ode to the shit candle

I always find an incredible amount of peace and catharsis after writing- whether it's a post, a letter, in my private journal, creatively, etc. I almost never know what I'm going to write (or sometimes even what I am thinking about) until I am in the middle of writing. I wrote that last post in a moment of clarity during a sea of recent despair... And I can actually say that just getting it out really did change me. I'm not out of the woods yet, of course. But I never seem to feel quite as grim after a 'downer' of a post. It doesn't last forever and I know that. But I'm trying to learn and employ good practices that have that cathartic effects- writing being one. Writing is my shit candle. More on that in a minute.

It has been a long road, much longer than I could ever want or expect to travel along- and it is so hard to keep getting up after the inevitable knockdowns. I know I am allowed to have bad days, which is why I even allow some of my writing to be viewed publicly that expresses hard things. But I am learning so much about who I am, despite and throughout all of the shitty circumstances; and that is worthwhile at least. I started seeing a new therapist closer to home and it's going pretty well so far, though it's only been three weeks. Therapy takes a long time too.

Right now I'm trying to focus -again and again and again ahh- on getting healthy, and especially emotionally because I don't think I can make much progress physically without a mental state to support it. 

When I studied abroad I had a professor who oversaw one of my more difficult projects- I was reading and writing a paper on a particularly arduous book called I and Thou by the philosopher/theologian/Jewish mystic Martin Buber (whom I deeply respect and admire) and I had hit an absolute solid wall on being able to parse through the meaning of his words. The book is translated from German and apparently even German-speakers have loads of trouble with it! (Glad I chose one of the more abstractly grueling books for my project...) 

Anyway, one night of particular dismay, I knocked on my professor's office door. Before I proceed, I just want to give you a background picture: we were at the top of a mountain in an old logging community in Oregon, 45 min away from civilization. We read. A lot. Sometimes I read for 8 hours or more a day. Philosophy and social criticisms, poetry and prose, and on and on amen. I had practically sworn off reading for the next decade by the end of those four months... (We wrote a lot too, and I do credit this semester as one of the turning points as a writer.) We had electricity and running water but not much else. My professor's office was a tiny closet of a room in one of the old buildings on the top floor: slanted ceilings and everything. There was one tiny window, makeshift shelves full of books EVERYWHERE lining the ceilings and floors in every direction, along with papers, notes, pencils, scientific paraphernalia in various states of being taken apart, and fly fishing lures littering the entire place. Somehow he knew where everything was though...one of those guys.

I was probably on the verge of tears because I had been trying to dissect this book for hours with absolutely no progress whatsoever, and the deadline for the paper was fast approaching. He talked to me for awhile about Buber- told me that bit about his German philosopher friends who struggled with the original text, and how there are two types of philosophers: some who meticulously plan out their thoughts and use extensive rhetoric to back up their reasoning, and write lots of responses and variations based upon criticisms and challenges from other thinkers. And then there are others (like Buber) who, and I quote: "just shit a brick and spend the rest of their lives trying to understand it." (That's a direct quote. I remember this conversation clearly even though it was over 5 years ago now) 

He also told me about the "shit candle". Here's how it works: it's a candle, usually black (any candle will work, really. But black gets at the sentiment much better, haha). You ceremoniously light the shit candle when you have metaphorically hit a wall. You sit next to it and watch it burn for a while, allowing your anxiety to burn away with it, letting the candle represent all your negative thoughts about yourself, your situation, whatever. It's looking at that candle and saying, "Yep, things are shitty, and I'm letting you [the candle] represent the shitty." And then the shitty begins to feel much smaller and less invasive. And when you feel it is time, you can start again. 

So I went back to my wood stove cabin, lit a shit candle, and sat with it diligently and, I guess, meditated for a while. It forced me to take a break from my work--and from listening to the voices in my head who were telling me that I was an idiot numbskull with no potential for anything. 

Eventually I picked up the book again (it was probably the next day, many hours later) and miraculously, I could move forward. Words that had been nonsense yesterday were suddenly making sense. The shit candle worked. 

Philosophy is like that: it's a state of mind that takes practice to maintain. Another transformative professor of mine in undergrad philosophy once told me how much practice it takes to be in that state of mind. At first it may only be 10 minutes you get a grip on it, then like slipping out of orbit you jettison off into deep space with nothing tethering you to what you were trying to understand. But with time and practice, you can start to hold onto that state of mind longer and longer. 

I think that mindfulness is also a state that takes enormous practice to uphold. But I also believe that it is important to bring mindfulness to all areas of life- especially when considering ourselves and our failures or shortcomings. Even if it's totally messy. To arrive at a place where we're able to admit we need the shit candle, then to light it, then to take a step away from whatever it was that caused the anxiety or self-doubt; "the wall": so we can see it with fresh eyes, and approach it with kindness. It really does help to have a physical thing sitting in front of you to take the place of the shitty. Part of being human I guess, we like self-evident tangible things.

So, writing is my shit candle. It cleans me out a little bit more every time. It's the place where I find out the most about my inner life; what I'm subconsciously saying to myself, causing myself to feel, or processing in a deeper way than I had previously understood. I do also still light a real shit candle once in a while.

I hope 2016 holds a bright light for all of us. With so many things wrong in the world it's hard to keep the chin up. Bad things happen and happen, and to good people. But I hope that even on those bad days we can remember there's a candle burning somewhere, or remember to light one ourselves. Even if it is a shit candle.