Tonight I gave away some things to people, thanks to Freecycle. (Both of whom were very nice; one of them, a man who works with stained glass — to whom I gave a scanner — suggested I should offer my bookbinding course through the Council, which is a nice idea.) I have this principle that when one thing comes in, one thing should go out. Freecycle is good for that.
But could I give everything away?
Tonight I took myself to a movie, knowing I wasn’t going to get any work done. (I’d spent the day waiting for something in the post that didn’t arrive. That waiting is like a hand-grenade thrown into the middle of my day. I must avoid buying things online.) I went to see Into the Wild, the story of a young, wealthy American who gave away all his possessions and money, then walked off the margins of civilisation, ending up in an old bus in Alaska, where he died, likely of starvation.
My expectations were held in check because I’d seen a ‘making of’ piece online as well as the trailer, and it looked far too self-important and filled with empty Holden Caulfield angst. That’s ironic, isn’t it?, given my geneneral dislike of globalism and the excesses and cruelties of capitalism. But longing for love and justice is, I hope, distinctly separate from acting out against your parents or simply having no outlet for your youthful energy and thus becoming a vehement stand for “anything but this”.
The movie, like the book, however, gave quiet depth to its hero’s journey, mainly by making his life story resonate with that question mark that stands at the end of all our life sentences. What is this for? Who am I to be? What does it matter?
The story would not have endured, I believe, had Chris McCandless not died. That death, alone and sick with starvation, forces the question of “Okay, so where would you rather be instead when that time comes?” These things are only tragic when we hold on to the pretence that we all don’t die, like that or otherwise.
I understand his urge to vanish. When I’m with people for long periods of time, I am filled with the urge to get away, to be on my own. Yet that, to be away in the woods with no company ever, at all… I’m sure I would go mad and would let go of the will to live.
As a fiercely independent person, this came as a strange realisation to me this evening. But much as I love being a forester in the woods of my imagination and senses, I do begrudgingly accept that the greatest rewards in this life come from sharing it with others.
The things I struggle with the idea of giving away are all tools for enhancing, drawing out, and giving form to my creativity. And creative expression is, ultimately, all about making connections with others.
A few years ago, I helped out with a book about Strategic Coach’s idea of “Unique Ability™” — whatever specific, in-born personal talent we have that we’re passionate about using. During the writing of the book, I articulated my Unique Ability as “Describing the real and the imaginary so they come to life and create a moment of wonder.” When I got this phrase, it rung true: “Yes,” I thought, “that is what I’m all about, what everything I’ve done has been for.”
So what if there was no one to wonder with? What if the tree fell in a forest where there was no one to hear, so it didn’t matter whether it made a sound or not?
I would still wonder at life, for certain. But for how long, and why?
I’ve imagined many times going off to live in the tiny coastal Scottish village I once visited on a long car trip with my friend Philip. “But you mightn’t have anything in common with the few people there,” I think. I also wonder how I would get to my family; unlike the person in this story, I love mine and want to be closer to them even when my searching takes me further away. And in spite of myself, I always seem to stumble into having great friendships I cherish. How could I move away from those people? But I’ve done that before, and the friendships stayed strong. Then, I must admit, there’s also the question “And what about meeting someone? It would never happen there!”
It’s been ten years, and I’m single. I’m now pushing forty. It’s been a long time since that was an active part of my planning, but there’s a little end of wool there I haven’t let go of. I suppose there’s no deciding about these things, but perhaps it’s time to have that not be a factor.
The instinct behind this small-as-possible-village idea, though, harmonically resonates with the idea of walking off into the wild. It’s the urge to prearrange the credits sequence of one’s life. Visiting Findhorn had a touch of that, but it’s the one place I’ve been where I can still imagine the story continuing. Everything else seems motivated more by that instinct Freud called the “death wish”.
I know that’s become a piece of common parlance, but look at it again: Freud asserted that competing with our will to survive is an instinct to just give up. When I picture being off in a bus by myself in the Alaskan wilderness, I can’t conjure up much that isn’t given by that morbid urge.
As with the recent Hallam Foe, I find I no longer relate to rebellious young men coming of age. Their tantrums are like that benzene-ring serpent-eating-its-own-tail figure: the rebellion’s purpose is to exercise the muscles of rebellion. The substance isn’t there yet. As someone who has established his independence, I want to know what’s next. By dying, McCandless skirted the answer, but left behind the question for the rest of us.
