In this letter: a short essay about seeming and being in writing and local government, some books and essays I’ve been reading, a poem, a photo. Thanks for reading.
I have been thinking about the space between language, thought and being; how big that space can feel. Somedays the language that comes from my mouth or pen or keyboard feels clunky, inauthentic, full of should instead of is. The black marks on the page bear little resemblance to what’s true or what’s in my head. But occasionally the black marks point to authenticity, and I want to chisel them onto stone waymarkers so I don’t get lost.
Somedays I don’t have anything to say. Or rather, what I do have to say feels so buried that I can’t get at it. I need an archaeological dig to unearth it. Somedays I do the digging, otherdays I sit and look at the site to be dug, enjoying the view above ground instead.
Partly it’s exhaustion — there are so many words, so many newsletters. I’ve had Covid recently, and it physically knocked me but it also got under my skin, making me doubt myself and the purpose of unearthing hidden thoughts and words. Sometimes it’s just hard to summon newsletter-regular thoughts (I am told regularity is key with a newsletter) when they feel as foggy as the field outside my window this morning:
And then I read about writers who are disciplined, who get up at 5am to write, who do the work even when the thoughts don’t come and when the page feels intimidatingly blank. I shake myself, frantically write for a bit, and wonder whether a lack of discipline is my problem. I look up the etymology of ‘discipline’ - from Old French: “physical punishment, teaching, suffering, martyrdom”, and from Latin, “teaching, learning, knowledge.” I know it is more nuanced than this, but I do not want the excavation of words to be suffering or martyrdom. And learning and knowledge sound helpful but also cerebral and incomplete. Maybe instead of more discipline I need commitment. Sometimes I dive into things and struggle to commit. A newsletter. An exercise routine. A degree. A marriage engagement. My head tells me to push forward but my body leaves one foot out the door, knowing something my head doesn’t. But I attempt things nonetheless. Is the attempt itself enough even if it will fizzle out, even if it will end in evolution instead of resolution? Perhaps a life is made from attempts and partial pieces, each reflecting incompleteness in themselves, but coming together to point to something more honest and whole. The exercise routine made me realise I want a more active life not just a scheduled exercise slot. The degree showed me I did not want to be, could not be a doctor. The engagement showed me who I was not, and how diminishing myself so another can grow leads to dishonesty and fracture. Perhaps my attempt at a newsletter with its incompleteness and irregularity, free from the finality or expectation of a commissioned article, might help close the gap between my language and thought, pieces adding up to something I can’t yet see. My head wants more clarity, more of a ‘plan’ than this. My body says it is honest, it is enough.
I have been thinking a lot about language in the context of local authorities, of government. When I entered these spaces as an elected District Councillor, I saw the space between thought, truth, being and language stretch as far as I thought possible. I saw language severed from reality and humanity, now almost lifeless and unable to summon truth, relationship or possibility.
The passive voice — the voice of Council documents and reports — absolves everyone of responsibility. It is not I, or we, or you. It does not speak of relationship. This is necessary up to a point — a Council, a government, is not any one individual. But they are made of individual humans, many of whom seem to leave themselves somewhere else entirely when they enter these spaces. Real conversation, hopes, honesty, compassion, curiosity, strengths, are bulldozed by formality, process, politics, appearance. Process is a helpful container until the shape of that container no longer holds what we need it to hold.
My school had a motto. It said, ‘be rather than seem to be’. These words have felt more necessary as the years have passed. The ‘being’ of government has been traded for ‘seeming’, and what’s left is a mirage.
I have worked hard in local government — primarily from a drive to do what’s right for local people and the local environment, but also, more uncomfortably, from a pathological drive to be polite and please people and make them feel comfortable. The ‘tyranny of niceness’ sometimes twists me in such a way I forget what I really think, who I really am. Like government that so exasperates and disappoints me, I end up seeming rather than being. I end up disappointing myself. Then, small things loom like monstrous shadows — I don’t answer the phone for fear of being ambushed by someone wanting something I can’t give, or an unanswered Council email prompts such guilt that it paralyses me and I never do answer it.
Joan Didion, in her 1961 essay ‘On Self Respect’ talks about this phenomenon as part of an ‘alienation from self’:
“We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gift for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give…
But instead we must…
“…assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.”
It takes a jolt to ‘give me back to myself’ when I have wandered too far into someone or something else’s orbit. The jolt might be from a sense of injustice, or the nowness of a sunset on the drive home from a Council meeting. Sometimes it comes through quiet and writing - my own or others’ - that helps me realise what I think. Then, with a fire, I focus in on what must be done, what I can do, why it matters. Then, the sin of silence turns into a cry of care. I hold an unshakeable belief that empathy, listening and kindness are vital in relationships, in community, in government. A belief that we should love others as we love ourselves. But empathy does not set out to be nice, or to please. Niceness and seeming must make way for love and authenticity, even when they do not please.
I will not stand for election again, but right now I am attempting to be a good, authentic local politician. I am attempting to trade niceness and pleasing for the revelations of relationship, the honesty of being, and the implications of love. And as much as I am shaping this attempt and this place, it is shaping me even more so. There is no resolution here. As scruffy late summer prepares to give way to handsome autumn, I am for now excavating, piecing found fragments into words and being.
Books and essays I’ve appreciated:
Book - The Voice That Thunders, by Alan Garner
This collection of essays and lectures from novelist Alan Garner covers archaeology, myth, language, education, philosophy, the spiritual quest, mental health, literature, music and film. I admire how Garner uses myth in order to approach reality. His latest novella, Treacle Walker, has been nominated for the Booker Prize.
Book — All About Love: New Visions, by bell hooks
This book by feminist icon bell hooks explores love and its various manifestations in modern society - not romanticism, not narcissism, but a will to nurture our and others' spiritual growth. It challenges assumptions, and tells us how to return to love and transform a society that is bereft of ‘lovelessness’.
Substack essay - Intermission: Last Post for Christian England, by Paul Kingsnorth
I watched the funeral of Queen Elizabeth II. I am not a royalist. But ceremony and tradition fascinate me. This essay asks what throne we’ll look to now: “…there is a throne at the heart of every culture, whether we know it or not, and that if we cast out its previous inhabitant - and the entire worldview that went along with it - we had better understand what we plan to replace it with. Someone, or something, is going to sit on that throne whether we know it or not. I can’t think of any societies in history which have believed - as ours does - that all that matters is matter. That nothing resides above the spires of the Abbey. That there is no throne. If there were any cultures like that - well, they didn’t last to tell us about it.”
A poem I like:
A Portable Paradise by Roger Robinson:
And if I speak of Paradise,
then I’m speaking of my grandmother
who told me to carry it always
on my person, concealed, so
no one else would know but me.
That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.
And if life puts you under pressure,
trace its ridges in your pocket,
smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,
hum its anthem under your breath.
And if your stresses are sustained and daily,
get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,
hostel or hovel – find a lamp
and empty your paradise onto a desk:
your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.
Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope
of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.
A photo from a place I know:
Peering out my tent door in Dartmoor National Park, about to go for a sunset wander. Dartmoor is the only place in the UK where wild camping is permitted. The moor is filled with old woodlands, rivers, wild ponies, open space, and an ancient spirit that feels older than nature itself. I am trying to get to know this spirit and write about it.
Thanks for reading Red Lands. I’ll write again soon.
Love,
Elizabeth
Language, thought and being
“Mirage”by Santana