17 Lessons From Marginalian
17 Lessons From Marginalian
17 Lessons From Marginalian
13. In any bond of depth and significance, forgive, forgive, forgive. And then forgive again. The
richest relationships are lifeboats, but they are also submarines that descend to the darkest and
most disquieting places, where our deepest shames and foibles and vulnerabilities live, where we
are less than we would like to be. Forgiveness is the alchemy by which the shame transforms into
the honor and privilege of being invited into another’s darkness and having them witness your
own with the undimmed light of love, of sympathy, of nonjudgmental understanding.
14. Choose joy. Choose it at first consciously, effortfully, pressing against the weight of a world
heavy with reasons for sorrow, restless with need for action. Feel the sorrow, take the action, but
keep pressing the weight of joy against it all, until it becomes mindless, automated, like gravity
pulling the stream down its course; until it becomes an inner law of nature. If Viktor Frankl can
exclaim “yes to life, in spite of everything!” — and what an everything he lived through — then so
can any one of us amid the rubble of our plans, so trifling by comparison. Joy is not a function of a
life free of friction and frustration, but a function of focus — an inner elevation by the fulcrum of
choice. So often, it is a matter of attending to what Hermann Hesse called, as the world was about
to come unworlded by its first global war, “the little joys”; so often, those are the slender threads
of which we weave the lifeline that saves us. Delight in the
I think often of this verse from Jane Hirshfield’s splendid poem “The Weighing”:
So few grains of happiness / measured against all the dark / and still the scales balance.
16. Unself. Nothing is more tedious than self-concern — the antipode of wonder.
17. Everything is eventually recompensed, every effort of the heart eventually requited, though
not always in the form you imagined or hoped for. What redeems all of life’s disappointments,
what makes all of its heartbreaks bearable, is the ability to see how the dissolution of a dream
becomes the fertile compost of possibility. Leaves of Grass is Whitman’s testament to this
elemental truth:
Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse unreturn’d love,
But now I think there is no unreturn’d love, the pay is certain one way or another,
(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return’d,
Yet out of that I have written these songs.)