Metaphor
If I had to choose one metaphor for this last year spent in Oregon, it would be of a sentence served in very well-run, rehabilitation focused prison.
Things have not been bad. Not really. I've had the things I really need- challenges, chances to grow, dignity and self-respect. I've had company and laughter now and then, enough to meet my needs if not my wants.
But, things have not been good. They shouldn't have been. Through most of my life, I've been, in many ways, a bad person. I've been self-centered, brutish and mean. I've been scornful when I should have been compassionate, lazy when I should have been industrious, and proud when I should have been ashamed. I haven't appreciated a lot of the people who've treated me well, and I've taken for granted a lot of the tolerance and lenience shown to me. I've been hateful, and then acted wronged when I was hated. I'm not saying I haven't had my good points, and despite all my bad I still think I've been, all in all, a worthwhile person.
I needed this year. Badly. So long as I was relatively happy and comfortable, I was not going to make any of changes that needed to be made. I needed to be lonely, so I would have to earn company. I needed to be bored, so I could not distract myself from thoughts that needed to be thought. I needed to be confronted, harshly, with my weaknesses and faults and failings, so that I could begin to confront them in turn. I needed to have my self-image shattered, so it could be rebuilt in a truer way.
Towards his death, Proust decided that the most painful periods of his life were the most valuable, because those were the ones that inspired the most growth- the happy periods, meanwhile, were wasted, because they taught him nothing. I, of course, have never read Proust, so everything I just said comes from me having watched Little Miss Sunshine for my film studies class. While something could be said for the idea that the good times are an end unto themselves, I think there's a lot of truth to Proust's conclusion. I'm grateful for the harshness of this year, in the same way that as a dancer I'm grateful for the pain in my muscles when I stretch.
Obviously I have a lot of improving left to do, and I'll be disappointed if I don't have a hell of a lot more hardship ahead of me than behind, but I think it's fair to say two things: first, I've come a long way since I left Kentucky, and second, this shithole of a year has been the most valuable in my life.
Things have not been bad. Not really. I've had the things I really need- challenges, chances to grow, dignity and self-respect. I've had company and laughter now and then, enough to meet my needs if not my wants.
But, things have not been good. They shouldn't have been. Through most of my life, I've been, in many ways, a bad person. I've been self-centered, brutish and mean. I've been scornful when I should have been compassionate, lazy when I should have been industrious, and proud when I should have been ashamed. I haven't appreciated a lot of the people who've treated me well, and I've taken for granted a lot of the tolerance and lenience shown to me. I've been hateful, and then acted wronged when I was hated. I'm not saying I haven't had my good points, and despite all my bad I still think I've been, all in all, a worthwhile person.
I needed this year. Badly. So long as I was relatively happy and comfortable, I was not going to make any of changes that needed to be made. I needed to be lonely, so I would have to earn company. I needed to be bored, so I could not distract myself from thoughts that needed to be thought. I needed to be confronted, harshly, with my weaknesses and faults and failings, so that I could begin to confront them in turn. I needed to have my self-image shattered, so it could be rebuilt in a truer way.
Towards his death, Proust decided that the most painful periods of his life were the most valuable, because those were the ones that inspired the most growth- the happy periods, meanwhile, were wasted, because they taught him nothing. I, of course, have never read Proust, so everything I just said comes from me having watched Little Miss Sunshine for my film studies class. While something could be said for the idea that the good times are an end unto themselves, I think there's a lot of truth to Proust's conclusion. I'm grateful for the harshness of this year, in the same way that as a dancer I'm grateful for the pain in my muscles when I stretch.
Obviously I have a lot of improving left to do, and I'll be disappointed if I don't have a hell of a lot more hardship ahead of me than behind, but I think it's fair to say two things: first, I've come a long way since I left Kentucky, and second, this shithole of a year has been the most valuable in my life.