Pop 89: Together
By Madonna Hamel
There is a saying in recovery: “You can’t do this for me, but I can’t do it alone.” We heal, we grow, we learn together. To walk into a room and admit to others that we have a problem with drinking, eating, working, obsessing over others is to drop the “I’ve got this” pretence, an attitude that says: Going it alone may be tough, but it’s what tough guys are made of.
The image of the rugged cowboy or the moody, misunderstood genius is alluring, but it’s a hard act to maintain if you spend too much time around people. When you keep to yourself you may not have everything under control, but at least you can create the illusion of it.
Then, suddenly you’re an old fart singing “beer is good, God is great and people are crazy” in some bar at the edge of town. Deluded enough to think you’re some kind of barstool philosopher, you explain the world to anyone who’d listen. Or maybe you just grow into an old cynic who can’t be bothered with stupid people—among whom you obviously don’t count yourself.
When I was in university I read the existentialists, believing it was the mature, brave way to look at the world. But I soon concluded that writers like Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre were less clear-eyed realists than failed idealists. “Hell is other people,” wrote Sartre. “Oh yeah?” I scribbled in my notebook, “well, you ain’t exactly a picnic.”
It occurred to me that the existentialist “no exit” despair was just another coward’s way of opting out of the human struggle, of not participating in life with fellow human beings. It’s a way of trying to dodge suffering, and in so doing, missing out on wonder, too.
Still. Personally, I don’t always want to play well with others. And by that, I don’t mean I want a rumble. I mean, I’d like to avoid the whole mess. I want to wander off into the wild and not come back. At least, that was my intention when I moved to Val Marie and the Grasslands eleven years ago. But, once my village didn’t conform to my rose-coloured romanticizations of what a village should be—hence, missing out on what it was: a history of farm and ranch life, a life connected intimately and daily to nature—I just wanted to be left alone to develop my spiritual sensibility. I wanted to do what the mystics advised every spiritual seeker: empty myself completely. Live in peace and quiet.
But even cloistered nuns and monks live together. They have to share meals and chores and space and time. They commune at communion, congregate at sacraments, gather in prayer. They live in close quarters with “Others.” Others are how we refine our souls. Others force us to mature. How else do we evolve—psychologically, spiritually, culturally, socially—if not in the presence of others? How else would we know if we’re patient people, if no one is there to test us? Without others there’s no need to grow, change, evolve. Great.
Others. We need Others. Annoying, frustrating, infuriating Others. Delightful, amusing, enlightening, challenging Others. Bothersome, irritating, sweet Others. Others: those people who were born into the same world as us and deserve love, patience, time, and attention as much as we do. Others, who, when we have to co-operate with them, slow us down, force us to listen to their own ideas as to how things should be, or could be, done, seen, repaired, loved. Others. Who encourage us, inspire us, but who also discourage and distract us from our goals and dreams. Who lie to us and about us. Who deny lying because they don’t even know they are lying.
Our immature resentment at having to share time, space, energy, and attention with Others is, in a strange way, a response to loneliness—a new form of loneliness borne from spending too much time online. Online we isolate ourselves. Our ego takes over—promising centre stage in every activity. On social media we make ourselves celebrities, even gods. No event or experience is complete or even legitimate without a record of our presence. The ubiquitous selfie requires others, but only in a superficial way—as our audience. To compliment and admire us. And maybe even be jealous of us.
This is not togetherness. This is not fellowship. This is not belonging. It’s existentialism, again. With wifi and high-speed internet and instant posting on social media, we’re hyper-connected like never before. We’re crawling up and down, creeping in and out of the world-wide web. We’re one big global village. We should feel connected with each other, we’re told.
But the internet is not a village. The predicted “global village” is more like a global city. A real village means we know each other. And yes, some days we gossip about each other. We know each other’s business, joys, and losses. But also, as in my village: we gather together in the cold before the cenotaph every November. We are all on call to make sandwiches for a funeral. We volunteer at the canteen for rodeos and bonspiels. We sit around campfires.
Real connectedness is physical. It’s embodied. Incarnate. It’s the press of creaturely flesh, stomping your feet in the cold, swimming at the dam in the heat. It’s dead-tired on your feet after a herding. It’s a hug. A handshake. A basket of buns passed around the table. You can’t suddenly make people disappear by ending a Zoom meeting. You have to get along. With Others. With everyone. As Pope Francis exclaimed: “Todas! Todas! Todas!” Everyone, everyone, everyone. There’s room for everyone—or we must reshape the world to make it so. We all belong. That’s why we do this together.
As for Sartre’s famous remark about other people? It turns out, at 71, after reflecting on his personal life, he rephrased it to: “Heaven is each other.”