Where have all the Idyls gone?
Where have all the Idyls gone?
Recently, many of my FB sisters and brothers have posted notices of weariness, of being “burnt out”, of utter exhaustion, taking to bed for a day or two, to let a deep fatigue seep out of body - and soul - in the immediate comfort of a soft place to fall (one of my favourite songs, btw). Bombarded as we are by continuous news of struggle and peril, it seems there is not only no place to hide, but no surcease of catastrophe. If not happening right this instant, then on the horizon, always on the horizon. Even worse is the message “get used to it” - this IS what life is about. To want a safe harbour, to want “peace in our time”, is apparently considered the height of privileged folly. Even “democracy” must be continually advanced and defended, it cannot simply “be” our political presumption. How very sad.
Was it like that when you were growing up? It wasn’t for me. I fully expected to have a comfortable life, sooner rather than later, of peace and quiet. Certainly I never dreamed that that life would be erased from possibility. The excitement I might have craved would come from adventure holidays, always returning to a snug home base, complete with picket fence. Excitement might also have come from taking on new projects, learning to excel at something in which I wanted to develop expertise. And that is still where I go for some sense of purpose and safety: learning languages, dance, music - and yes, my joy in material things I am not supposed to take joy in.
Yesterday, I attached, to the bottom of my skirt, my summer ruffles, having switched out my winter ruffles - there were two or three days between when I went ruffle-less and I did miss them swishing about my ankles. But I can smile now as I look down on them forging ahead on any walk. A little lift for the spirits.
But there is no sense of safety. Of home. Of being where one ought to be, and that the world is chugging along as it should be.
It isn’t just me. As I wrote above, what alarms me is the apparent ubiquitousness of this feeling of hopeless despair.
So, I can already hear, in my mind’s ear, the call to “get involved, join with others” as a way, the bestway, of dispelling such negative feelings. And, in thinking about it. I do wonder if the wave of despair washing my way isn’t coming from loners - like me - who get hives at the thought of “joining” anything. But, no. Although not joiners, they are by no means lone isolates, having friends, family and animals for whom they care - and take care.
I think to “join”, two conditions have to be met: first, that you are a people person, and second that you must believe that your joint work will be effective, sooner or later. Like planting a seed. You may not live to see the Tree, but with a bit of luck, it will grow and thrive beyond you. But what if you are neither a people-person, nor convinced in the efficacy of joint action. Then, the chaos around you becomes much - much - more menacing. Troll people, like me. Oh not the trolls who bother other people, not at all; trolls that live in caves and under bridges, doing our own non-social thing. Not anti-social, just not social. We like our peace and we like our quiet. We take pleasure in Nature, but we also take pleasure in sitting in a café watching the Social World go by. We just don’t “participate” in group activities - hives, again.
Right now, though, we seemed to have reached a place where neither the Natural World nor the Social World seem inclined to let us passively float on good will. That call to arms is exhausting, that call to “preparation” is exhausting. Nowhere to just be a pussy cat snoozing in the sun. Stretching and moving in good time. Is all “the good time” gone then?
To return momentarily to the question of effectiveness, I can see my friend K repeating Margaret Mead’s line, that the only thing that has changed things is a small group of dedicated people. And I did read Graeber and Wengrow (The Dawn of Everything: a New History of Humanity). But frankly the facts of history belie hope - and it is that reality that has now permeated the consciousness of so many. We have an appalling past, we have a grim future and we have a roiling present. We may skate by, disaster by disaster, but in the end, we ourselves are the greatest enemy and one that will defeat us. We can take solace that Life will - will - go on. For sure. Life has beaten the odds at least five previous virtual wipe outs. But make no mistake, we are on the Titanic, and this time, not only are there not enough lifeboats for the plebs, there are no life boats for elites either, though that is a fantasy they cling to. Titanic’s anniversary was just recently passed, on April 14, and we always watch Cameron’s movie by way of tribute. Titanic was an idyl - that sank. Where are ours now?
I think - for many of us - our dreams of a personal idyl have vanished, replaced by a miasma of anxiety and fear. That is what comes across my news feeds daily now. Of course, it feeds into my own anxiety, but analyst that I am, I would also like to know whether or not that anxiety actually corresponds to objective threat, though certainly the record of the past, and the prognostications about the future confirm pessimism as a realistic response. I would also like to know - aside from joining the struggle - how people live with hyper uncertainty. Do they find an inner core of stability? Is it through Jesus or The Goddess? Can one construct an ivory tower and retreat there? I know - I really do - of two women in France who are currently living in caves in the Dordogne region, where “the ancestors” lived 30 thousand years ago. So, if you think I am being melodramatic, my play is small peanuts compared to that. I think I envy them. A nice snug cave with a spectacular view of the river valley below, and very little contact with state bureaucracy: lovely. And each other for company: lovelier still. And most important of all, a vast sense of continuity - how reassuring, how very reassuring.
Though we might go down, we still are alive now, so besides that call to join (as a therapy), we also need other kinds of philosophies to help us deal with a profoundly existential crisis, hammered home in the headlines day by day.
My friend in the North (even more North that I am), finally let her duty to her animals, and the chores they required of her, be the thing that pulled her out of her bed. So too, a another mother let the call of duty rouse her into, at least, quotidian activity.
Me too. Very stoic, but better than nothing. Duty, after all, is a form of love, and, as such, is, in a very real sense, our Life-line.
I no longer have expectations - but I still have dreams, my Idyls. The places I go to in my imagination, to build the life I would have liked, and can maybe use as a reduced blue print for a life I can yet build. Idyls may be follies, but they are at least where our expectations remain as fertile ground of being. Here’s to my gorgeous dishes and my swishy ruffles, long may they keep my spirits high. I hope you have something that works for you, in your own dream Idyls.