Wisdom Through Experience

In order to achieve wisdom, I believe it is necessary to be as fully open as possible to our experiences–those that occur outside of us, as well as those which occur on the inside. It is from these experiences that we can learn and grow. There is a delightful message at the entrance to the main terminal at New York’s JFK airport, which I believe was written by the philosopher Santayana. It reads something like this: "He who cannot learn from history is condemned to repeat it." How true that is! But I have noticed that some people seem to learn a great deal from their history and experiences, and others seem to learn nothing at all. I believe it is because some people create a wall around themselves, which keeps a lot of their outer experience from reaching deep inside. They have never learned how to be touched by the world around them, or that it is safe and beneficial to do so. They grow older, but their inner life retains the horror and threat of a small child’s nightmares. It is sad, and so self limiting, because the full potential of such people can never be realized and shared with the world. Most of my patients over the years have fit that description, and I recall how hard it was to get them to open up and reveal themselves, even to themselves, much less to others. When they did, it was so gratifying to have them realize that there really were no demons, no horrors that could not be faced and dealt with. Yes, sometimes there were unpleasant, and even potentially dangerous tendencies, and we had to develop ways of containing them, and keep them from interfering with otherwise good and productive lives. But there was nothing so terrible that it had to be denied or destroyed. Realizing this, there was for most of these people an almost audible sigh of relief.

The very earliest fully formed memory that I have is also the one I hold most precious. It happened when I was very young--I can’t remember what age I was–but my father was holding me in his arms. There was a rather strong thunder storm going on. I was raised in a family surrounded by my mother, older sister and widowed grandmother, along with my father, who worked long hours at night and had to sleep most of the day. My time with him was limited, and I sometimes wouldn’t see him for days at a time. My grandmother was raised at the turn of the past century, in a culture that fostered a bit of what we now call hysteria. I can remember her telling me that her own mother used to faint when frightened of something. Grandma spent a lot of time with me–it seemed that she and I were the two family members with the most free time. She also had the peculiar habit of running and hiding in the basement during thunder storms.

As this particular storm began our family was just leaving the dinner table. Mention was made of how loud the sudden bursts of thunder seemed, and the need to check the windows. Grandma made her hasty retreat into the basement, to look after things. My father picked me up and carried me out to the front porch, and checked the many windows to make sure they were closed. I suppose I made some response to a sudden flash of lightning, or clap of thunder, and he held me a little closer and stood with me in front of the closed window. I remember feeling very protected, but very terrified, at the same time. In a calm voice he explained that thunder storms occur in the summer, when the hot air outside rises high into the cold upper sky, and the dramatic change causes a lot of turbulence. This turbulence causes static electricity, and makes a big flash of lightening, which suddenly heats the air and causes a loud thunder clap. He taught me to watch for the flash of lightening and then count slowly until the sound of the thunder, to see how far away the flash was. He said it wasn’t really very dangerous, but that you had to know the right things to do, like staying inside, away from open windows. If you got caught outside, it was best to stay low to the ground in a protected area, but not under a tree, because they attract lightning to them. He held me there for several minutes, watching the storm, speaking calmly.

I know now that he was trying to teach me things to help me survive in this world. To survive thunderstorms, yes, but more generally to survive all the storms of life. He seemed to be saying that there are few things so terrible that one should run and hide in the basement–that even the worst and most frightening things could be understood, and dealt with, and that this understanding could help us through life with effectiveness and grace. I have come a long way from that summer evening about 60 years ago. I have read many books, listened to many lectures, and discussed things with some very smart people. But I suppose I have never learned anything so profound or so useful as what I learned that night in my father’s arms. I never had the chance to tell him how valuable his lesson was, or how much I cherish that memory. It took me a long time to put it all together, and by that time the chances were all gone. The chances we have to tell important people in our lives how much they matter to us are very brief, and quickly pass. Perhaps he knew how important it was long before I did.