Some of the things I’ve written recently have been very negative. Most of the things. Living alone and listening to two hours of news a day ferments a pitch of negativity that, if left unchecked, would fester and develop into sores. It needs an outlet – it needs lancing. Normally it’d be her indoors who’d get an earful, but she’s currently displaced. You’ve been my displaced partner, you guys. You’re welcome!
But like any displaced partner you don’t just want to hear me whinge when I get home, so I thought I’d try to say something positive about what is good. It’s harder and scarier than saying something negative, but taking risks is the whole point of being in a relationship isn’t it. Isn’t it?
Anyway, I was also impelled to write this by seeing a therapist again. I’m seeing a therapist again you guys! Not because I’m in a particularly bad state at present – I’m cool – but because the times in my life that I’ve seen a therapist are times in which I’ve lived better and more intensely. I’d not want to see a therapist all the time because, well, money. And shame/self-respect. But therapy with the right person at the right time is ace. The right person at present is a chap who goes in for a bit of the psychosynthesis.
Sounds like some hypno-hippie-hipster pseudo-scientific bullshit right? It’s not, I don’t think. Maybe it is – I don’t know a lot about it (which is one of the reasons I like it), but I do know that, unlike most flavours of therapy, psychosynthesis seems pretty agnostic in its view of the person. Instead of trying to benevolently manipulate the client into agreement with their true state, it encourages them to make sense of themselves, often through a series of internal characters called subpersonalities or voices. These might be the much-maligned inner child who Freud was so interested in fiddling with, or they may be character-traits which emerge in certain situations, or relationship roles, or imagined future selves, or whatever. Unlike many of the other flavours of therapy there’s no prefigured plan about which voices each person should have. It’s creative and exciting and scary, and allows you – sorry, me – to explore and create with a sense of freedom and playfulness, instead of a fixation on uncovering underlying causes (psychoanalysis), becoming more pro-social (CBT, TA, other acronyms) or on polishing a turd (person-centred).
One of the things that has emerged for me in the course of therapy is the difference between those of my internal voices that speak from a place of feast, and those which speak from a place of famine [I think this distinction comes from the book ‘The Gift‘, by Lewis Hyde, but I’m not sure]. Engaging with them has been fascinating personally, but has also thrown an interesting light on public life – especially on those aspects which make me so angry and negative.
The voices which speak from a place of famine are those concerned with conservation, preservation and safety. They’re voices dominated by the past and the future: they have learnt the hard way and don’t won’t be bitten twice. They stockpile like a prepper, and are just about as likeable. They’re the voices which whine and wheedle: “Are you sure you’ve got enough strength for that?” or “What if you let him down – it’d be awful to promise something you couldn’t follow through on,” or “You need to be sure you’ve got this right, why don’t you check it again; much better you find the error before anyone else has the chance. In fact, it’s probably better no-one gets to see this at all”.
The voices of famine are afraid of overcommitting and will only take the most calculated and justifiable of risks. They don’t trust themselves very far, and they trust others even less: everything external will potentially let them down, so they seek to gather as much as possible inside themselves, and cut off from anything which can’t be consumed or controlled. And if the world must be engaged with, then it should be engaged with on the safest possible terms: scepticism, atomism, and safety-in-numbers-evidence.
The voices which speak from a place of feasting are – in me – rarer, but they are vital. They are enthusiastic, generous and profligate; they spend and give and trust recklessly in both themselves and the world. They speak from a place of strength but also vulnerability: in their confidence they expose themselves, consuming and enjoying and thereby making themselves less prepared. The feast can be enjoyed only because the past has been forgotten (ignored) and because the future is a place of hope and trust rather than fear. These voices sing “Expand, make connections with others; they won’t let you down,” and “Make yourself vulnerable: you’ll be held”, and “Believe, why not? You can change later.”
Voices which speak from a place of feast seek to expand, but not in order to control or make safe: their aim is to experience, now, what is good and to experience more of it. These voices are happy with science and evidence, but are not constrained by it as they have faith in something better, and are not tied to the past. They make sense of the world by immediate judgements rather than reasoned argument – aesthetics and virtue predominate: ‘how does it taste’ rather than ‘how many calories’; ‘is it the right thing to do’ rather than ‘can I get away with it’; ‘how am I moved’ rather than ‘what does my friend think’.
What has this got to do with the news and stuff?
The more I’ve got angry about the flacid paucity of public debate about, for example, the EU referendum, academies, tax prickery, etc., the clearer it has become to me that the only voices with which we permit ourselves to speak, in public, are voices of famine.
Take, for example, the queen of the sciences – the voice to which all other voices much defer, in contemporary debate – economics. Economics is the voice of famine in its purest form: it posits nothing outside of itself, and aims to control by understanding. Anything which exists outside of economics is either irrelevant or reduced to itself. In the EU referendum debate, for example, all of the argument on both sides have been economic-based. No feast voice has been confident enough to stand up with an alternative. Can you imagine a pro-EU politician saying, as I believe they should:”the economic arguments are irrelevant: what matters is something bigger – a principle of shared humanity and generosity. The fact that we’re giving 151 million pounds or whatever a week to nations who are poorer than us is a good thing. We should be giving more”. It just wouldn’t happen.
And this is part of the power of the famine voices – both on a personal and political level – they’re inherently reasonable, and they’re right. You shouldn’t take a risk; there’s nothing to justify it. Because they are, by definition, reasonable and based on the best evidence, they cannot but win if engaged with on their own terms. Even when proved to be absolutely useless, they still win out. It hasn’t gone uncommented upon that very few economists predicted the whole global financial schermozzle, but public debate is dominated now more than ever by the economist. Just like someone suffering from OCD, we may not like the tools we have which keep us safe, and they may limit our lives severely, but they’re the only safety we know.
Similarly, if you listen to people in the 50s talk about their hopes for the future, they talk about 3-day-weeks and enjoying the present tense of leisure time and exploration and creativity and relaxation. Instead (and despite living in a much much much much safer world) we’ve put all our faith in a way of life which, broadly, makes us unhappy. But at least it’s safe.
The same can be seen in education
Read any education research from the 70s and you’ll find all kinds of idealism and hopefulness. You’ll find both sides of the educational divide framing their beliefs in terms of what society is for, and what counts as good or right. You’ll find people opining that as we become technically more adept at teaching and understand more about the brain, we’ll make space within education for all of the richness of human interaction and growth and creativity.
Look to current debates and you’ll find something else. Take, for example, the recent arguments over compulsory academisation. The main argument put up by the unions and the labours was evidential and economic. They argued, erroneously, that the evidence suggested that academisation made for worse results and that they would cost more than LA-run schools. They disagree about the working-out of the sums, but fundamentally they agree. Fundamentally they agree that what matters in education the speed at which a pre-defined skill can be learnt and demonstrated (parroted, or aped, depending on your jungle-based-animal-analogy of choice). They value the present purely on the basis of what it will be in the future: the child’s current experience is relevant only in terms of impact on future life. Sometimes this future-valuation is seen by good people as a bad thing, as when education is reduced to creating economy-fodder. Good people rightly baulk at the contention that experience x is good if and only if it will have a long term positive effect on employability. But good people also use this method of future-evaluation because they don’t know any other: for example, when early education is judged in terms of later mental-health or exam results.
In both cases both sides agree that the child’s experience of education is never to be valued on its own terms: its value is purely extrinsic, and situated in the future. Both sides speak with a voice stuck firmly in a place of fear and famine. Both sides speak with a voice that does not trust, and can not enjoy or value what is happening right now. A voice which is scared of global racers and technologies and tiger economies and Finland.
What else might they have argued? Well, in these times it is hard to think of an argument which isn’t about efficiency and fear, and still harder to make that kind of feast-argument stand up against the famine-status-quo. These kind of arguments just sound silly because they don’t play into the publicly-sanctioned language of debate. They might have said, for example, that even though ‘evidence’ suggests that method x gets better educational outcomes, method y is more humane, and feels more respectful. Ultimately I would argue that those of us who have worked with young children know, from those children, what is right better than those who watch from outside the relationship. We have been told.
Ultimately, though, I think argument is the wrong way to think about this. Arguing and debate are themselves modes of interaction which come out of famine: they are concerned with correctly organising what we already have rather than creating something better; discovering something new. Instead we ought to look to areas of life where the feast voices are established and undimmed. And chief amongst them is the home. The way we approach education is the complete inverse of the way that we parent (so long as we’re not hot-housing leopards or whatever). When we parent we delight in the moment, valuing the child intrinsically for what they are, trusting that they will grow and develop (without drawing the logical conclusion that, as a child is not yet as developed as they will become, they are therefore inferior and deficient). We are hopeful and confident and so instil hope and courage and boldness and creativity.
One part of the education system in which a more trusting, creative voice still holds some sway is in the Early Years (0-5). Why? Largely because, and excuse the sexism here, the Early Years has always been dominated by women, and sees education as a natural growth from care and parenting, rather than something which needs to be imposed to address a deficit. But even here the voices which speak from a place of joy and delight and feast are being drowned out by the famine voices of whitehall and ofsted and fearful parents.
Now, I’m not saying that we should all become hippies and just love one another. The feast and the famine each have their place. Feast voices can lead to the kind of excesses seen in Weimar Germany or Chelsea. Your man Nietzsche was all about the feast: he wrote about how the strong can afford to forget because they’re strong and can turn any situation to their advantage by dancing or raping or climbing golden trellaces, or whatever else his blonde beasts got up to. But we’re not Nietzsche – the voices of famine are vital to living well with each other and staying safe and learning. Vital. But they’re not everything, and it’s these famine voices that dominate the public sphere at the moment. In private life it’s different: in spheres where the influence has traditionally been more female we find more of the voices of feast: child rearing, care, friendship. But in public life we’re afraid to take a risk and argue (or sing, shout, whatever) passionately and creatively for anything, especially when a famine voice of science, evidence, economics, or plain old fear stands opposite us.
My own voices are often in a similar (im)balance: the conservative voices win out through their exercise of fear, while the creative, vulnerable, trusting voices cower and fester. My problem is that all of those feast voices need to be heard, and if they’re not allowed a positive space they’ll emerge in potentially harmful and destructive ways. The parallel with public life is clear, as bozos like BoJo and Hitler come to fill the space vacated by good people saying interesting, creative, hopeful things. Scums like Farrage and Trump speak to our need to believe in something bigger than just getting by, but these are feast voices which have gone off, badly, and become parodies of themselves. They inspire a belief in something bigger than fear when they are, in fact, governed by precisely the same fear as the famine voices on the other side. If a quieter, more vulnerable voice emerges which offers an alternative, creative way to be in public life, they’re drowned out by the bullshit and sink without trace. A case in point: Gordon Browns.
Remember Gordon Browns?
No, probably not. It’s hard to look back on his premiership without the taint of the narrative he’s since been crowbarred into, but at the time he took power, he offered something new and, to me anyway, exciting: a moral compass. His first 100 days were charcaterised by quiet and principled good leadership. Although he was all about the moneys, he often eschewed arguments from economics, and spoke instead about bigger ideas of right and wrong. It was good. But he sank. He sank because he listened to the famine voices of well-intentioned but spineless advisors who told him to apologise to a bigot whom he had accurately characterised as a bigot. Instead of taking his serious job seriously, he succumbed to stupid advice and tried, excruciatingly, to smile.
What he offered in those early days was an alternative to the narrative of politics as mere application of evidence: his moral compass was such that it privileged what was right over what is reasonable, or rational (in an economic sense). He reached beyond the past and the fear of the future into something bigger. Because he didn’t couple this with a smiling gonk-face, and lost his nerve when he needed to stick to it (against all reasonable advice), he was hounded out by a hostile press who couldn’t understand what he offered and preferred the cleaner narrative lines of economics, bacon sandwiches, and smiling faces. The same will probably be true of the Corbyn, who also makes no sense to the voices of famine, and is insecure and timid when faced by their reasonableness.
Ugh, this has been quite the ramble. I find it harder to marshal and organise my thoughts into clear arguments when trying to be positive. But perhaps that is part of the problem with positive feast voices altogether. They speak from a place of insecurity and confidence. They’re mixed up. They’re paradoxical and unreasonable. They can be picked apart with analysis and critique. They’re wrong. But they’re also important beyond measure as, without them, we are just fitting in and going along and hoping that we don’t get found out. That’s no way to live.