Taking it seriously: football, hoovering, McGilchrist, Nehemiah, psychical distance, and verbal explosions
The difference between one situation and another may be what and who people take seriously.
For example.
A game.
Football, for some.
"It's only a game."
"What?? It's FOOTBALL!"
(Or whatever someone with tickets for the final would say in response who the person hooving in front of the screen.)
I watched this happen. (I was neither the fan, nor the hooverer. Just a notetaker.)
I do have my own examples though.
A. Writing a piece of music for a duet.
My musical companion couldn't play it and didn't have time to practice.
So an authority figure we went to ordered me to change the music to make it easier for the other to play without practice. Not taking it seriously, perhaps.
B. Writing a script.
I wrote a script and showed it to others. They organised casting sessions and filmed them. Extremely good. Hilariously good. But I didn't know how to move it forward. They took me and my script more seriously than I could cope with.
Now in this current season, it occurs to me that my project requires me to take certain things more seriously than other people might.
Take, for example:
C. A 'virtual' venue. Several of them.
I mean, I have homegrown website construction that isn't very flash, let's be honest. I see it more as a placeholder. Still, it has to be 'flash enough' for others to take me and my project seriously.
For them to properly hear me, perhaps.
Fine line.
...
"Taking things seriously" — in Japanese — (apparently)
I did a very very quick bit of word-studying around translations and idioms for 'taking things seriously' in a few different languages and cultures.
In Japanese, Icelandic, Chinese, Hindi, English, Hebrew, various themes kept coming up:
Weight. Attention to danger. Honour. Importance. Truth.
Of these I was particularly inspired by what seemed like the Japanese angle — the emphasis on a sword. It sounded as if the origins of the word I was looking at suggested something at stake. Families actually present in a moment of danger and needing protection — so of course you'd need an actual sword to face that situation for all it's worth. Taking it that seriously.
And that reminded me of Nehemiah.
Nehemiah. You know the story?
He's masterminding the mission to get the city walls rebuilt, for identity, for defence, and for the statement of faith.
And the story actually notes that families were required to be posted alongside the (re)construction workers.
What's more, those building the walls were told to keep a sword in one hand and their building supplies in another.
Stay vigilant. Stay awake. Take this very seriously.
And that reminded me of Iain McGilchrist.
The Master and His Emissary, by Iain McGilchrist was given to me by someone who took me seriously. I mean, have you seen this book?
I loved it so much and was bubbling over with things to say, but the only other person who could talk about it with me was the one who gave it to me.
Others expressed interest, but said they couldn't dedicate the time needed to read it properly, which wasn't surprising I suppose.
So (I promise you!) I created a written commentary and study guide to understanding the book, taking it section by section to paraphrase and cross-reference to the best of my ability.
And then LOST that document, in the great file catastrophe of… whenever.
There have been a few such catastrophes. Usually when I fail to take my own work seriously.
(In fact, I had a trusted and committed person who used to follow me around, fishing my discarded drafts out of the bin and saving them with excellent organisation in a file. Taking me very seriously!) (I still have that file.)
Over the years I've been in several contexts where the question of Iain McGilchrist's book has been raised, and some in the room have read it, some have aspired to read it, and I've ended up jumping in with an enthusiastic, "Well…!" as if I'm about to be the answer to their prayers. And then remembering the great file catastrophes… and kicking myself again. Anyway, back to the book.
Left and right brain forms of attention.
Right brain constantly scanning the big picture, the panoramic and aerial view.
The left brain looking to categorise and sort and pattern and classify and detail.
(I don't know. I've heard that's been disproved now, or something. You know, I never quite understand how — unless you've read and remembered as much as Rory Stewart — you can speak with authority on anything or take yourself seriously. But…)
So — something about different view points, and necessary distance.
That gets me thinking about Edward Bullough.
Psychical distance. Being far enough from the stage not to jump in with jealousy and intervene during Othello, however good the acting. But not so far away you're back in the car park.
And that gets me thinking about the Holy of Holies.
And that gets me thinking that it's hard to blog and be taken seriously as someone of faith without constantly having to cover one's bases in a hundred directions in order to have the elbow room to actually take it seriously yourself.
I mean, you end up sounding defensive.
But you're defending things simply in order to have the keys to explain why you're taking it seriously, even though you take other things seriously too.
You're asking that others at least consent to hold the premise charitably and with with the right posture with you long enough to listen properly, not defaulting to easy assumptions because you sound defensive — as if you're presenting them with a provocative stance rather than simply adopting a different posture. And that gets me thinking… You see how this works.
Probably my whole McGilchrist translation project was an attempt to help people hear me out longer when I ramble as I do… And maybe that associative thought is what I'm talking about with regard to the faith stuff as well — posture and approaches that feel like distance and withholding but are actually situations balancing co-existent mitigating experiences.
Is that a phrase? I just started stringing words. But they came easily because I was thinking of a man I once knew very well, who used to go bright red when angry and shouted,
THIS IS MURDER!
I'm sure that's what he felt. Not a metaphor wielded lightly, yet not a murderer as such. Only words. No, not just words. But I could picture that man with the same outburst as if he was aged four.
(I wasn't there. My grandmother was.)
So, I'm imagining that little boy with his mother. Celtic temperament, red headed passion, both of them. Even if he didn't have the word 'murder' in his vocabulary, he was reddening with that same rage even way back then. I imagine.
Yet in that circumstance, held back by being four.
Frightened.
Distressed.
Wondering why she didn't understand — that kind of thing. Perhaps.
That's why when much later his own internal fury would burst forth in the phrase THIS IS MURDER I tended to read it with deep compassion.
I saw him holding together a few different experiences at the same time.
Insecurity. Vulnerability. Confusion. Grief.
A bit like in the Song of Solomon.
What?
Yeah, sorry. That took a sudden unexpected turn.
I just mean, this description of love and death that enflames violently even though this passage does not attest to violence being carried out.
...
And mostly I think — these kinds of musings are important. People might waft them away. I have to express them.
Wondering aloud.
Taking it seriously.
