Human Fallibility

To Err Is Human. To Forgive Is Divine. But Can We Forgive Ourselves?

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They say that the path to enlightenment is as sharp and narrow as a razor’s edge.

I know that not everyone’s definition of the meaning of life is reaching this mythically-regarded state. But swap in happiness or life-contentment for enlightenment and the conclusion is much the same.

For many of us, the equilibrium we must achieve, the correct identification and application of the requisite combination of nourishing behaviours and attitudes, just to feel how we would like to in life, is an exhausting - if worthwhile - struggle.

In my own case, this takes the form of oscillating between two extremes: discipline and indulgence.

Discipline brings many rewards, wrestling our recalcitrant, sulking minds under control, reminding ourselves we are not slaves to our desires but rather under the power of some higher self.

But in isolation, it is too severe to be the sole guiding principle of our lives. It is too restrictive and, ultimately, leads to a life that is joyless and depressing. Forgoing immediate desires for the promise of some future reward is contrary to our most fundamental human drives towards pleasure (the sensation of which after all is a powerful evolutionary signal: get more of this!) Self-denial will, if left unchecked, ultimately lead to implosion.

Moreover, a life of discipline becomes entirely a project of the will, which is to say a matter of ego, of imposing one’s own designs over and against the vicissitudes of experience. It leaves no space for flow and responsiveness, for being attuned to the chaotic beat of life in itself.

Perversely, there is a pleasure in discipline in the form it usually manifests as in the modern world — ie productivity. Our discipline allows us to get up ever earlier, to pack in ever more, sustained by the dopamine trill as we tick off our never-diminishing to-do lists. We feel so good when we are at peak productivity that we construct lives for ourselves of ceaseless obligations and multifarious projects. Until the momentum dips for one reason or another and what had swelled in our mind’s eye in pregnant, boundless potential suddenly mutates into teetering towers of obligations, the whole superstructure sharing the same precarious foundation in our finite and now-fast diminishing energy.

Discipline then is either dry and plainly joyless, or relies on a quixotic dream of never-diminishing energy reserves.

The pitfalls of indulgence on the other hand barely require explanation, being much more social taboo:

For many of us, it becomes too easy for one glass of wine to slide into three, or one biscuit to become a packet. Or really any vice — which taken alone represents a harmless pleasure — to become a downward spiral of guilt-ridden self-destruction.

Indulgence exerts power over us simply because it feels good. But then constant indulgence ends up feeling positively bad. We become habituated to, and exhaust our mind’s ability to experience, pleasure in response to whatever treats we shove into it: junk food, booze, loveless sex.

Indulgence does have its place though — a life without short term pleasure would, if nothing else, simply be too hard to maintain, requiring a level of reserve and resistance to temptation that is essentially self-flagellistic.

But it really only functions effectively as a reward — not as a constant fixture of our lives. Indulgence can become a very powerful ally of discipline when used as such: immediate reward — ie indulgence in the form of some treat — is a key part of forming good (and bad) habits. The key is that this indulgence is short-lived and not too destructive in and of itself of course. Unfortunately, scooping out a jar of Nutella with a pack of hobnobs is not a proportionate reward for twenty minutes of exercise.

The solution to all of this?

Moderation.

But while moderation is of course essential in maintaining the equilibrium between these poles, I’ve always found this to be a bit of a cop out.

As Andrew Bird puts it in his beautiful song, Lull:

‘I’m all up for moderation,

but sometimes it seems,

moderation itself

can be a kind of extreme’.

This isn’t just glib rhyming for the sake of it.

Moderation can be a kind of extreme in as much as it seems to require a constant juggling between extremes.

For those of us who have a tendency to slide towards extremes in the first place, to accelerate into the exponential momentum exerted by their gravity, there is a very deliberate skill required in learning to switch expertly between these poles, remaining in neither mode for too long or without self-awareness of which state we are in. It would be preferable to simply ride that middle line consistently of course. But this is what has eluded most of us so far in life, and expecting ourselves to walk this tightrope without falling will only compound the pressure we put ourselves under to do so, and the pain of our inevitable fall.

We therefore have to constantly maintain a bird’s eye view of which pole we are leaning towards. This constant self-monitoring is exhausting in its own right, even if we are ‘getting it right’. It is in this way that moderation can be an extreme.

Of course, the response is that we need to exercise moderation even in our attempts to exercise moderation! We cannot take the project of finding balance too seriously, since this seriousness will ultimately cause us to lose that balance.

But this in turn is a paradox, since it means we still need to apply the correct amount of moderation to our approach to moderation! If you are not already intuitive enough so as to exercise your moderation appropriately, you will not be able to suddenly switch it on to the right degree, just because you should.

If we have a tendency to either or both extremes, there is little we can do than make a deliberate, very conscious project out of navigating this tension.

NB: The subsequent response is that one needs to drop from the rational, overly analytical mind that is trying to solve some kind of mathematically precise happiness equation and learn to access one’s deeper intuitive intelligence. But again, this process is fraught with paradox for the more cerebral/left-brained of us . To become the zen sage who engages in effortless effort, to realise - as Yoda put it - ‘There is no [ie never was any] try’, we have to try very hard! We have to experiment with different modalities, with learning to let go etc, until we stumble upon whatever subtler mechanisms guide our lives more effortlessly.

So, what the hell do we do?

If it is true then that the only choice available to most of us is this carefully maintained, rather self-conscious approach to life, which will inevitably bring its failures and crashes as we descend too far into either extreme, the solution cannot lie in hoping or expecting to avoid these failures and crashes.

Rather, it must lie in accepting that they will happen, which is to acknowledge our innate human fallibility and vulnerability. It is to be kind and understanding with ourselves when we err, to acknowledge that this really does happen to the best of us. That life, even for the lucky amongst us, is hard.

It is to acknowledge that quieting the Ecclesiastian voice inside which whispers disconsolately in our ear, ‘Why any of this at all?’, and, moreover, ‘Why have I been drawn into this incomprehensible something?’, is an exhausting, repeating task for many of us. (At times these questions dwindle into silence, but they never quite disappear, torn as we are from our natural state and condemned to a life which demands to mean something whilst being constructed in a manner that rails against the very conditions of meaning.)

It is ok to struggle. It is ok to fail. Good follows bad. Ease follows difficulty. Motivation follows inertia. We must respect these cycles of our psyche as the seasons of the planet, eternal, immune to whatever temporary energies we can conjure against them.

We try our best. Even when we give up, this is because we have run out of ways to turn. Our best efforts then are to collapse. Until the new day comes, when with a smile and a shrug, holding ourselves like the archetypal parent all of our hearts crave but not even the best parent could fulfil (since they were also these flawed and suffering beings), we go again.

We listen to that ancient, irrational and inalienable hopefulness that is as indelible a part of being human as the seasons and human fallibility itself,

Which hopes that all of our efforts are for something,

That we are slowly, imperceptibly, building a world that is better not only for ourselves but all of life,

That existence is ultimately too incomprehensible for us to provide any meaningful value judgement on and that the only sane reaction is hushed and reverential awe.

We reach out to our loved ones for help, understanding that all confusion and sadness is nothing but the longing of the human heart for connection,

We resolve again to listen to the positivity that persists inside our bruised and battered hearts in spite of all the torpor and distress of life,

Remembering that it is from this struggle against our limitations that beauty emerges,

And that, as Rumi said, the cure for pain is in the pain.

I leave you with this most simple, gentle poem, which comforts me when times are difficult:

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,

and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender

be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly;

and listen to others,

even the dull and the ignorant;

they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,

they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,

you may become vain and bitter;

for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;

it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs;

for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;

many persons strive for high ideals;

and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.

Especially, do not feign affection.

Neither be cynical about love;

for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment

it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,

gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,

be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,

no less than the trees and the stars;

you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,

no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,

whatever you conceive Him to be,

and whatever your labors and aspirations,

in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,

it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

— Max Ehrmann, 1927