To Write, Not Fight
It was during those early years of my daughter’s life that I made friends with Buddha, Socrates, and Karl Marx and others – and began to understand how karma really works. The universe speaks out loud, but those in conflict cannot hear it. Conflict does have its place, to be sure, in the winnowing and sifting of truth in healthy dialogic relationships. But when generated by a selfish will to win, right or wrong, it simply cannot ever be resolved. Resolution requires a will to understand the truth. And creativity is only possible, it seemed, when ones soul is at peace.
And seeing that the child I was raising would grow up into the wherewithal to feed small nations, I knew I had to remove her from the environment that had spiritually impoverished so many others and rendered them practically incapable of appreciating their good fortune, much less putting it to good use.
So I resolved to write, not fight. As Virginia Woolf had reminded me, “Children never forget!” So my only real choice was to walk away from a marriage that had become the class war under one roof, and shake off the active ignorance I’d been unable to master. In one sense, I was leaving ease for difficulty, but in another, I was trading war for peace. It seemed the only right thing to do, for my daughter as well as myself, to leave some relationships I could not heal behind in order to focus on those I could.
Seeking balance, I went back to college, and buoyed by several awards and scholarships, moved us to Madison, WI, where I knew I could give her a healthier learning environment and, hopefully, a happier childhood than she might otherwise have had.
By now I’d become enthralled with the power of books, seeing how they can illuminate unseen realities, and uplift us to higher purposes. I had no doubt it had been parenting that brought this appreciation back into my life, revealed their worth and meaning, and allowed me to see what had earlier been beyond my emotional, and sometimes intellectual, grasp.
I toyed with the idea of writing children’s books then, seeing how easily they can plant the seeds of big ideas and grow food for thought in young minds, and in the process stimulate discussions between parent and child.
All this was good fodder for my daily writing. But I soon came to realize how much is written (especially in academia) that makes no difference whatsoever in the world. And the thought of giving my life to writing a stillborn book made me shudder. I still break into a cold sweat every time I walk into a warehouse-size bookstore, especially as I pass by the clearance shelves, and imagine what that must feel like to those writers. So I set a standard for myself so high, I knew, that I might never actually reach it. But I resolved that I would never stop trying, at least, since I would always know then that I had done my very best.
I spent a lot of time wondering… Can I write a book that makes a meaningful difference in the world? One that reminds a reader of their better self? Can my words show others the way to become better people, to improve themselves and thereby the world around them? Can the my voice illuminate a future worth the work it would take to ralize?
Probably not, I concluded, not at least without the help of other voices. I have passion for writing and a love of reason, but the better part of what had changed me were the passionate and reasoned voices of others – the greats, the would-be-greats, and even the not-so-greats. And probably my only hope of bringing this to others is by way of bringing their voices into dialogue with mine. While my voice alone could probably motivate a few, to move many would also take the voices of those who had moved me.
As Indigenous voices put it, true intelligence comes of "putting our minds together as one mind." Aristotle put it this way: "no one is able to attain the truth adequately,” still, “we do not collectively fail." Rather, "everyone says something true about the nature of things, and while individually we contribute little or nothing to the truth, by the union of all a considerable amount is amassed.” Therefore, “we should be grateful, not only to those with whose views we may agree, but also to those who have expressed more superficial views; for these also contributed something, by developing before us the powers of thought." (Metaphysics, Book II/Chapter I)
So I resolved to pass on what I had learned, for whatever it might be worth. And it was certainly worth my effort since it improved me on a daily basis.
It was during those early years of my daughter’s life that I made friends with Buddha, Socrates, and Karl Marx and others – and began to understand how karma really works. The universe speaks out loud, but those in conflict cannot hear it. Conflict does have its place, to be sure, in the winnowing and sifting of truth in healthy dialogic relationships. But when generated by a selfish will to win, right or wrong, it simply cannot ever be resolved. Resolution requires a will to understand the truth. And creativity is only possible, it seemed, when ones soul is at peace.
And seeing that the child I was raising would grow up into the wherewithal to feed small nations, I knew I had to remove her from the environment that had spiritually impoverished so many others and rendered them practically incapable of appreciating their good fortune, much less putting it to good use.
So I resolved to write, not fight. As Virginia Woolf had reminded me, “Children never forget!” So my only real choice was to walk away from a marriage that had become the class war under one roof, and shake off the active ignorance I’d been unable to master. In one sense, I was leaving ease for difficulty, but in another, I was trading war for peace. It seemed the only right thing to do, for my daughter as well as myself, to leave some relationships I could not heal behind in order to focus on those I could.
Seeking balance, I went back to college, and buoyed by several awards and scholarships, moved us to Madison, WI, where I knew I could give her a healthier learning environment and, hopefully, a happier childhood than she might otherwise have had.
By now I’d become enthralled with the power of books, seeing how they can illuminate unseen realities, and uplift us to higher purposes. I had no doubt it had been parenting that brought this appreciation back into my life, revealed their worth and meaning, and allowed me to see what had earlier been beyond my emotional, and sometimes intellectual, grasp.
I toyed with the idea of writing children’s books then, seeing how easily they can plant the seeds of big ideas and grow food for thought in young minds, and in the process stimulate discussions between parent and child.
All this was good fodder for my daily writing. But I soon came to realize how much is written (especially in academia) that makes no difference whatsoever in the world. And the thought of giving my life to writing a stillborn book made me shudder. I still break into a cold sweat every time I walk into a warehouse-size bookstore, especially as I pass by the clearance shelves, and imagine what that must feel like to those writers. So I set a standard for myself so high, I knew, that I might never actually reach it. But I resolved that I would never stop trying, at least, since I would always know then that I had done my very best.
I spent a lot of time wondering… Can I write a book that makes a meaningful difference in the world? One that reminds a reader of their better self? Can my words show others the way to become better people, to improve themselves and thereby the world around them? Can the my voice illuminate a future worth the work it would take to ralize?
Probably not, I concluded, not at least without the help of other voices. I have passion for writing and a love of reason, but the better part of what had changed me were the passionate and reasoned voices of others – the greats, the would-be-greats, and even the not-so-greats. And probably my only hope of bringing this to others is by way of bringing their voices into dialogue with mine. While my voice alone could probably motivate a few, to move many would also take the voices of those who had moved me.
As Indigenous voices put it, true intelligence comes of "putting our minds together as one mind." Aristotle put it this way: "no one is able to attain the truth adequately,” still, “we do not collectively fail." Rather, "everyone says something true about the nature of things, and while individually we contribute little or nothing to the truth, by the union of all a considerable amount is amassed.” Therefore, “we should be grateful, not only to those with whose views we may agree, but also to those who have expressed more superficial views; for these also contributed something, by developing before us the powers of thought." (Metaphysics, Book II/Chapter I)
So I resolved to pass on what I had learned, for whatever it might be worth. And it was certainly worth my effort since it improved me on a daily basis.