The Reality of Power and the Illusion of Control

If you've ever had a protracted crisis accompanied by misery, and nothing you do seems to change that state, you likely have gained the insight that control is an illusion. This is a good thing. This means that the crisis and the misery don't have ultimate control, either.

In spite of this illusion, humans exert control like a muscle. Entire regimes have held a very tight grip, and yet it is always precarious and temporary. That is not to minimize the agonies that those regimes have pressed upon the people, animals, and lands they live upon. But at the end, their rule was an empty fist, which is what we all come into the world with, as infants. The regime's time on earth brought no progress, no enlightenment, no enrichment, and remained infantile. The people were weakened and scattered.

But is the same true for power? We all have felt it, regardless of its source, enough to know that power is real and lasting. There are legacies of power, but no good legacies of control. Power expands beyond control and releases, like a breath. Control merely contracts and constricts, suffocating. During a protracted crisis, when I feel out of control in a situation, I find it helpful to remind myself that power comes from a source that doesn't originate with me, and so it is always both available and accessible.

Reiki symbol for power cho ku rei

Where I usually mess up is when I want power so that I can do something specific. That's just me circling back around to wanting control. I decide, me, me, I, how it will go, my idea, my way, me. When real power comes into our lives, it doesn't always do our bidding. It is a force and a current, and we can either ride it forward or wave it on by. There is a choice when it comes to recognizing powerful forces and reckoning our own capacity or ability to hang onto them. We can be overwhelmed, burnt, shocked, flattened, suffocated, and wrung out by power. Control pushes and shoves, fiddles with and tweaks, sidesteps and dances around. Power rushes in and explodes little concepts of control. It demands respect and the wise are heedful of it. It would be foolish of me to think that I could surf on the powerful waves of Hawaii when I should take more care not to slip in the shower.

But sometimes calamity happens no matter how many safe practices we employ, nor how much due diligence we've exercised. Knowing this inevitability does help us to put a toe in the water and then someday push off. A respect for power, and a willingness to give up trusting in control alone, saves us from paralysis and stagnation. But it shakes us, too, and often very hard.

I have a vivid memory of my mother after she had broken her leg skiing for the first time. She was with some friends who were careless with her, and they allowed her to hop off the ski lift down a Colorado mountain. All that mountain air was giving them an illusion of control over their adventure, I suppose, but the Rockies were far more powerful than my mom's balance on her rented skis. The boot binding didn't release as she fell, and the twist cracked her shin bone.

My dad's reaction to her loss of control was equally vivid, when he got the call. I was in elementary school and he was at home with my sister and I that evening, smoking his pipe while the TV played. I was draped over the opposite recliner, reading a Nancy Drew book. All was domestic tranquility, until the phone startled us with its ring. It seemed that hardly a minute passed when he hung up the phone onto the wall, at a time when you could do that with feeling, and said simply, "Your mother broke her leg". He was matter-of-fact with a frustrated "I knew it" rolling off of him. He sat back down and opened his paper. I blurted out a laugh, once and quickly at the whole thing, as if I'd just heard a punchline of a bad joke they were playing together.

This was the beginning of the end of their marriage. So much time has passed since then that I can see how there were powerful forces at work between them that were pulling them apart. I felt my mother's misery as I finally was able to see her in the hospital, after her long flight home and surgery. I could feel my dad's helplessness and resentment at this sudden crisis. Her leg mended after several months, but their marriage did not. I found myself in the same living room tableau when my father announced their impending separation, too. Earlier that day, he, my older sister and I had just come back from our annual family summer vacation to a lake, but this time without her along. This was the inverse of her winter trip to the Rockies, she without us. My dad sat down and said simply, "Your mother and I are separating. You'll be moving to another house and a new school." I felt like someone had made an announcement and then hung up the phone on my head, and that I had fallen down, dazed. I didn't laugh this time, but ran toward my room. My sister had been told a few hours before me and was at a friend's house. My mom had told her, and I suppose in a 1970s spirit of equality between the sexes, he was to tell me.

My mom caught me in the hallway by the arm and took me onto her bed where she talked and I cried. The spread was shamrock green with white clover and I traced them with my finger. This is all I remember from that talk. Not a single word, just the bedspread of a lawn underneath my calamity and misery. When I emerged later, back to the living room, my dad was still in his chair, with newspaper and pipe, TV on. The program "One Day at a Time" was playing, about a divorced mom and her two teenaged daughters, and the fitting humor of this was not lost upon me. That show was why I even knew what a divorce was. But the three of us didn't move to a city apartment, I didn't look like Valerie Bertinelli in her cute ski sweaters, and I don't remember any of us cracking jokes. I didn't have any control over any of it; to fashion it into a bright stage setting with scripted resolutions. The basement in the newly rented farmhouse in the country flooded regularly and so did I.

Much later, after I had been married for a few years, I came to see my parents as lovably human and idealistic and that they were in over their heads. As for me, during those years, I wasn't helpless even while I was hurting, and I certainly wasn't powerless. I really don't think I was more miserable or more happy than any other teenager. I swung between brooding and trying to look like I was having the time of my life probably as often as anyone. There is always something to brood about and there are always scenes of merriment to wind up. I came of age during the time when "party" became a verb. We had to reassure ourselves that growing up didn't mean coming apart. We wanted to understand the forces that were at work upon our families, but not in a confessional, public way, as is commonplace now.

The power of my family has not been that we all lived together exclusively and in the same place forever and ever, world without end, amen. The power has been the mutual love and concern that has lasted. It doesn't usually look warm or sparkling, but it can be funny. A lot of times it just seems like people flailing down a mountainside on a course they have to take. Brave. Other times it looks matter-of-fact and comfortable, like a recliner and a newspaper. Tenacious. There can be a lot of blinding snow or circling smoke that gets in my eyes, and I can't see any of my past or future clearly. There is also a lot of releasing myself from trying to understand and control it all, so that I won't twist and crack.

Power breaks us and holds us together and knocks us down and carries us forward. Control appears to do all of that. Control is only a form, like technique. We admire control when it steps in, carrying something to marvel at with wonder, whether or not we understand what kind of power is before us. When we see or feel in art a lasting power, coming under the artist's temporary control, then we are raised up with both joy and suffering inside of that tension, into the exquisite.

Opus You the Great

"Great things are done by a series of small things brought together." 
--Vincent Van Gogh

To continue a theme from the post, "A Great Cloud of Expectations", if we whittle down our great expectations so that we don't succumb to generalized pressures, then what brings about the "true greatness" that I broadly referred to at its end? There is a lot in our lives that doesn't feel very great, and we often don't feel so great in our lives, so what is the use of talking about greatness? It's a term that seems reserved for celebrities of the arts and sciences, ancient masters of talent, and conquerors of expansive territories.  I want to be clearer about what I mean by "great".

Like the word "amazing", the word "great" gets tossed around a lot about things that aren't all that. Likewise the word "awesome". Most of us notice this even as we do it. Usually what we mean to say in those instances is "nice" "pleasing" "entertaining" or "stress-relieving". I have a fond memory of guys in high school during the Eighties using the word "decent" when they liked something. They said it with excitement and vigor, but it felt just right, not overdone. It didn't last, however, being in competition with great, awesome, and amazing.

I once realized that the word "great" hadn't always been the favorite assignation to something well-liked when my dad wrote me a thank you note, and put the word in quotes. It struck me as odd, and then I realized that I hadn't heard his parents saying that regularly. I tried to remember what they did say, and the only memory I have is, "that was really something." This seems like a generational difference, for people who had lived during the time of "The Great War" and then a "Great Depression." That word wouldn't automatically conjure up notions of anything good or beneficial for them. 

Yet however vague "something" sounds as an affirmation, my grandparents were still using a phrase that expressed  a singular impression of the "ineffable", meaning "too great or extreme to be described in words" or "not to be uttered", according to Miriam-Webster. But we want to describe "it", and so we catch hold of various words and phrases that come in and out of style. So the utterance "great" will have to do for now, to describe what is "too great" to be described.

To me, true greatness is something that we don't really have, as a character trait. It's more of a property or quality of the universe that we bump up against at times, and that "something" shines through us. We see it happening a lot with performers, because they are often gathering together all of the elements they need for greatness to arrive, formally invited, and ready to be applauded and celebrated. But most of us know people or animals or landscapes or events that aren't in the public eye on a grand scale, but still generate a moment of uplift. Artists try to "capture" it and we are drawn to the works that come the closest to reminding us of what is too strong, quiet and powerful to ever be captured.

One of the elements of these moments of greatness is us. When we are part of those singular moments, whether as vessels or witnesses, we are necessary and vital participants. We're not just consumers if we have shown up for it. We have become alert to the possibility of a great experience, we plan for it, we scout out a ticket, and dress in finery to sit in a plush theater seat. Or, we gleefully put on something comfortable as we station ourselves in our favorite cozy chair and tune in with anticipation.  Of course there is mindless and passive reception for pastimes, but there are also intentional and ritual ways of being present for what is being presented. We have come ready to take our place in someone's opus. 

Back to words for a moment,"opus" is a word I had long assumed I knew the meaning of, but didn't. My daughter just recently told me that it simply means "work". I've always thought that it meant a grand, final, culminating, all-defining, symphonic masterpiece. It carries that Latin gravitas which, for me, made the title of the feel-good movie, "Mr. Holland's Opus" promise to deliver a dramatic and touching performance of music at the end, which it does. Of course, the movie makes clear that Mr. Holland had positively affected the lives of his students and family, and that this in-gathering of his past efforts with them are what make the performance of his music to be the great part, beyond his having finally completing it and offering it publicly.

Look Down, Fair Moon words by Walt Whitman

Another time the word "opus" came to mind was due to the lovable character of Opus the Penguin from the comic strip, "Bloom County". I thought he was named that ironically, because he was the opposite of gravitas, all-defining, purposeful, culminating or touching. He is simple, innocently self-centered, and reflective, as he wanders around his territory, like a hip Winnie the Pooh. And yet, I recall people saying that they loved Opus or that "Opus is great." In some ways, Opus and Mr. Holland aren't all that different, as they stumble through life, feeling amused, charmed, dissatisfied, disillusioned, frustrated, inspired, egotistical, outraged and hopeful, down to the "tuxedo" that is a part of them. Mr. Holland's public tuxedo moment was a long time in coming, while Opus wears his black and white tails as a non-momentous daily uniform. The character of Opus is the greatness of Bloom County, as he does absolutely no work. Mr. Holland's work is the greatness he encourages in others.

There are people who wear their greatness lightly, like Opus the penguin, and others who wrestle with attempts at what they perceive as greatness while they unwittingly usher it in, like Mr. Holland. Many of us go back and forth between these two states as we traverse our own Hundred Acre Woods, Bloom Counties and High School music rooms, wherever we find ourselves plunked down. We show up and do the opus we've been given to do. And every now and then greatness makes a date with us. 

WTF: Wishful Thinking Fulfilled

As humans, isolation can be the worst part of any suffering we are afflicted with, whether or not we are alone or surrounded by people. If we hit an upper limit for suffering, stifling groupthink or meaningless activities, our mind begins to disengage to save itself from disappearing altogether. If this disengaged mind isn't directed anywhere, a profound sense of alienation and lassitude comes soon after the affliction. Isolation leaves a dearth of inspiration or courage to even wish for, desire, or move out of our painful state.

Perhaps our nomadic beginnings have evolved us into believing that the grass is greener somewhere else, with hope that everything that needs to be pastured and fed within us will have the necessary space. Although the adage of "The grass is always greener…" was coined as a judgment of our roaming tendencies, the saying could not have come into being before there were fences. Any worn-out saying can be a reminder not to devalue what one has already been given or has gathered up. But for every saying there is its opposite, such as "don't be a stick in the mud" or "a rolling stone gathers no moss." With only this pithy wisdom to draw from, we hardly know the who or where of us, let alone the how or why.

When we feel stuck in a situation, we are "be-wildered" and the wilderness is just where we need to be. The mind begins to solve problems by ranging beyond our immediate familiar surroundings, assets, tools, and advice. Conventional wisdom may be failing to solve an unconventional problem. We might begin to feel strongly that we need to meet people we don't yet know and to learn from them. Wishful thinking is a big part of this mind sweep. Solitude can hold all of this ranging filled with wishing and hoping. Isolation, however, cannot hold any of this, and leaves us sinking into chronic dissatisfaction.

Edgar Degas, Portrait of Miss Cassat, Seated, Holding Cards 1878

Isolation can also distort our perspective. All we see from our isolated vantage points are signs that seem posted specifically at us-- no, not you, not now, not allowed, not ever. It can make us feel that everyone has it better and easier than we do, with lush and wavy grasses spreading out before them, while we are uniquely refused and famished. Or range is limited and can't take in all that we might have seen around, beyond, and through those borders, fences, and signs. Our wishes are foreclosed before they can even appear.

The destructive, dispiriting nature of isolation was brought home to me in a letter from a woman who had survived the Rwandan genocide of 1994. I write about her in one of my poems, and I think of her often. My sponsorship of her through Women for Women International lasted only a year, due to the dynamic structure of their program, and so there is not much time to come to a full appreciation of what each woman has endured. One common plight is that they are unsettled, without permanent homes, apart from supportive family, or community, with no way to enter back in. Some are shunned as having been damaged and are therefore considered an unlucky disgrace. Some are looking for lost children. 

At the end of the yearly sponsorship, which brings them back into the marketplace and the community, the woman writes a letter to her sponsor, which is translated into English. The original one written in her mother tongue is included. The sentence that has stayed with me from the letter that the Rwandan woman wrote to me was translated as "we thank you for moving us from our isolation." The horrors that she had survived, I could only remotely imagine from the news, as she didn't relate them. However, from that statement she taught me that beyond the extremes that had happened to her, the resulting isolation was the worst. At the end of the letter, she expressed a wish that perhaps I could someday come and meet her. Her mind had moved from despair to wishes for things that weren't strictly necessary, but enlivening and hopeful.

It makes sense to me that I began my sponsorship of women during a time when I felt isolated and without hope. I had sustained a back injury that was not healing, but rather getting worse as the months went by. I had visitors to my room, but I was without freedom of movement, or even an idea that I would ever again be able to simply decide where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do and then follow through. Each visit to my bedside became nearly unbearable emotionally, because I would watch the person leave under their own power of purpose and ability. I would imagine what it was like to take the steps they were taking down the hallway and out the door. I would hear their car door shut, the engine start up, and the wheels take them to their next destination. I wasn't even wishing that I could do the same, because my heart no longer had that sort of impulse to life. I simply listened to the sounds of their freedom that were like notes of music from a foreign land.

At this time, a friend of mine who lived in another state, was having her own crisis which left her feeling stuck and overwhelmed. She was a college professor raising a child, and was recovering from a divorce and the loss of certain friendships and support that so often come with that crisis. One day when she was at home with an inbox full of papers to grade and a toddler whirling about the house, she had a sudden thought of "I wish Lizbeth could help me grade these papers." As a fellow English graduate, she knew I would be competent to read and comment upon beginning compositions.

Her wish, one that was clear in her mind, started her thinking about how my help would even be possible with the physical distance between us. She called me with her idea that by using the internet, I would correct and comment upon the papers, and then she would give the final grade. She offered to pay me per paper, and as she spoke, I realized that after a certain number of them, I would have enough to pay for a sponsorship.

As my friend and I shared papers, she would pass on the occasional thank you that students gave her for helpful feedback, which had come from me. I thought of these students, moving forward in their lives, learning how to communicate their visions and ideas more clearly and powerfully. I thought of the women in Rwanda and the Congo gaining more independence and a sense of self-worth as they were reestablished in their communities. So much movement was happening across my life from points of one group of strangers to points of another, and this transcendence of my physical in situ moved me from my isolation. 

My friend moved through the process of reestablishing her life, finding love again, and securing many blessings for herself and her daughter, including a new brother, social activities with old and new friends, career advancement and a move to the town which she had dreamed about living in. None of it was easy or without loss, all of it required compromises, confusion and constant adjustment. But so many of these changes began with a clear wish for how burdens could be lifted and camaraderie and assistance obtained from many people around her. She still has stacks of papers to grade, but she has moved from her isolation.

I, myself, went through several painful procedures to restore my back to functionality and finally to reduced levels of chronic pain. As more of my energy was being devoted to physical therapy and greater involvement with my two small children, I had less time to critique papers. I was able to continue sponsoring women across the ocean for several years. And somewhere, beneath the challenges of maintaining a certain level of health, guiding two teenagers into adulthood, while continuing to traverse it myself, I do have a wish. I would like to see with my own eyes that those women are well and thriving with hearts full of wishes.

A Great Cloud of Expectations

When we don't know what we want, we usually succumb to the pressure of expectations without knowing what we consciously agree with or object to. Knowing what we want is difficult at times. Knowing what we do not want is much clearer and easier because we react strongly. This is a good beginning to finding our way. When faced with complexity, we can at least know what we think in terms of an objection or a negation-- "not this". That is why we so often hear from detractors, curmudgeons and naysayers. While they can be distracting or annoying, they do serve a function by helping us to capture the expectations floating around before they land on us.

When expectations stay abstract to us, they are able to surround us quickly and meet us at every turn. To add to the daily pressures, we believe we should be attracting and following destinies as well as fulfilling expectations. Because there are so many demands on our resources, and because those demands come at us in rapid-fire, we need to get closer to the answer of what we do want, so that we can make decisions about those resources more rapidly in turn, from a strong position of knowing ourselves.

Because the question "What am I expecting?" can feel as nebulous as "what do I want?", a more useful exercise is to finish the phrase "Don't expect me to…". This is a first step only, and should be viewed as a minor rebellion that is forming in the privacy of our own minds, journals, and possibly with a therapist or a trusted friend. Of course, the comments section of this post is a safe place as well.

If I were to finish this phrase, I might say things to myself like,

"Don't expect me to be at my best every day."

"Don't expect me to give you everything you want."

"Don't expect me to solve every problem that arises to the satisfaction of all."

I wouldn't make any of these statements to someone in authority over me, or to someone who would hear them as accusations and be hurt by them. They are for me to hear. When I say them aloud, I'm hearing that I often expect myself to perform at a peak every day, which isn't logical. I often expect myself to be able to give myself all that I wish for, which isn't possible. I often expect myself to to solve problems that might not be solvable, which isn't rational.

When I don't periodically check in with myself in this way, the expectations build up like patriotic anthems that play in the background, with flag-waving and cheering as I go along. On one day I might feel expansive and full of myself, saying yes and agreeing with everyone. I can meet expectations as easily as throwing candy to the crowd. As hours march by, I can feel that way, until I hit a pot hole and a wheel comes off. The next day, I feel bewildered and betrayed by my own efforts. After all, I had given myself a mandate to be all things to all people. What could possibly go wrong?

After my follies have a bit of fun with me, and I find my sense of humor again, I can ponder the next step, which is expressing myself. Communicating these statements to someone should be done only after we have given ourselves enough time to experience the feelings that come up as we recognize how we have been working against our best interests. During times of routine, we can consider the phrasing of our statements more carefully, and even moreso, to whom we voice them. But in times of extremity, we can use them as precise shots when we need to defend ourselves from a strategy that is clearly meant to thwart our progress.

On many days, we might feel that the world around us is pressing against us, full of demands; but in fairness, we should recognize that the expectations we have are too great, and trying to meet them all will only sabotage our true greatness.

The Beastly and the Beautiful Part 5: Les Belles Âmes

Continued from Part 4: The Belle Enfant

Children are often esteemed for their innocence, their tender expressions of love and devotion, their humor and precocious insight. But what they need are adults that are healthy and expressing their needs, finding answers, and inspiring children to want to grow up. As we age, we become acquainted with others and all of their immaturity. We can't remain innocent, and even if we tried to, that would just leave us in bewilderment.

Discovering ourselves and our creativity is a process of experience, which includes a knowledge of good and not good. When Belle and the Beast are confronted with each other as children (regardless of age), they are confronting the parts of themselves they have been refusing to acknowledge up until that point. Both of them are imprisoned, feeling powerless, and act out only in moments of desperation.

To see how things turn around for each of them, recall the pivotal actions in the story, where each are behaving at their worst. The beast has lost control and cast away the very person that he has been hoping and waiting for. Belle is offended and breaks off the agreement to stay. As Belle is prone to do, she leaves the castle in a huff, because the Beast is upset with her. But she hasn't yet met up with the wolves that live in the forest, the ones who care nothing for her except for how good she will taste. The Beast has a need for her, too, but he isn't a predator. It is good that he is moved to anger against the wolves, to protect what is valuable to him, even when it brings him harm.

Although it would be in Belle's best self-interest, and that of her father's, to use her chance to escape, she discovers that she can, in fact, choose what she is about to do. She isn't acting in a crisis this time. She gives herself a moment to collect herself, rather than just jumping ahead, and then she decides calmly. She doesn't yet know she is choosing to tend to herself, but the practice is a good one.

The Beast needs to be healed from the times he moves out of his comfort "realm" to take care of others. But what he needs in order to be healed doesn't come as an analgesic. The medicine carries a sting with its heat. The more he moves to avoid it, the more it hurts. Licking his wounds isn't going to help for long, unless he ends up spending all of his energy doing that. Belle is getting good practice at standing up to someone who wants to be left alone. She is accustomed to being alone and so, identifies correctly that this is not the time for him to be neglected. She is advocating for the child in them, making both of them submit to what is going to heal them.

This is also a choice she has, a purpose, which is how she finds her courage. The Beast has a moral imperative to save the castle from the curse. Belle has a moral imperative to care for her father. But caring for the Beast, by contrast, is neither expected nor requested. When the other servants in the castle see her disheveled and willful, they are encouraged. There is nothing of the Bel Enfant here-- she isn't obedient and dutiful and undemanding-- just as there is nothing of the Enfant Terrible in the Princely Beast who fights off the wolves. They have come to a painful and clumsy truce in this choice to accept the other. 

The rest of the tale is in their delight with having discovered each other, and their creativity flourishes. The Beast emboldens Belle with strength and generosity. Belle gentles but does not tame the Beast as he begins to see how things could be. He stops caring so much about what no longer matters-- his form. They both begin to value what is around them, and how it can be presented to the other with affection and hope. They still have the undeveloped children inside of them, but the children are no longer consuming all of their energy.

When we see their cooperation, we get a better picture of why it is good to have these two in us, and how they foster our creativity, how they let us know when we have neglected ourselves and our creative expression for too long.  They will sound lost and cry "where?". They will roar and yell, "that hurts!". As they begin to pay more loving attention to the aspects of themselves that are listed in Part 3 and Part 4, they will begin to show aspects of La Belle and Le Beau. The Beast will be a true Master because he has committed to mastering himself, and Belle will find that her life as a living being is beautiful regardless of where she lives it. The conditions that each have put upon love for their own lives has been lifted.

"…in his soft and tender way, she could hardly find it in her heart to refuse him. 'Be of good heart, Beauty will soon return.'"

As these conditions are removed the two will: 

Lose self-consciousness and become more aware of who they are as a whole person, and how they stand in relation to others. Belle has made a powerful first step toward this by no longer shying away from the village, but taking her place against its baser instincts to fear and harm. At the resolution she will take her place as a Princess, as one of its leaders. Her mind, creativity and devotion should not be wasted. To discover and carry out her purposes from this new place and position will be her ongoing challenge.

Rise to challenges based on love and not fear. They do this by bringing meaning and honor to themselves and the lives of others, because they have their wits about them and they know the value of their place. The beast has not known his place within his kingdom, which includes the village, but only knows it within his castle, where all are likewise condemned. He has not been able to lead from this isolation, and without the right view of himself, he falls into despond in the garden, "senseless", convinced he is not lovable nor worthy to lead, and that his time has run out. As a prince, he needs to know, and not merely hope, that there is much he has to offer from his unique perspective and powerful position, and not just what there is in his coffers. 

Be at peace with struggle and hardship, because the contention is no longer with the self, but with the effort of defense, recovery, growth and progress. There is less time and energy spent in states of inner conflict and turmoil. More time is spent in strengthening resolve and gathering resources. The doubts of "why bother?" "what's it all for?" "why should I try when no one cares?" still make themselves heard but less often and less vociferously.

Discover that 0thers desire their success and contribute to it. As mature, creative adults, the servants and the villagers will be happy and proud to serve them. It doesn't matter what these grown children look like, or where the castle is. All that matters is the recognition of the needs. As we come into our own creativity, it is heartening and vitalizing to be recipients of generosity from other mature, creative adults. They are happy and proud to help us. They don't need to be under any obligation to do it. They simply want to and choose to.

Be recognized as beautiful souls. They are no longer mistaken for caricatures or striving children. When they begin to relate to and care for the other one, then they are transforming into these beautiful souls, "les Belles Ames"; male or female, that bring joy, delight and honesty into the world as they move through it. When we begin to relate to the parts of us that we have relegated to the "children's table", bring them back to us and give them a place, then we will find ourselves having more to bring to the table in our work. These enfants don't want to engage in contrived activities that dress up work as "fun" so that it's bearable. They want to be engaged with the world, where the fun sometimes shows up as part of playing hard by mastering imagination and skill.

None of the very real moral imperatives, the threats, the obstacles or the catastrophes have magically disappeared. The wolf is always at the door. But these cares are no longer experienced in isolation, and are no longer a waste of time or resources at the expense of everything else.

None of this growth or transformation can be rushed, by denying or refusing the needs of les enfants. Living out tangible joys is not possible year after year without an acceptance that pain will be part of the healing, like a steaming cloth on a wound. Finding the clarity of purpose comes with the realization that all of this is so enormously difficult that we will never stop needing these stories to help us find our way through the woods. That is why they are ageless, and as their wisdom becomes a part of us, we become ageless in turn, regardless of the form we take.

The Beastly and the Beautiful Part 4: The Belle Enfant

Continued from Part 3: The Enfant Terrible

Because we are so used to looking at ourselves as a dichotomy of good and bad, beautiful and ugly, smart or stupid, heroic or cowardly, it is easy to use this story as a framework, having two distinct main characters. But we are much more complex as humans, spending our time in rooms that don't look medieval, and interacting with techno-gadgets and social media. Even so, it's tempting to think that all of our advancement and analysis can put the Beast in his place, to go along with his negative view of himself, and to see Belle as the heroine. But it's equally important to consider Belle as an enfant as well. She needs to understand what drives her, what limits her, and what is not so very beautiful about her, if she is to grow and mature as well.

Devalues the quiet beauties and daily expressions of courage around her. She finds the villagers quaint, and is polite to them. She doesn't have much to say, except to the bookseller. She feels that only he could understand her, and she is grateful to him, but this isn't really a friendship. It's a mutually beneficial salesman/customer arrangement. She gives no one else a chance. Feeling alone and alienated, she dissociates into stories and ideals.

Reveals her enthusiasms and concerns to people who either aren't listening or are distracted. She reveals her enthusiasm about the story she is reading-- "Oh, isn't this amazing? It's my favorite part!"-- to the domesticated animals that can't voice their thoughts, even if they were paying attention. The goat is more interested in nibbling at the paper in the book than in what Belle is gushing about. She senses that she has no positive effect on those around her, for all that is inside her head. She makes a half-hearted attempt to explain to Gaston that she prefers to use her imagination in favor of any contact with him, so he throws the beloved book into the mud. Her inner life is richer, but in her view it is vulnerable to gossipers, nibblers, and careless suitors. She assumes that everyone would react to her precious book the way Gaston does, and hides it in her basket, much in the way that the Beast sequesters his Rose. The Book is the symbol for Belle of her escape, and she has over-identified herself with books. She has not yet come to understand that she herself is a living creature, and not a boring story.

Mirrors the preoccupations of those around her. As for voicing her concerns, she does express herself to her inventor father, but he is caught up with his invention and also doesn't want to see that a problem is developing. He dismisses her concerns with assurance that she couldn't be odd, because he doesn't want to think of himself that way. His endearing and optimistic manner hides an egotism that leaves Belle with no one to turn to. There's an implication that the pair of them have never been at home, and they are in this remote village because it is safer to be odd there. "Crazy Old Maurice" seems to follow him wherever he goes, and Belle imitates his preoccupied manner. She can imagine that she is indeed how a villager sings of her-- "...behind that fair facade, I'm afraid she's rather odd." There might be a generous woman in town who could come to understand Belle, but she won't visibly emerge because Belle doesn't trust anyone with her feelings.

Remains in a state of longing. Because she doesn't trust anyone with her feelings, she is left lonely and pining for her future. If she wants economic security, she could have it by marrying Gaston, but like an infant starting out, she only knows what she doesn't want. After rejecting his proposal, she laments, "And for once, it might be grand, to have someone understand, I want so much more than they've got planned." She isn't impatient for her autonomy, but rather is waiting for a general acceptance by others before she can form well-defined aspirations for herself. 

Because her father doesn't think to invite her to come with him to the fair, she is similarly thoughtless, and is unaware that she could have asked for this. In this respect, and in many others, her imagination fails her. Being left alone with the chickens, while he goes off on his adventure, Belle is isolated. As a result, she imagines a conspiracy of sorts that will be acted upon her, a vague threat from the "they" who she fears have an actual plan for her, and she doesn't yet know how to fend that off. She is convinced that she needs the acceptance of others before making an actual plan for herself. Resignation becomes a constant companion to her longings.

Believes that there is something wrong with her. Because of this, coupled with her isolation, her mindset wavers between feeling inferior to the people she considers to be normal-- the villagers-- and also feeling superior to them, because they don't appear to share her interests. What she hasn't yet learned is that they would appreciate her having an interest, because they have them as well. The content isn't the same, but the inspiration is. To Belle, the bread might be the "same old rolls", but to the baker, they are signs of his interest in perfecting his craft. The mother with a brood of kids could use some encouragement that she will be able to hear herself think someday, and may be inspired to know that there are truly wondrous things to think about. In spite of Belle's imagination that is far ranging, her close-up vision is limited, and her curiosity stunted. She is imprisoned in the village as much as the Beast is imprisoned in his castle.

Is activated by emergency rather than purpose. When the pony shows up, riderless, Belle comes out of her reverie and takes action when there is an immediate crisis. Her father has gotten lost, she cares about him more than anyone, and this surge of need from him motivates her to do things we haven't yet seen. She's speaking with authority, riding the pony into the woods, trusting her instincts, ignoring danger, and finding a way to get to him. She didn't have a voice for her own needs, because a child with needs is not considered to be beautiful. A child with needs is inconvenient. A child with needs doesn't reflect well. When she cries to the horse, "Where's Papa?" we wish that she could have raised this same voice to him years ago, when he was preoccupied.

Overestimates her abilities. Belle goes into the dark, forbidding castle, knowing nothing about castles other than what she has read about them. She has no strategy, and naively forges ahead, because she can think of nothing other than "I'm looking for my father." She offers herself to the Beast in exchange for her father, despite his logical protests. His life is more important to her than her own, because he seems to have one, while she is already imprisoned. But how is she going to serve out this sentence? How is she equipped with anything other than pluck?

Denies the truth to herself and others. She has apparently coped with her childhood issues of having one breadwinning widowed parent, moving around without friends or mentors, and having no prospects or skills, by childishly denying what is only human. She won't come out of her room, insisting, "I'm not hungry!" When the Beast states the obvious, "you can't stay in there forever," she postures, "Oh, yes I can!" She is Belle, the beautiful child; she can do anything. 

Yet, she turns down and won't wear the costume of a more mature woman. She denies that she has any power or any room to negotiate in this situation and would rather hide and cry. For her, this isn't the way the story was supposed to go, so she is going to sulk her way out. Although her father didn't abandon her physically, and was forced away, this semblance of abandonment may finally match her emotional perspective. She wants the castle to know that she has been orphaned and left in isolation. Her self-pity is her comfort, rather than the notion that she is smart and brave enough to look for a way out. She is lying to herself about the hopelessness of her situation before she even tries. When the chambermaid attempts to cheer her with, "The Master's not so bad once you get to know him." She lies again, "I don't want to get to know him. I don't want anything to do with him." Oh, yes she does.

"Belle was now, in fact, quite the Queen of the palace, and all her wishes were gratified; but excepting at supper-time she was all alone…"

She oversteps her bounds. While it's heroic of Belle to go galloping off to save her father, she has no idea what she's getting into. Because of her habit of isolating herself, it doesn't occur to her to call upon any of the villagers to help her. She's at the center of this crisis. It is her loss, so, possessively, it will be her recovery. Even Gaston might have been happy to go along, just for something to do. If so, we wouldn't have this delightful tale. But Belle needs for something to be about her and to be her own central character. Because she is telling herself that it is only her father she is looking for, and not herself, she wanders into territories that are beyond her ken, even when expressly told not to. She could have made things worse for her father, she could have lost her own life before being able to save his, and she could have destroyed the Rose, condemning all of those in the castle.

Backs out on her word. When frightened, angry and confronted she declares,  "Promise or no promise, I can't stay here another minute!" She doesn't stay even long enough to understand what she might have done unwittingly. She feels justified in fleeing, because misconduct is not becoming. She has spent her life maintaining an outward appearance of beauty, intelligence and deference. She might be sad, wistful, lonely and bored; she might be abandoned, imprisoned, yelled at and ordered about. But to be at fault, however unintentionally? No. She denies that she has any destructive power within her, because that is the job of the enfant terrible, and him, she rejects. Being confronted with this possibility in her nature, she won't endure it, and negates the contract.

How often have we negated the contract we have with ourselves regarding the hopes we have for our lives, and our commitment to ourselves? How often have we decided that if any part of our lives will have to be destroyed-- even our denial--  then we refuse to be confronted by the painful truth, and flee instead. How often do we exchange our purpose and aspirations for those of others? How much energy do we put into imitating others, or preoccupying ourselves with their aspirations? How often do we sulk our way into giving up? How often do we deny what we need to thrive, or lie to ourselves about what we are drawn to?

How long do we spend in longing and resignation, waiting passively for something to happen before we spring into action? How long do we put off being honest with other people that we have emotional needs, social needs and creative needs that must find expression and reciprocation, even if they don't find them beautiful? Belle does not give up her concern and loyalty to her father, and she comes to care for the Beast and the others under the spell. Her work isn't finished, and she doesn't ultimately leave it. But her identity is still unclear until she takes it seriously. Otherwise, she simply will have exchanged the prison of the village and the escape of the bookshop with the prison of the castle and the escape of its library. A preoccupied father is supplanted by a preoccupied beast who regresses, and a street filled with gossipy villagers is replaced by hallways of gossipy servants. All of this only makes for a more elegant and decorous isolation, in which to remain a child.

Many times, we don't know what we want, and like a child, we only know what we don't want. Belle only knows that Gaston is not for her. And even her refusal of him makes her doubt herself even further. In discovering what we do want, we are essentially asking others for time to do nothing that is of reward to them. Sometimes, we are even asking for time to do nothing, which can be frightening. If we only know what we don't want, that is a starting place. But that place looks like nowhere to everyone else. It looks lazy and childish and beastly. Or it looks unfocused, unproductive, lifeless as a doll, and not genuinely beautiful. We don't even like that state for very long because then we can hear what the villagers think of us, which is really just a reflection of what we think of us.

Now that we have looked at both of the children in this tale, our next and final consideration in this series is how they are each confronted by the other, how they are not always proud of themselves, and how they work together to mature and find ways to grow out of their emotional pain. I'm not very interested in the idea that the beast is transformed physically into the handsome Prince Charming that Belle first believes that she is looking for. What marks her own transformation is that she no longer denies and rejects the Beast as her equal, while he is still in his beastly form, but embraces him as her kindred. She recognizes that like herself, with all of her own underdeveloped, self-negating ways of the Belle Enfant, she is not yet truly La Belle, purposefully heading toward more openly creative movement within the world.

Continued in the final Part 5: Les Belles Âmes