Soul Polish
The anatomy of feeling dumb.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky. It’s five years after your creation, and you’re reciting nursery rhymes because the adults want you to form your words. You start thinking, perseverating, on why these lyrics strike a chord. They make you feel something. You’re too young to know the difference between an immense burst of energy and intellect, but you have been taught that intelligent choices produce great boosts of emotion. Whenever you learn, you create a scene, a vision in your head. It expands your universe. This is why playtime is so important. You’re setting a stage. Playtime of the imagination is building a recess in your mind. As you explore, a new piece on the map is unlocked. A new place with many shiny new toys, all of which make you emote with glee. So you discover a tool inside a nursery rhyme. It isn’t supposed to look like a tool. It’s supposed to feel engaging, fun, because you’re too docile to understand the larger purpose of why you’re singing it. It’s supposed to be a toy for you, but it’s not. So you form a relationship with your intelligence through dopamine hits and cortisol rides… a roller coaster that gets rougher each year.
When you’re a child, the world is shinier, because discovery is constant. You’re told you’re born to find these beautiful toys. Your purpose is contemplation, understanding meaning. You’re tested on context. The scores tell you that you’re a twinkling little star. You’ll change the world, quietly and brightly. So you wait for when your skills become useful to others. You get a prize when they do. The waiting gets a little disappointing, because you never seem to receive that supportive feedback like you did when you first communicated clear comprehension. Instead, you’re left with some sort of wisdom that doesn’t make sense with the rest of your life. How do you apply your understanding of the tools shaping your mind? What is the value in identifying a message that even your instructors might overlook? You want to be loyal to the prize, but deep down, you know it’s impossible.
It’s been five long years since you were told you were destined for greatness in literature. During that time, you swore an oath to protect the integrity of context. Many stories didn’t feel worth the effort, the energy, the ego taming required to understand them. What’s the intention? What is the publishing company really saying? Is the prize just an exercise in consuming lies for another hit of moral superiority? Another illusion of intelligence? Reading isn’t fun when you have an addiction to understanding. Big surprise, snorting philosophical conundrums makes you look weak, or worse, dumb. So you fake it. You exude a false trust for the process of your potential prosperity. You lie to yourself about a love for learning while settling for books that never actually challenge you. You’re not really reading, you’re imagining how much better your life will be once everyone else feels how smart you think you are.
Then you find a book you actually relate to and realize that, despite your precocity, you’re the type who would never have found the wardrobe to Narnia. You’ve become jaded and too resistant to discovery in both reality and in your own imagination. Like many books, it questions your intelligence, but this time you override the insecurity. By some miracle, you trust the message. Despite feeling stupid about it, you still can’t wait to read the next chapter, because this must be what true learning is like. It’s not carrot nor stick. It’s reconnecting with a wisdom said before your time, and in return, it polishes your soul. And at last, you find the shiniest toy of all.
You are so tapped in my friend and we are the beneficiaries of it. My favorite piece of yours yet
I'm so glad I listened to this. It really, really spoke to me. Thank you so much !