A lot of literary critics like to skewer Shakespeare's character Polonius, but some of the advice Polonius dished out in Hamlet was good. How can you NOT be true to your "own self"? You are who you are. I suppose you can try to deny your "own self," an endeavor normally doomed to failure, as I realized last night while watching Nebraska Public Television.
I saw part of the American Masters installment about Willa Cather. I was struck by two things: (1) the driving force of her entire life was to get away from Nebraska; (2) she is the quintessential Nebraskan. It is said her desperation to get away was because she did not want to be buried in a farm field . . . yet no other writer limned the experience of rural Nebraska farm life, especially for immigrant families, as well as she did. My Antonia seared my soul when I first read it, and its frequently hopeless and bleak depiction of nineteenth-century life on the Great Plains haunts me to this day. [Yes, I remember the tragic aspects of the book more than the happy ones.--Ed.]
I understand why Cather felt she had to get out or suffocate. And yet, for myself, I also love that fierce attachment to the land that permeates her work, almost despite herself. The irony is that the more Cather tried to escape, the more she revealed her unbreakable connections to the place she grew up.
That got me to thinking about the varieties of experience humans can have. I know many who, like Cather, grew up in one place, got as far away as possible as fast as possible, and who never looked back. I rejoice in their energy, their drive, their curiosity. I mourn for their rejection of what made them. For, also like Cather, the harder they try to get away, the more they reveal the childhood-shaped aspects of their character.
There are also some who stay close to the place they were born for their entire lives. I rejoice in their serenity. I mourn their insularity. They are happy; they are safe; they are mostly incapable of coping with the larger world.
There are those who grew up as vagabonds (all military "brats," myself included, fall into this category) and who have been unable to settle ever since. I rejoice in their breadth of experience. I mourn their lack of stability.
There are those who grew up as vagabonds but who found a home later in life and settled there (my own exact circumstances). I rejoice again in their breadth of experience, for surely that knowledge imparts wisdom. [If you let it, that is.--Ed.] I also rejoice that they have found a home, a place to be grounded. However, I mourn their shrinking horizons, especially when financial or health difficulties contribute to those limitations.
Happiest must be those who can balance their needs for both a real home and mind-expanding travel. I rejoice in their good fortune for finding the best of all possible worlds. [Candide, are you listening?--Ed.]
I confess that I do not at all miss having to move, despite its several benefits: it makes one clean out one's possessions on a regular basis; it, by giving long-term exposure to different parts of the world, offers deeper understanding of those whose attitudes differ from one's own; likewise, it offers a greater appreciation of and desire for preserving diversity in the world.
Luckily, travel offers the same benefits without the many headaches of an actual move. You get the same experiences, even if not quite to the same depth. And you don't have to pack and unpack all your worldly goods every other year. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, in Ozymandius, noted the egotist's perceived benefits of travel: "I am a part of all I have met." That line always struck me as more than arrogant. In my own case, "all I have met is a part of me." Thank goodness for the Internet, which lets me continue to travel, even if only in virtual space and time.
No matter what one's experiences have been, the trick in any life is to find balance. The values learned as a child can shape the interpretation of later experiences, but they should not be allowed to negate or overwhelm those experiences. For instance, if your family was intolerant of other religions, your experiences can teach you that such intolerance is wrong--as long as you are open to the lessons experiences offer. Yes, new experiences can teach you a great deal. If you constantly crave new experiences (mostly because you feel your childhood was totally drab and awful), on the other hand, you are not grounded. ADHD is no way to live a life.
As with diet, as with exercise, as with every other aspect of life, moderation in all things seems to be the most effective approach. No matter how anyone tries to trick it out or glam it up, the oldest, simplest advice is the best. Moderation and balance. However, the best balance is not struck by parking square in the middle of everything. Sometimes that's just not possible. So it is OK to compensate for a lack of physical health with an excessive sense of humor. It is OK to compensate for a lack of material wealth with an excess of, say, library usage. Mental travel on the cheap is far superior to no travel at all.
But never, ever try to run away from or deny who you are. You can change and improve who you are, but your roots are your roots. Acknowledging them will at once ground you and give you the knowledge to rise above their limitations. Only in trying to deny them do you risk losing your real self. Why else do you think the standard advice to writers (like Cather) is to "write what you know"?
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