Lately, I have been thinking about vulnerability. Not just physical or emotional, but the unanticipated vulnerability inherent to living fully, to opening oneself to the possibility of horror and hurt and laughing despite it all.
My conscious journey along this path began just over a year ago as I sat by the fireplace in a sturdy, granite hut on the coast of a tiny tidal island in the Inner Hebrides. The wind hummed relentlessly around the stones, forcing conversation to take place a notch louder than I was accustomed. I was sharing this room with Brian, a small, wiry engineer from England who had built an impressive career before abruptly selling everything he owned to move to this community.
Twelve people, in total, live on this island along with countless sheep. Together, they make up the community of Erraid, a spiritual community affiliated with the Findhorn Foundation. I am here as escapist visitor, running from the expectations placed on me by myself and others.
I was the girl who declared her major in her first semester. The first meeting with my advisor involved the questions “where would you like to go to grad school?” and “what would you like to write your thesis on?” Really, that describes 18-year-old me perfectly—sure, determined, solid, steady, a woman with a plan.
And rather inflexible. When I decided that I couldn’t stand the thought of devoting my life to begging for funding for research that may or may not help anyone, I broke. I was lost, scared, and I felt as if I had failed because I no longer had a direction for my life that could be fit neatly into a soundbite. It was terrifying.
Through series of long, serendipitous convolutions I found myself in this state sharing a fire and a cup of tea with Brian every night for a week. Each night he coached me—don’t be rash, but trust your instincts and things will work out. Offer and ask for help liberally because that is what community is for. Each morning, I awoke to communal meditation and more tea, allowing my mind to steep in his words and the timeless spirit of the island. I left, one week later, with a new awareness of my own vulnerability. More importantly, I had begun to accept that vulnerability, even to embrace the possibility contained within.
Wendell Berry wrote “Be joyful / though you have considered all the facts.”
I consider my facts: A degree of questionable utility, a difficult job market, a passion for food and agriculture offering no financial security, a collapsing global ecosystem, a climate teetering on the edge of catastrophic change. These are not happy facts. These facts do not elicit joy.
But I appreciate Berry’s words because they are a reminder that the facts are not the whole story. Particularly as we as a species, ecosystem, or global community move into increasing climatic uncertainty, Berry’s words encourage us to include joyfulness in our toolbox for survival.
Fear, doubt, blame, and all the inflexible emotions we feel as we attempt to insulate ourselves from the possibility our own disappearance don’t get us anywhere. Instead, let us be joyful in the face of our frailty. Let us bend through our world, allowing our vulnerability to open doors we would not have noticed otherwise.