Hello, Blue! If you missed last week's edition – Bukowski on writing, the best illustrations from 200 years of Brothers Grimm fairy tales, Toni Morrison on the rewards of true adulthood, two nine-year-olds' letter to Disney about the company's racial and gender stereotypes, and more – you can read it right here. And if you're enjoying this, please consider supporting with a modest donation – every little bit helps, and comes enormously appreciated.
"We get such a kick out of looking forward to pleasures and rushing ahead to meet them that we can’t slow down enough to enjoy them when they come," Alan Watts observed in 1970, aptly declaring us "a civilization which suffers from chronic disappointment." Two millennia earlier, Aristotle asserted: "This is the main question, with what activity one's leisure is filled."
Today, in our culture of productivity-fetishism, we have succumbed to the tyrannical notion of "work/life balance" and have come to see the very notion of "leisure" not as essential to the human spirit but as self-indulgent luxury reserved for the privileged or deplorable idleness reserved for the lazy. And yet the most significant human achievements between Aristotle's time and our own – our greatest art, the most enduring ideas of philosophy, the spark for every technological breakthrough – originated in leisure, in moments of unburdened contemplation, of absolute presence with the universe within one's own mind and absolute attentiveness to life without, be it Galileo inventing modern timekeeping after watching a pendulum swing in a cathedral or Oliver Sacks illuminating music's incredible effects on the mind while hiking in a Norwegian fjord.
So how did we end up so conflicted about cultivating a culture of leisure?
In 1948, only a year after the word "workaholic" was coined in Canada and a year before an American career counselor issued the first concentrated countercultural clarion call for rethinking work, the German philosopher Josef Pieper (May 4, 1904–November 6, 1997) penned Leisure, the Basis of Culture (public library) – a magnificent manifesto for reclaiming human dignity in a culture of compulsive workaholism, triply timely today, in an age when we have commodified our aliveness so much as to mistake making a living for having a life.
Illustration by Maurice Sendak from Open House for Butterflies by Ruth Krauss
Decades before the great Benedictine monk David Steindl-Rast came to contemplate why we lost leisure and how to reclaim it, Pieper traces the notion of leisure to its ancient roots and illustrates how astonishingly distorted, even inverted, its original meaning has become over time: The Greek word for "leisure," σχoλη, produced the Latin scola, which in turn gave us the English school – our institutions of learning, presently preparation for a lifetime of industrialized conformity, were once intended as a mecca of "leisure" and contemplative activity. Pieper writes:
The original meaning of the concept of "leisure" has practically been forgotten in today's leisure-less culture of "total work": in order to win our way to a real understanding of leisure, we must confront the contradiction that rises from our overemphasis on that world of work.
The very fact of this difference, of our inability to recover the original meaning of "leisure," will strike us all the more when we realize how extensively the opposing idea of "work" has invaded and taken over the whole realm of human acton and of human existence as a whole.
Pieper traces the origin of the paradigm of the "worker" to the Green Cynic philosopher Antisthenes, a friend of Plato's and a disciple of Socrates. Being the first to equate effort with goodness and virtue, Pieper argues, he became the original "workaholic":
As an ethicist of independence, this Antisthenes had no feeling for cultic celebration, which he preferred attacking with "enlightened" wit; he was "a-musical" (a foe of the Muses: poetry only interested him for its moral content); he felt no responsiveness to Eros (he said he "would like to kill Aphrodite"); as a flat Realist, he had no belief in immortality (what really matters, he said, was to live rightly "on this earth"). This collection of character traits appears almost purposely designed to illustrate the very "type" of the modern "workaholic."
Illustration from Herman and Rosie by Gus Gordon
Work in contemporary culture encompasses "hand work," which consists of menial and technical labor, and "intellectual work," which Pieper defines as "intellectual activity as social service, as contribution to the common utility." Together, they compose what he calls "total work" – "a series of conquests made by the 'imperial figure' of the 'worker'" as an archetype pioneered by Antisthenes. Under the tyranny of total work, the human being is reduced to a functionary and her work becomes the be-all-end-all of existence. Pieper considers how contemporary culture has normalized this spiritual narrowing:
What is normal is work, and the normal day is the working day. But the question is this: can the world of man be exhausted in being "the working world"? Can the human being be satisfied with being a functionary, a "worker"? Can human existence be fulfilled in being exclusively a work-a-day existence?
The answer to this rhetorical question requires a journey to another turning point in the history of our evolving – or, as it were, devolving – understanding of "leisure." Echoing Kierkegaard's terrific defense of idleness as spiritual nourishment, Pieper writes:
The code of life in the High Middle Ages [held] that it was precisely lack of leisure, an inability to be at leisure, that went together with idleness; that the restlessness of work-for-work's-sake arose from nothing other than idleness. There is a curious connection in the fact that the restlessness of a self-destructive work-fanaticism should take its rise form the absence of a will to accomplish something.
Idleness, for the older code of behavior, meant especially this: that the human being had given up on the very responsibility that comes with his dignity... The metaphysical-theological concept of idleness means, then, that man finally does not agree with his own existence; that behind all his energetic activity, he is not at one with himself; that, as the Middle Ages expressed it, sadness has seized him in the face of the divine Goodness that lives within him.
We see glimmers of this recognition today, in sorely needed yet still-fringe notions like the theology of rest, but Pieper points to the Latin word acedia – loosely translated as "despair of listlessness" – as the earliest and most apt formulation of the complaint against this self-destructive state. He considers the counterpoint:
The opposite of acedia is not the industrious spirit of the daily effort to make a living, but rather the cheerful affirmation by man of his own existence, of the world as a whole, and of God -– of Love, that is, from which arises that special freshness of action, which would never be confused by anyone [who has] any experience with the narrow activity of the "workaholic."
Leisure, then, is a condition of the soul – (and we must firmly keep this assumption, since leisure is not necessarily present in all the external things like "breaks," "time off," "weekend," "vacation," and so on – it is a condition of the soul) – leisure is precisely the counterpoise to the image for the "worker."
Illustration from The Lion and the Bird by Marianne Dubuc
But Pieper's most piercing insight, one of tremendous psychological and practical value today, is his model of the three types of work – work as activity, work as effort, and work as social contribution – and how against the contrast of each a different core aspect of leisure is revealed. He begins with the first:
Against the exclusiveness of the paradigm of work as activity ... there is leisure as "non-activity" – an inner absence of preoccupation, a calm, an ability to let things go, to be quiet.
In a sentiment Pico Iyer would come to echo more than half a century later in his excellent treatise on the art of stillness, Pieper adds:
Leisure is a form of that stillness that is necessary preparation for accepting reality; only the person who is still can hear, and whoever is not still, cannot hear. Such stillness is not mere soundlessness or a dead muteness; it means, rather, that the soul's power, as real, of responding to the real – a co-respondence, eternally established in nature – has not yet descended into words. Leisure is the disposition of perceptive understanding, of contemplative beholding, and immersion – in the real.
But there is something else, something larger, in this conception of leisure as "non-activity" – an invitation to commune with the immutable mystery of being. Pieper writes:
In leisure, there is ... something of the serenity of "not-being-able-to-grasp," of the recognition of the mysterious character of the world, and the confidence of blind faith, which can let things go as they will.
Leisure is not the attitude of the one who intervenes but of the one who opens himself; not of someone who seizes but of one who lets go, who lets himself go, and "go under," almost as someone who falls asleep must let himself go... The surge of new life that flows out to us when we give ourselves to the contemplation of a blossoming rose, a sleeping child, or of a divine mystery – is this not like the surge of life that comes from deep, dreamless sleep?
This passage calls to mind Jeanette Winterson's beautiful meditation on art as a function of "active surrender" – a parallel quite poignant in light of the fact that leisure is the seedbed of the creative impulse, absolutely necessary for making art and doubly so for enjoying it.
Pieper turns to the second face of work, as acquisitive effort or industriousness, and how the negative space around it silhouettes another core aspect of leisure:
Against the exclusiveness of the paradigm of work as effort, leisure is the condition of considering things in a celebrating spirit. The inner joyfulness of the person who is celebrating belongs to the very core of what we mean by leisure... Leisure is only possible in the assumption that man is not only in harmony with himself ... but also he is in agreement with the world and its meaning. Leisure lives on affirmation. It is not the same as the absence of activity; it is not the same thing as quiet, or even as an inner quiet. It is rather like the stillness in the conversation of lovers, which is fed by their oneness.
With this, Pieper turns to the third and final type of work, that of social contribution:
Leisure stands opposed to the exclusiveness of the paradigm of work as social function.
The simple "break" from work – the kind that lasts an hour, or the kind that lasts a week or longer – is part and parcel of daily working life. It is something that has been built into the whole working process, a part of the schedule. The "break" is there for the sake of work. It is supposed to provide "new strength" for "new work," as the word "refreshment" indicates: one is refreshed for work through being refreshed from work.
Leisure stands in a perpendicular position with respect to the working process... Leisure is not there for the sake of work, no matter how much new strength the one who resumes working may gain from it; leisure in our sense is not justified by providing bodily renewal or even mental refreshment to lend new vigor to further work... Nobody who wants leisure merely for the sake of "refreshment" will experience its authentic fruit, the deep refreshment that comes from a deep sleep.
Illustration by Maurice Sendak for the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm
To reclaim this higher purpose of leisure, Pieper argues, is to reclaim our very humanity – an understanding all the more urgently needed today, in an era where we speak of vacations as "digital detox" – the implication being that we recuperate from, while also fortifying ourselves for, more zealous digital retox, so to speak, which we are bound to resume upon our return.
Leisure is not justified in making the functionary as "trouble-free" in operation as possible, with minimum "downtime," but rather in keeping the functionary human ... and this means that the human being does not disappear into the parceled-out world of his limited work-a-day function, but instead remains capable of taking in the world as a whole, and thereby to realize himself as a being who is oriented toward the whole of existence.
This is why the ability to be "at leisure" is one of the basic powers of the human soul. Like the gift of contemplative self-immersion in Being, and the ability to uplift one's spirits in festivity, the power to be at leisure is the power to step beyond the working world and win contact with those superhuman, life-giving forces that can send us, renewed and alive again, into the busy world of work...
In leisure ... the truly human is rescued and preserved precisely because the area of the "just human" is left behind... [But] the condition of utmost exertion is more easily to be realized than the condition of relaxation and detachment, even though the latter is effortless: this is the paradox that reigns over the attainment of leisure, which is at once a human and super-human condition.
This, perhaps, is why when we take a real vacation – in the true sense of "holiday," time marked by holiness, a sacred period of respite – our sense of time gets completely warped. Unmoored from work-time and set free, if temporarily, from the tyranny of schedules, we come to experience life exactly as it unfolds, with its full ebb and flow of dynamism – sometimes slow and silken, like the quiet hours spent luxuriating in the hammock with a good book; sometimes fast and fervent, like a dance festival under a summer sky.
Leisure, the Basis of Culture is a terrific read in its totality, made all the more relevant by the gallop of time between Pieper's era and our own. Complement it with David Whyte on reconciling the paradox of "work/life balance," Pico Iyer on the art of stillness, Wendell Berry on the spiritual rewards of solitude, and Annie Dillard on reclaiming our everyday capacity for joy and wonder.
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When I was a child in Bulgaria, my mother came up with a fictional character named Nokkut – Bulgarian for “thumbnail,” for he was a tiny, thumb-sized boy. Every night before bed, she told me fanciful tales of his adventures.
As young working parents struggling to make ends meet, my parents benefited from the great luxury of Europe’s highly efficient system of free childcare: grandparents. Every spring, I was handed off to my grandparents in the countryside. They had an orchard and a large garden full of flowers and strawberries and all kinds of vegetables. I loved the garden with all my heart – I loved digging into the moist dirt with my bare hands, I loved biting into an heirloom tomato fresh off the vine, I loved helping my grandmother plant the pumpkins, I loved waking up early to tend to the gerber daisies with my elephant-shaped watering jug.
Although I did not yet have the words to name the awareness, those were my first brushes with gardening as a spiritual experience – a sacred communion with the earth, a meditative activity with a special kind of prayerfulness to it.
Back in the city during the school year, and especially during the cold winter months, I missed my grandmother’s garden terribly. To alleviate my wistfulness, my mother would tell me stories of Nokkut and his garden. Eventually, she even sewed a miniature rag-doll version of him, clad in a brown corduroy jumpsuit – made of my father's old trousers – and a tiny gardener’s hat.
Imagine my delight when, many years later, I came upon The Little Gardener (public library) by Hawaiian-born, British-based illustrator Emily Hughes. On the heels and in the spirit of her wondrous Wild, one of the best children's books of 2014, Hughes tells the story of a tiny boy, no larger than a thumb, and his garden.
The charming, immeasurably sweet tale calls to mind what Van Gogh wrote to his brother: “Whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done!” It is at heart a parable of purpose – tender assurance for anyone who has ever undertaken a labor of love against seemingly insurmountable odds and persevered through hardship, continuing to nourishing that labor until the love emanates out, becomes contagious, and draws in kindred spirits as a centripetal force of shared purpose and enthusiasm.
Hughes's illustrations, vibrant and deeply alive, capture that strange tapestry of tenderness and wilderness of which the human soul is woven.
This was the garden.
It didn't look like much, but it meant everything to its gardener.
It was his home. It was his supper.
It was his joy.
But the little gardener, joyful and hardworking as he is, isn't "much good at gardening," for he is "just too little" – a beautiful metaphor for that feeling familiar to any artist and entrepreneur at the outset of a creative project, that sense of smallness in the face of a seemingly enormous endeavor, that moment where humility and faith must converge in order for one to surmount the mental barrier and march forward.
Mismatch of task and capability notwithstanding, the little gardener's hard work pays off and one thing does blossom.
It was a flower.
It was alive and wonderful.
It gave the gardener hope and made him want to work even harder.
And so he does – he toils day and night, tirelessly tending to his jungle of a garden.
Even so, it begins to perish, his home, his supper, and his joy all at stake.
One particularly hopeless night, the little gardener peers out the window of his tiny straw hut and sends a single wish into the night sky – he wished that he could have some help, so his beloved garden would be saved.
No one heard his little voice, but someone saw his flower.
It was alive and wonderful.
It gave the someone hope.
It made the someone want to work harder.
As he blows his wish into the cosmos with a heavy heart, the little gardner drifts into sleep just as heavy – he sleeps a whole day, a whole week, a whole month. But, meanwhile, the Gulliveresque girl enchanted by that single flower – the little gardener's sole labor of love – begins tending to the whole garden.
By the time the little gardener awakens, the garden is transformed into a blooming wonderland, nurtured by the largeness of a contagious love the seed for which he had planted in the heart of another.
This is the garden now.
And this is its gardener.
He doesn't look like much,
but he means everything to his garden.
The Little Gardener, a heartwarming delight in its entirety, comes from independent British picture-book powerhouse Flying Eye Books, makers of such treats as Hug Me, Monsters & Legends, Professor Astro Cat’s Frontiers of Space, and the illustrated biography of Shackleton. Complement it with Hughes's debut, Wild, then revisit one medieval gardener's beautiful meditation on the spiritual uses of fruit trees.
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In 1974, the Tibetan Buddhist teacher and Oxford alumnus Chögyam Trungpa founded Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado – a most unusual and emboldening not-for-profit educational institution named after the eleventh-century Indian Buddhist sage Naropa and intended as a 100-year experiment of combining the best methodologies of Western scholarship with the most timeless tenets of Eastern wisdom, fusing academic and experiential learning with contemplative practice. Under the auspices of its Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, founded by Allen Ginsberg, the university hosted a number of lectures and readings by such luminaries as John Cage, William S. Burroughs, and Jack Kerouac himself, for all of whom Buddhism was a major influence.
In 2015, Naropa University awarded its first-ever honorary degree of Doctor of Contemplative Education to author, educator, and Center for Courage & Renewal founder Parker Palmer – one of the most luminous and hope-giving minds of our time, whose beautiful writings on inner wholeness and the art of letting your soul speak spring from a spirit of embodied poetics. In May of 2015, he took the podium before the university's graduating class and delivered one of the greatest commencement addresses of all time – a beam of shimmering wisdom illuminating the six pillars of a meaningful human existence, experience-tested and honestly earned in the course of a long life fully lived.
Annotated highlights below – please enjoy.
In his first piece of advice, Palmer calls for living with wholeheartedness, inherent to which – as Seth Godin has memorably argued – is an active surrender to vulnerability. Echoing Donald Barthelme's exquisite case for the art of not-knowing, he urges:
Be reckless when it comes to affairs of the heart.
What I really mean ... is be passionate, fall madly in love with life. Be passionate about some part of the natural and/or human worlds and take risks on its behalf, no matter how vulnerable they make you. No one ever died saying, “I’m sure glad for the self-centered, self-serving and self-protective life I lived.”
Offer yourself to the world – your energies, your gifts, your visions, your heart – with open-hearted generosity. But understand that when you live that way you will soon learn how little you know and how easy it is to fail.
To grow in love and service, you – I, all of us – must value ignorance as much as knowledge and failure as much as success... Clinging to what you already know and do well is the path to an unlived life. So, cultivate beginner’s mind, walk straight into your not-knowing, and take the risk of failing and falling again and again, then getting up again and again to learn – that’s the path to a life lived large, in service of love, truth, and justice.
Palmer's second point of counsel speaks to the difficult art of living with opposing truths and channels his longtime advocacy for inner wholeness:
As you integrate ignorance and failure into your knowledge and success, do the same with all the alien parts of yourself. Take everything that’s bright and beautiful in you and introduce it to the shadow side of yourself. Let your altruism meet your egotism, let your generosity meet your greed, let your joy meet your grief. Everyone has a shadow... But when you are able to say, “I am all of the above, my shadow as well as my light,” the shadow’s power is put in service of the good. Wholeness is the goal, but wholeness does not mean perfection, it means embracing brokenness as an integral part of your life.
As a person who ... has made three deep dives into depression along the way, I do not speak lightly of this. I simply know that it is true.
As you acknowledge and embrace all that you are, you give yourself a gift that will benefit the rest of us as well. Our world is in desperate need of leaders who live what Socrates called “an examined life.” In critical areas like politics, religion, business, and the mass media, too many leaders refuse to name and claim their shadows because they don’t want to look weak. With shadows that go unexamined and unchecked, they use power heedlessly in ways that harm countless people and undermine public trust in our major institutions.
In his third piece of advice, Palmer calls for extending this courtesy to others and treating their shadowy otherness with the same kindness that we do our own:
As you welcome whatever you find alien within yourself, extend that same welcome to whatever you find alien in the outer world. I don’t know any virtue more important these days than hospitality to the stranger, to those we perceive as “other” than us.
In a sentiment that calls to mind Margaret Mead and James Baldwin's timeless, immeasurably timely conversation on race and difference, Palmer adds:
The old majority in this society, people who look like me, is on its way out. By 2045 the majority of Americans will be people of color... Many in the old majority fear that fact, and their fear, shamelessly manipulated by too many politicians, is bringing us down. The renewal this nation needs will not come from people who are afraid of otherness in race, ethnicity, religion, or sexual orientation.
His fourth piece of advice pierces the heart of something I myself worry about daily as I witness the great tasks of human culture reduced to small-minded lists and unimaginative standards that measure all the wrong metrics of "productivity" and "progress." Palmer urges:
Take on big jobs worth doing – jobs like the spread of love, peace, and justice. That means refusing to be seduced by our cultural obsession with being effective as measured by short-term results. We all want our work to make a difference – but if we take on the big jobs and our only measure of success is next quarter’s bottom line, we’ll end up disappointed, dropping out, and in despair.
Our heroes take on impossible jobs and stay with them for the long haul because they live by a standard that trumps effectiveness. The name of that standard, I think, is faithfulness – faithfulness to your gifts, faithfulness to your perception of the needs of the world, and faithfulness to offering your gifts to whatever needs are within your reach.
The tighter we cling to the norm of effectiveness the smaller the tasks we’ll take on, because they are the only ones that get short-term results... Care about being effective, of course, but care even more about being faithful ... to your calling, and to the true needs of those entrusted to your care.
You won’t get the big jobs done in your lifetime, but if at the end of the day you can say, “I was faithful,” I think you’ll be okay.
In his fifth point of counsel, Palmer echoes Tolstoy's letters to Gandhi on why we hurt each other and offers:
Since suffering as well as joy comes with being human, I urge you to remember this: Violence is what happens when we don’t know what else to do with our suffering.
Violence is what happens when we don’t know what else to do with our suffering.
Sometimes we aim that violence at ourselves, as in overwork that leads to burnout or worse, or in the many forms of substance abuse; sometimes we aim that violence at other people – racism, sexism, and homophobia often come from people trying to relieve their suffering by claiming superiority over others.
The good news is that suffering can be transformed into something that brings life, not death. It happens every day. I’m 76 years old, I now know many people who’ve suffered the loss of the dearest person in their lives. At first they go into deep grief, certain that their lives will never again be worth living. But then they slowly awaken to the fact that not in spite of their loss, but because of it, they’ve become bigger, more compassionate people, with more capacity of heart to take in other people’s sorrows and joys. These are broken-hearted people, but their hearts have been broken open, rather than broken apart.
So, every day, exercise your heart by taking in life’s little pains and joys – that kind of exercise will make your heart supple, the way a runner makes a muscle supple, so that when it breaks, (and it surely will,) it will break not into a fragment grenade, but into a greater capacity for love.
In his sixth and final piece of wisdom, Palmer quotes the immortal words of Saint Benedict – “daily, keep your death before your eyes” – and, echoing Rilke's view of mortality, counsels:
If you hold a healthy awareness of your own mortality, your eyes will be opened to the grandeur and glory of life, and that will evoke all of the virtues I’ve named, as well as those I haven’t, such as hope, generosity, and gratitude. If the unexamined life is not worth living, it’s equally true that the unlived life is not worth examining.
He closes, to my great delight, with Diane Ackerman's exquisite words on the true measure of our liveness.
Palmer delves deeper into these pillars of the wholly lived life in his excellent book Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation (public library).
Complement his spiritually invigorating speech with other masterworks of the commencement address genre: Joseph Brodsky's six rules for winning at the game of life (University of Michigan, 1988), Toni Morrison on the rewards of true adulthood (Wesleyan, 2004), George Saunders on the power of kindness (Syracuse University, 2013), Teresita Fernandez on what it really means to be an artist (Virginia Commonwealth University, 2013), Debbie Millman on courage and the creative life (San Jose State University, 2013), Kurt Vonnegut on boredom, belonging, and our human responsibility (Fredonia College, 1978), Bill Watterson on creative integrity (Kenyon College, 1990), Patti Smith on learning to count on yourself (Pratt University, 2010), and John Waters on creative rebellion (RISD, 2015).
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Aristotle laid out the philosophical foundation of friendship as the art of holding up a mirror to each other's souls. Two millennia later, Emerson contemplated its two pillars of truth and tenderness. Another century later, C.S. Lewis wrote: "Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself… It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival."
But nowhere do the beauty, mystery, and soul-sustenance of friendship come more vibrantly alive than in the 1997 masterwork Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom (