myself. Or maybe you disagree with me and would like to insist that music does more than just make you busier, and that you actually do enjoy concerts and don’t see them as yet another obligation in your calendar. But there’s no need to talk me off the ledge. As uncomfortable as this feeling is, I don’t view it as a thought to be expunged or educated into something more palatable. I think it’s trying to tell me something.

Ten years ago, when I first started organizing the Classical Incarnations series, I would get mad (Ellen mad) at musicians who offered to “fill time” on the program. The series was (and still is!) a free monthly event in a bar in which classical musicians from all over the city–symphony musicians, college students and professors, church musicians, freelancers, etc.–volunteered to perform a variety of music under the classical umbrella, which is quite large. Each musician or group of musicians would perform for 5-15 minutes, then the next group would take the stage. Sometimes there was a theme for the evening, sometimes not, but there was one constant: the musicians chose their own repertoire.

One of the many unintended yet beautiful things baked into this structure was the love the musicians felt for the music they presented. There was no expectation that you would perform entire works–just the movements you couldn’t wait to share. The audience could feel the sincerity. Because the series depended on people volunteering their time, we would occasionally come up a little short on the program, and musicians would say things like, “I’d like to play the 3rd and 4th movements of this sonata, but if you need to fill time I could also do the first two movements,” to which I would respond, in the manner of Batman slapping Robin, “Nobody needs to have their time filled!” I felt that our audience’s time was sacred, and that if we were going to lure them into our event, we’d better play something we cared about. This, it turns out, was counter-cultural.

To me, this is what is so dispiriting about most classical music programming. It fills in blanks. Here’s how it usually works: an organization decides that they are going to produce a certain number of concerts at this specific venue per year, and each one will be approximately this long, will be arranged like so, and will involve this size ensemble. Then the time is filled accordingly.

I wish there could be a more art-driven approach, as in: I really love this piece of music and can’t wait to share it with my community, so how can I present it in a way that brings them into the fullness of the experience? What time of day, and in what venue? Should we talk about it first, or print a program for people to read? Should we open with another piece that will help prepare them for the experience? Should we keep the program bite-sized, considering the complexity and newness of the art? How can we re-create the conditions necessary for the spark I just experienced myself?

Such an approach would be built on love–love for the music, love for the audience–which seems to be the key to meaning and mattering. But what I really find so delicious and invigorating about this approach also happens to be the reason why no institution could ever adopt it: when you aren’t feeling particularly inspired, you step aside, sit down, and shut up. At least until you have something to say.

“Without truth, without concepts, reality disintegrates into a noisy heap.”

Byung-Chul Han in Saving Beauty

Possible reasons why I’m in such a good mood today:

1. I started taking vitamin D three days ago on a whim and it has finally built up in my system enough to enhance my mood significantly. (Totally unscientific, I did not even bother to google that)
2. The skies are cloudy and gray, which puts me in the mind of my Oregonian youth.
3. I accidentally didn’t leave the house for almost two days straight.
4. I sobbed, wept, and whimpered last night.
5. I opened a letter yesterday that said my health insurance would cost approximately twice as much as I was anticipating during my sabbatical year, leading me to sit in stunned silence on the couch and repeat, à la Gob Bluth, “I’ve made a huge mistake.” (Totally unrelated to the crying, ahem)
6. I drank too much wine last night. (Totally unrelated to the health insurance thing, ahem)
7. I drank too much coffee this morning. (Totally unrelated to the wine thing, ahem)

In other words, nothing really makes that much sense. I should be feeling terrible, but instead I feel calm, light, free, optimistic, pleased, inspired…happy. I’ve felt this way all day, and so far, no crash. I can think of no explanation. There clearly isn’t one. Even the most desperate influencer wouldn’t try to sell those 7 reasons as a recipe for happiness (surely!). No, this is a feeling that can only be noticed and appreciated, not attributed. As Kurt Vonnegut taught me to do shortly after he died in 2007, I can only stop and say, “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

If I’m the only person responsible for my own happiness, well, I’ve got some questions.

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One of my all-time favorite books is called Synonyms, Antonyms, and Prepositions (you’re welcome, Jeff!) and was written in 1896 by James C. Fernald, although I have the edition that was revised and expanded in 1947. In alphabetical order, Fernald thoroughly explores the shades of meaning embedded within everyday (in 1896) words and their supposed synonyms. To read an entry is to realize things you already knew but never could have said, as well as to learn about bygone usages and lineages of present-day implications. You instantly feel smarter and dumber.

Take, for instance, Fernald’s entry for Abhor. As with each word, he lists the synonyms first: abominate, despise, detest, dislike, displease, hate, loathe, nauseate, scorn, shun. He then works them into such brilliant paragraphs as these, reprinted here without permission. (Please–I would be so lucky to get in trouble for this.)

Abhor is stronger than despise, implying a shuddering recoil, especially a moral recoil. Detest expresses indignation, with something of contempt. Loathe implies disgust, physical or moral. We abhor a traitor, despise a coward, detest a liar. We dislike, or are displeased by, an uncivil person. We abhor cruelty, hate tyranny. We loathe a reptile or a flatterer. We abhor Milton’s heroic Satan, but we cannot despise him. We scorn what we hold in contempt; we shun what we dislike and do not want to meet; we abominate what we intensely loathe. If something disgusts us, makes us feel sick, it nauseates us.

To hate, in its strict sense, is to regard with such extreme aversion as to feel a desire to destroy or injure the object of hatred; properly employed it should be the strongest word for the expression of aversion, but it is often loosely used with no stronger meaning than to dislike, as well as for any other of the above words.

-Funk & Wagnalls Standard Handbook of Synonyms, Antonyms, and Prepositions by James C. Fernald

So yeah, people have been using “hate” incorrectly for at least a century. I don’t know what can be done in these hyperbolic times, but it makes you wonder what would happen if we all just took it down a notch to abhor.

According to the Myers-Briggs test I took when I was seventeen years old, I am equal parts thinking and feeling. This doesn’t mean what I think it means, but let me tell you what I feel it means.

The principal drama of my inner life seems to be the tug-of-war between my desire to burn it all the the ground and my inkling that perhaps I ought to first hear the establishment out. My strong gut feelings are almost constantly kept in check by my sense of responsibility to the amount of information that is available to me. Of course, the amount of information available to me is astronomical, but that’s never stopped me from feeling beholden to it.

On one hand, I recognize that my creative output is a natural outcome of this inner turmoil. Many of my projects (the Mozart Festival, So Hot Right Now, even Backyard Violinist) began with a synthesis of vast amounts of information–limitations, inspirations, conversations, and observations–which eventually led to a single idea that “answered” all of it. On the other hand, I sometimes wonder if my equal opportunity stance towards traditions, conventions, norms, advice, opinions, and suggestions only amounts to a whole lot of fool-suffering.

My gut says (quite often) that it’s time for a new way of doing things. My brain responds by saying that, if I ever want my work to be taken seriously, I need to first understand the system I’m throwing off. My gut counters by kicking and screaming. My brain settles the dispute by agreeing to do nothing. For now. Again.

But the most vehement of all the warring voices in my head is the one that assures me that the way things are done is just the way things have been done. That voice has guided me, however gingerly, throughout my entire life. It tends to win out. It’s just that I can’t seem to shake this little dog who’s trailing behind me and barking, “Hear them out! Learn their best practices! You could be wrong! What do you know, anyway?”

I’ve always thought I needed to either get rid of the dog or let it lead the way, but I’m starting to wonder if the dog might have to come along with me forever. If that’s the case, maybe it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to occasionally glance at whatever the dog is yapping at, perhaps even bending down to scratch its head and say, “thanks, little guy,” as long as I stand all the way back up and continue walking toward the horizon.

When doing the right thing isn’t even all that difficult, just do the right thing.

Life is full of gray areas and conundrums, and each of us is endowed with our own charming cocktail of weaknesses, failings, and blind spots, and sometimes doing the right thing requires heroic strength, courage, and sacrifice. But there are other times when it is obvious what we should do, and all it requires is that we briefly wiggle one toe outside of our comfort zone.

For all those times, just do it. She said to herself.

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I’ve decided that my sabbatical begins this week, but I’m still going to work, which seems to be confusing people. To me, it makes sense: if it’s possible to go on vacation and never truly leave work behind, I imagine it’s possible spend an entire sabbatical year scurrying around in the same mental ruts I’d hoped to exit. I can easily see myself remaining calendar-obsessed, task-oriented, ambiguously pressured to produce, and in near-constant mental rehearsal for future events.

Taking a year away from paid employment does not equal the cessation of necessity. There will always be tasks and appointments associated with the work I choose to do, owning a car and a house, having pets, being in relationship with family, friends, and community, and having a physical body. Taking a year away from my job gives me the opportunity to change the way I relate to these tasks, but it doesn’t guarantee that I will, which is why I’ve decided to take the training wheels off early and get used to thinking in a new way. Namely, to be more like the Goose that Laid the Golden Eggs and less like Pac-Man.

My m.o. is to chomp through tasks like Pac-Man. It is like a fun game for me. But I’ve heard about the importance of resting, so sometimes I stop chomping and just sit on the couch, jaw ajar, not chomping but ready to chomp, thinking thoughts like, “Whatever you do, don’t chomp!” This is not what they call deep resting.

I would like to be more like the fabled Goose. I’ve always thought of that story as a warning against greed and general human folly, specifically the exploitation of a precious resource, but perhaps it could just as easily be about exploiting ourselves. While we wouldn’t do anything so dramatic as cutting ourselves wide open, we are prone to frequent over-extraction of our own energy to the point of depletion.

I am realizing that I am both the slave master and the slave, the greedy men and the gold-laying goose. But I could never fault the goose for taking a rest, for taking her time, because I know that there are mysterious processes at work inside of her that I can’t see. I could never fault the goose for stepping out into the open air, maybe even taking a swim, after years of being cooped up in a stuffy barn with artificial light, formulated foods, and steroid injections. (Note: if you’re just tuning into this metaphor, I am the evil factory owner, not my employer.) I could never fault her for preening her feathers, blinking at the setting sun, and taking a nap. I understand that what she is doing while not doing anything is magical.

By the way, these golden eggs I plan to lay? I’m not talking about my magnum opus here. I’m talking about scooping the litter box. I’m talking about composing an email. I’m talking about making dinner. All of these tasks live inside of me already, right alongside my magnum opus, ready or not ready to come into the world. They are not an endless army of dots to chomp through on my way to nowhere.

“No one could fault the goose,” I say to myself as I take a deep breath and look up at the clouds; as I decide that a certain task can wait until tomorrow; as I peek out the factory door at the natural world that awaits me. It might not be as safe, but it is surely my home.

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You can support my writing, along with my other creative endeavors, by signing up for monthly donations of $5 or more. Thank you!