Humility in response to
an experience of failure, then, is at its core a form of therapy, the beginning
of a healing process. -- Costica Bradatan
Failure
is like the original sin in the biblical narrative: everyone has it. Regardless
of class, caste, race, or gender, we are all born to fail, we practise failure
for as long as we live, and pass it on to others. Just like sin, failure can be
disgraceful, shameful and embarrassing to admit. And did I mention ‘ugly’?
Failure is also ugly – ugly as sin, as they say. For all its universality,
however, failure is under-studied, when not simply neglected. It’s as if even
the idea of looking at failure more closely makes us uneasy; we don’t want to
touch it for fear of contagion.
Studying
failure can be a contorted, Janus-headed exercise, though. With one pair of
eyes we have to look into ourselves (for ‘moral’ or ‘cognitive’ failures, for
failures of ‘judgment’ or ‘memory’), and with another pair we need to dwell on
instances of failure ‘out there’, in the world around us. Fascinating as the
former can be, let me focus here on the latter: the failure we experience in
our dealings with the world.
Picture
yourself in an airliner, at high altitude. One of the plane engines has just
caught fire, the other doesn’t look very well either, and the pilot has to make
an emergency landing. Finding yourself in such a situation can be a shattering,
yet also a revealing experience. First, there are of course the cries, the
tears, the whispered prayers, the loud hysterics. Amid all the wailing and
gnashing of teeth, you cannot think of anything in any detached, rational
fashion. For you have to admit it, you are scared to death, just like everyone
else. Yet the plane lands safely and everybody gets off unharmed. After you’ve
had a chance to pull yourself together, you start thinking a bit more clearly
about what just happened.
That’s
when we might realise, for example, how close we can be sometimes to not being
at all. And also that there is something oppressively materialistic, to an
almost obscene degree, in any ‘brush with death’. Some faulty piece of
equipment – a worn-out part, a loose screw, a leaking pipe, anything – could be
enough to do us in. That’s all it takes. We thus realise that, when we experience
failure, we start seeing the cracks in the fabric of existence, and the
nothingness that stares at us from the other side. Yet even as failure pushes
us towards the margins of existence it gives us the chance to look at
everything – at the world, at ourselves, at what we value most – with fresh
eyes. The failure of things, coming as it does with a certain measure of
existential threat, exposes us for what we are. And what a sight!
From
that unique location – the site of devastation that we’ve become – we
understand that we are no grander than the rest of the world. Indeed, we are
less than most things. The smallest stone we pick up randomly from a riverbed
has long preceded us, and will outlive us. Humans are barely existing entities:
how can we claim privileges? Fundamentally, we are vulnerable, fragile
creatures. And if, unlike the rest of existence, people are endowed with
reason, it is this gift of reason that should lead us to understand how modest
our place in the cosmos actually is.
The
experience of failure, then, ought to inculcate humility. Rather than a virtue
in the narrow sense, humility should be seen, more broadly, as a certain type
of insertion into the world, as a way of life. In The Sovereignty of Good
(1970), Iris Murdoch came up with one of the best, most economical definitions
of humility, which is simply ‘selfless respect for reality’. She thinks that
ordinarily people suffer from a poor adjustment to reality (‘our picture of
ourselves has become too grand’, we have lost ‘the vision of a reality separate
from ourselves’), and it’s one that harms us, above anything else. To reverse
the process, to heal, it helps to learn humility, ‘the most difficult and
central of all virtues’.
I
see three major phases here.
In
a first movement, humility presupposes an acknowledgment of our cosmic
insignificance. This is something as old as philosophising itself; it is what
Yahweh wanted to instill in Job when he asked him: ‘Where were you when I laid
the foundation of the earth?’ and what the Stoics meant when they recommended
‘the view from above’; what Lady Philosophy sought to teach a
terrified-to-death Boethius in his prison cell; or what, more recently, Carl
Sagan popularised so well. Embracing our cosmic insignificance is the
zero-degree of the human existence – lower than this we cannot go. At this
stage, shattered by failure and overwhelmed by the realisation of our
fundamental precariousness, we rightly feel ‘crushed’, ‘flattened’, ‘reduced to
dust’. Humility, thus, places us where we belong; we are brought back to our
naked condition. But this is no small feat: for along with the sense of our own
self-importance, we also manage to get rid of that mix of self-deceiving habits
and self-flattery, which usually keep us hidden from ourselves.
In
a second movement, we realise that, thanks precisely to our being brought ‘to
earth’, we are in fact in a better position because we are finally on firm
ground. We can now stand on our own feet – we’ve undergone a rebirth of sorts. Importantly,
we also realise that there is no degradation at this stage because, by
embracing our cosmic insignificance, we’ve come to be true to ourselves. We may
be poor, but we are frightfully honest – especially with ourselves. And that’s
always the best place to start; wherever we will go from here, it will be
progress and a worthwhile journey. Not to say that there is nothing healthier
and more refreshing, especially for minds all too frequently pulled up in the
air by the force of their own fantasies, than to be drawn back down to earth
once in a while. Hardened dreamers undertaking the mud cure are in for a feast.
The
third movement is expansive: thanks to having lowered an anchor into the world
and regained an existential equilibrium, we can move on to other, bigger
things. The dreams now have the necessary ballast to be dreamt properly. At
this stage, humility is no longer an impediment, but an enhancement to action;
sometimes there is nothing more daring than the act of the humble. In an
important sense, then, humility is the opposite of humiliation: there is
nothing demeaning or inglorious about it; on the contrary, humility is
rejuvenating, enriching, emboldening. If humiliation leaves us paralysed and
powerless, humility empowers us greatly. True humility, wrote the rabbi
Jonathan Sacks, ‘is one of the most expansive and life-enhancing of all
virtues’. What it presupposes is not ‘undervaluing yourself’ but an ‘openness
to life’s grandeur’.
Humility
in response to an experience of failure, then, is at its core a form of
therapy, the beginning of a healing process. Properly digested, failure can be
a medicine against pretentiousness, arrogance and hubris. It can get us cured,
should we care to try it.
Costica Bradatan is associate professor of humanities at Texas Tech
University and honorary research associate professor of philosophy at the
University of Queensland, Australia. He is the author, most recently,
of Dying for Ideas: The Dangerous Lives of the Philosophers (2015), and is currently working on a
new book, In Praise of
Failure, for
Harvard University Press.
Be The Change: Look
back at a time you felt you failed at something, and investigate how much you
learned from the attempt, knowledge that is perhaps very useful to you now. And
next time your reach exceeds your grasp, congratulate yourself on having
reached as far as you could.
Sourced From www.dailygood.org
