Depths of Hurt: An Intriguing Emotion
At its core, hurt is an emotional response to a perceived loss or violation. This loss can be tangible, such as the loss of a loved one, or intangible, like the loss of respect or love. The perception of this loss is crucial; it’s not the objective situation that determines hurt, but how one interprets and internalizes it. The origins of hurt can be traced back to our earliest human experiences. As infants, we are utterly dependent on others for our survival, leading to a deep-rooted need for attachment and acceptance. This need, while essential for survival, also becomes the breeding ground for hurt. When our expectations of support, love, or acknowledgment are unmet, we experience hurt.
Hurt often manifests differently in personal and professional contexts, yet the underlying mechanics are surprisingly similar. In personal relationships, hurt is often more directly linked to emotional bonds and expectations of love, loyalty, and understanding. In professional settings, while the emotional stakes may seem lower, the hurt can still be profound. It often stems from unmet expectations regarding respect, recognition, or the outcome of our efforts. The statement “don’t take it personally” in professional environments is an acknowledgment of this complexity. It attempts to draw a boundary between the personal self and the professional role. Yet, this separation is often not as clear-cut as it seems. Our professional lives are an extension of our personal selves; the values, aspirations, and efforts we put into our work are deeply personal. Thus, when we face criticism, rejection, or failure at work, it can still impact our personal self-esteem and sense of worth.
The hurt one experiences is often a reflection of internal expectations and self-perception. When others do not meet our expectations, or when we fail to meet our own, we experience a sense of loss. This loss is not just about the external situation but also about our internal narrative. We construct stories about who we are and how the world should respond to us. When reality diverges from these stories, we feel hurt. Understanding hurt requires dissecting the dichotomy between external causes and internal reactions. Is hurt caused by others, or is it self-inflicted? The answer is nuanced. Others can act as triggers, but the actual experience of hurt is an internal process. It is our interpretation of events, filtered through our personal beliefs and past experiences, that generates hurt. human experience. We are beings of desire and expectation, living in a world that is constantly changing and often unpredictable. This disconnect between our desires and reality is a fertile ground for hurt. However, this inevitability doesn’t imply helplessness. It requires a shift from external validation to internal self-acceptance, and from rigid expectations to flexible aspirations. This journey towards resilience is not about becoming indifferent or uncaring, but about cultivating a grounded sense of self that can navigate the ups and downs of life with equanimity.
Developmental psychology, for instance, sheds light on how early experiences shape our vulnerability to hurt. Childhood, where the foundation of our self-esteem and worldviews are formed, significantly influences how we perceive and react to potential hurts in later life. Attachment suggests that our early bonding experiences with caregivers form templates for future relationships. Secure attachments lead to resilience, while insecure attachments can heighten our sensitivity to rejection and loss, predisposing us to deeper hurt.
Hurt also stems from conflicts of human existence – our search for meaning in an indifferent universe, the realization of our freedoms and limitations, and the ultimate confrontation with our mortality. Our self-perception plays a critical role in this process. If we perceive ourselves as capable and deserving, failing to meet expectations can lead to self-criticism and hurt. Conversely, if we see ourselves as unworthy, we may internalize external negative outcomes as confirmations of this belief, perpetuating cycles of hurt and low self-esteem.
Let us take a simple example where you feel hurt due to a longing for more time and attention from a loved one, even though you recognize they are doing their best. At the heart of your experience lies a paradox: you have an expectation (desiring more time and attention) and simultaneously an understanding (knowing your loved one is doing their best). This dichotomy is not just a matter of conflicting thoughts, but a reflection of the complex nature of human needs and empathy. On one hand, your need for time and attention is genuine – a fundamental aspect of human relationships where such connections and affirmations are essential for emotional bonding and fulfillment. On the other hand, your empathetic understanding of your loved one’s circumstances shows a depth of maturity and compassion. Feeling hurt in this context may arise from an unmet need, which is central to your emotional wellbeing. It’s important to recognize that such needs are not just whimsical desires; they are integral to our sense of connection and belonging. When these needs are not fully met, even in the presence of understanding and rationalization, it creates an emotional void, often experienced as hurt. The consequences of this paradox can be profound. When the fear of burdening outweighs the need for communication, individuals might choose to suppress or hide their feelings. This suppression, while it might seem to maintain harmony in the short term, can lead to several negative outcomes like emotional distance, resentment or misunderstanding. However, this need for emotional expression often collides with an equally powerful force – the fear of overburdening others. This fear stems from a place of empathy and concern, where we become acutely aware of the other person’s potential struggles and challenges. It also arises from our own vulnerabilities; the fear of being seen as needy, weak, or burdensome. Moreover, there’s an underlying concern about the dynamics of the relationship itself – the worry that being too open about our troubles or desires might alter the equilibrium of the relationship, potentially leading to conflict, distance, or discomfort.
At the heart of this paradox is our self-concept, the multifaceted perception we hold of ourselves. This self-concept is not static; it is shaped by our experiences, beliefs, and the feedback we receive from our environment. When we consider communicating our innermost thoughts and feelings, we are also negotiating with our self-concept. Are we someone who burdens others? Are we worthy of being heard and understood? These questions reflect deeper insecurities and beliefs about our worthiness and role in our relationships. The fear of being a burden often stems from a vulnerable place in our self-concept, where we doubt our value in the eyes of others. The complexity of this paradox also lies in the dynamic nature of human relationships. Each relationship we form is a unique intersection of personalities, histories, and expectations. In some relationships, there may be an established pattern of one person being the caregiver and the other the receiver. Attempting to reverse or alter these roles by expressing one’s own vulnerabilities can feel disruptive and fraught with uncertainty. There’s also the aspect of reciprocity – the balance of give and take. In healthy relationships, this balance is fluid and flexible, but the fear of disturbing this balance can make the act of communication seem daunting.
Psychologically, this paradox is intersecting with our deepest fears and vulnerabilities. It often triggers core issues related to self-worth, rejection, and abandonment. When we contemplate sharing our burdens, we are not just sharing a specific problem or feeling; we are also, on a deeper level, testing our acceptability and worthiness in the eyes of others. The fear that our vulnerabilities might make us less worthy of love or respect can be a powerful deterrent to open communication…
Dissecting Risk: Risk Reevaluated
To understand risk, one must first examine its intertwined relationship with fear and uncertainty. Fear, in many respects, is a primal instinct, a protective mechanism that has evolved over millennia to ensure our survival. When faced with uncertainty, fear is our brain’s way of signaling possible danger. This fear then transmutes into the perception of risk. If we dissect the concept further, risk is not merely the chance of a negative outcome; it is the variability of all possible outcomes, both positive and negative.
Historically, our ancestors perceived risk in terms of immediate threats to survival. A rustling in the bushes could be a predator; consuming an unknown fruit could be poisonous. The decision to confront or flee from such situations was binary and rooted in the immediate need for survival. Over time, as societies became more complex and the nature of threats more multifaceted, our understanding of risk evolved. It began encompassing not just immediate physical threats but also social, emotional, and existential ones. The risk of rejection, the risk of failure, the risk of lost opportunities – these became the new “predators” lurking in the modern-day bushes. When we probe deeper into the origin of risk, we see that it arises from our innate desire to predict, control, and secure our futures. As sentient beings, we’re acutely aware of the passage of time and the transient nature of life. This awareness engenders a need to anticipate and influence future outcomes. When the outcome of an action or decision is uncertain, the mind perceives a risk.
However, it’s essential to note that risk, in itself, is neutral. It’s our emotional and cognitive responses to it that assign value – labeling it as ‘good’ or ‘bad’. For instance, an entrepreneur might view starting a business in a saturated market as a worthy risk, driven by the thrill of competition and the lure of potential success. Conversely, someone more security-oriented might see the same situation as fraught with unnecessary peril. If one doesn’t fear loss, failure, or the unknown, does risk even exist for them? At a philosophical level, without fear, the concept of risk is indeed defanged. However, even in the absence of fear, the uncertainty of outcomes remains. The fearless individual might not perceive this uncertainty as threatening, but it exists nonetheless. In this context, risk transforms from an emotionally charged concept into a mere statistical or probabilistic one.
Our personal experiences significantly color our perception of risk. Someone who has experienced the turbulent waters of bankruptcy might view financial risks differently than someone who has always experienced financial stability. Similarly, someone who has been burnt in love might perceive emotional risks in relationships more acutely than someone who hasn’t. Our past becomes the lens through which we evaluate future uncertainties. Beyond these factors, there’s also the intriguing interplay between risk and reward. Often, the potential rewards are what entices individuals to take risks in the first place. The entrepreneur might be motivated by the potential success, recognition, and financial gain, while the mountaineer is driven by the allure of conquering a challenging peak and the accompanying sense of accomplishment. This dynamic relationship often acts as the fulcrum on which decisions are balanced, with individuals constantly gauging whether the potential rewards justify the inherent risks.
Our linear experience of time – past, present, and future – makes us unique in the animal kingdom. We’re not just reactive to the present but are perpetually planning, anticipating, and sometimes dreading the future. Risk becomes a manifestation of this temporal consciousness. It embodies our anxieties about the future, our memories of the past, and our actions in the present.
Risk also touches upon the core tenets of freedom and responsibility. The very act of making a choice, knowing that the outcomes are uncertain, underlines the essence of human freedom. Each choice, enveloped in risk, becomes an assertion of our existence. Jean-Paul Sartre, a prominent existential philosopher, believed that we are “condemned to be free.” This freedom carries the weight of responsibility. Every risk we take, every decision we make, anchors us more deeply into the world, creating ripples that affect not only our own lives but also those around us. In this context, risk becomes an embodiment of our existential freedom and the accompanying burdens of our choices.
Risk also invites us to confront the inherent unpredictability and chaos of the universe. Despite our best efforts, life remains fundamentally uncertain. This reality poses profound questions about determinism and free will. If everything is preordained, is there truly any ‘risk’? Yet, the very experience of uncertainty, the palpable tension before a decision’s outcome, seems to argue for the existence of free will, or at least the perception of it. This brings us to the concept of ‘absurdity’, as introduced by Albert Camus. For Camus, life is inherently absurd because humans constantly seek meaning in an indifferent universe. Risk, in many ways, mirrors this absurdity. We seek to calculate, manage, and control risks, attempting to impose order on the inherent chaos of existence. Yet, no matter how meticulous our calculations, the unpredictable can and often does occur.
The human mind is a complex apparatus that thrives on patterns, structures, and predictions. It’s this very nature of our mind that gives birth to the notion of “risk.” Risk, in essence, can be seen as a cognitive construct – a product of our mind’s incessant need to anticipate the future based on past experiences, knowledge, and the limited information at our disposal. Risk as we perceive it, might indeed be an illusion.
Imagine for a moment a world without memory and without the capability to anticipate the future. In such a world, every moment would be lived in its pure immediacy, with no concept of potential loss or gain in future endeavors. In this hypothetical scenario, the concept of “risk” would be non-existent.
Consider the stock market: A trader might perceive a significant risk in buying a particular stock. This perception is rooted in market analysis, past performance of the stock, global economic indicators, and a myriad of other variables. But strip all that away, and the “risk” is essentially a story, a narrative constructed from myriad data points and emotions like fear and greed.
Similarly, the fear of rejection or judgment in social situations, often seen as a social risk, is built upon personal experiences, societal norms, and cultural expectations. But at its core, it’s a self-created narrative – a story we tell ourselves about potential outcomes and their implications for our self-worth. Does this mean risk is entirely subjective? In many ways, yes. While there are objective measurements of risk in certain fields (like insurance or finance), the emotional and psychological experience of risk is deeply subjective.
Yet, this subjectivity doesn’t render the concept of risk meaningless. Even if risk is a construct, it holds tangible power over our actions, decisions, and emotions. The very fact that we can feel fear, anxiety, excitement, or anticipation when faced with uncertainty testifies to the real-world impact of this illusion.
Is harmony defined by us is really harmonious ?
The universe operates on a balance. Dualities like light and dark, joy and sorrow, and so on, are not in contention with each other but rather two sides of the same coin. They provide context and meaning. It’s akin to understanding that one cannot truly appreciate light without having known darkness. Our existence is enigmatic, where a myriad of elements interplay in a vast cosmic dance. Every action, no matter how minute, sends ripples across the fabric of the universe. Such is the interconnectedness and oneness that defines the cosmos. But amidst this vastness, we humans grapple with the age-old questions: Why are we here? Why do we feel disconnected when everything is intrinsically connected? And, why is our life, despite being a part of this vast universe, so often defined by duality?
Consider the universe as an immense symphony, where every entity is like a note, contributing to an eternal, harmonious melody. From the most massive stars to the tiniest organisms, everything is in sync, vibrating in tune with the universe. This sense of harmony is a constant, even if it’s not always immediately apparent. However, the human experience often feels at odds with this cosmic harmony. We frequently perceive life through the lens of duality: good vs. evil, happiness vs. sorrow, success vs. failure. Such bifurcations arise primarily from our mental frameworks, shaped by societal norms, personal experiences, and evolutionary predispositions.
In our evolutionary journey, the human brain developed cognitive systems to categorize, discriminate, and simplify the complex stimuli of the external world, making it digestible and navigable. This cognitive system is a survival tool, enabling us to swiftly identify threats from non-threats, edible food from inedible, and so on. Over time, as societies became more sophisticated, these dualistic mental models began to govern not just our interactions with the environment but also our self-perception, aspirations, and relationships. This dualistic approach further feeds into the illusion of separateness — a feeling that we are distinct from the rest of the universe. Despite being made of stardust and sharing common atomic ancestors with everything around us, we often feel isolated or alienated. Such feelings intensify when we face adversities, leading many to question the harmony and purpose of existence.
Our understanding of freedom is entwined with our perception of duality. True freedom is not just liberation from external constraints but also from internal ones, like prejudices, fears, and limiting beliefs. To break free from the life’s cycle, one needs to reconcile with dualities, recognizing them as constructs rather than inherent truths. As we delve deeper into the framework of existence, we find that duality isn’t inherently detrimental. Instead, it provides contrast, lending depth and dimension to our experiences. Just as the contrasting strokes of a painting give it life and depth, the dualities of our lives add vibrancy and richness to our existence. Without dark, there would be no understanding of light; without sorrow, the true essence of joy would remain unknown.
Much of our attachment to duality stems from societal and cultural conditioning. From childhood, we’re taught to label and categorize experiences: winning is good, losing is bad; happiness is desirable, sadness is not. Over time, these labels solidify into beliefs, shaping our perceptions and reactions. For instance, consider the universally accepted notion of success. Societal metrics of success often revolve around material wealth, social status, and professional achievements. However, if we were to strip away these conditioned beliefs and look at life through an unfiltered lens, we might find that true success lies in inner contentment, meaningful relationships, and personal growth.
Our fixation on the ephemeral aspects of life — fleeting emotions, transient experiences, and temporal possessions — further entrenches us in the duality trap. In the rush of life, we often overlook the eternal — the unchanging, omnipresent essence that underlies all existence. This essence, often referred to in spiritual contexts as the ‘Self’ or ‘Consciousness,’ remains unaffected by the dualities that play out on the surface.
By connecting with this eternal aspect of ourselves, we begin to view dualities with a sense of detachment. They appear as passing clouds against the vast sky of our existence, impactful in the moment but not defining our eternal essence. Aligning with the duality doesn’t mean becoming passive or indifferent. It means engaging with life wholeheartedly, experiencing every emotion, every high and low, but without letting them dictate our inner state. With heightened awareness, we can navigate the complexities of life with grace, recognizing the transient nature of our experiences.
This awareness doesn’t diminish our experiences but rather enriches them. When we embrace both the joys and sorrows of life with equanimity, we live more fully, more authentically. We begin to see challenges as opportunities for growth, failures as lessons, and successes as moments of gratitude.
Our perception of disharmony is influenced by our thoughts, emotions, and our attachments to outcomes. When we find ourselves in situations we didn’t desire or anticipate, our immediate response is resistance. This resistance, this non-acceptance, creates friction – a perceived disharmony.
The journey to non-duality is a continuous process of introspection, reflection, and growth. Various spiritual traditions offer paths to transcend duality: the Yogic tradition advocates for meditation and self-inquiry, Buddhism emphasizes mindfulness and compassion, while Taoism teaches the art of flowing with life, embracing both its yin and yang.
The common thread across these traditions is the idea of returning to one’s true nature — a state of pure consciousness, free from the constraints of duality.
Possessive possessions
As human beings, our relationship with possessions is multi-faceted and complex, steeped in a variety of psychological, sociological, and cultural influences. Why do we cherish and cling to material objects? How do these objects gain such profound significance in our lives that their loss can trigger profound distress?
The roots of possessiveness can be traced back to our earliest stages of development. Attachment theory, proposed by psychologist John Bowlby, suggests that as infants, we form attachments to our caregivers, perceiving them as a source of security. Objects, such as a favourite blanket or toy, can also become “attachment objects,” imbued with emotional significance and seen as sources of comfort and safety.
As we grow older, this tendency to form attachments does not diminish but simply evolves. We begin to assign emotional significance to a wider range of objects: a cherished book, a childhood home, a prized car, an heirloom passed down through generations. These objects are no longer just inanimate items; they become extensions of our identity, symbolic representations of our personal history, achievements, relationships, and aspirations.
These possessions reflect who we are, who we have been, and who we aspire to be. They’re a reflection of our interests, experiences, values, and dreams. A stamp collection is not just a bunch of stamps; it’s a testament to a person’s love for history and travel. A guitar is not just an instrument; it’s an emblem of someone’s passion for music and creativity.
However, our deep emotional attachment to our possessions has a flip side: the fear of losing them. The possibility of someone taking away our prized possessions triggers a fear of losing a part of ourselves, of our identities being eroded. This fear is the seed of possessiveness. We resist anyone interfering with our possessions, seeing such interference as an intrusion into our personal domain, a threat to our sense of self.
Our possessions also offer us a sense of control in a world often marked by uncertainty and unpredictability. In a life full of variables beyond our control, our possessions are something we can manage, organize, and control. This perceived control can offer us comfort, helping us navigate the unpredictability of life.
This dynamic of possession and control extends to our relationships as well. We might view our partners, friends, or family members as ‘ours,’ a part of our identity. In healthy relationships, this feeling manifests as a deep sense of connection and commitment. However, when driven by insecurity or fear of loss, it can devolve into possessiveness, stifling the other person’s freedom and autonomy.
Ironically, the attachment to possessions can create both a sense of fullness and emptiness. Fullness, because these objects can offer comfort, joy, and a sense of identity. Emptiness, because possessions, being impermanent, can be lost, damaged, or taken away. We might also feel empty when we realize that possessions, while they can offer temporary happiness, cannot provide the deep, lasting fulfillment we ultimately seek.
In this journey of understanding possessions, it’s critical to consider another aspect, the societal and cultural influences that shape our attitudes towards ownership and possession. Our societies, through advertising, media, and peer pressure, often promote materialism and the idea that acquiring possessions is a path to happiness and success. We’re constantly bombarded with messages that equate possessions with personal worth and social status. This reinforces our attachment to material objects, making them seem even more essential to our identities and well-being.
Take, for example, the car someone drives. It’s more than just a vehicle for transportation; it’s often seen as a status symbol, an outward sign of wealth and success. We assign value to the person based on the value of their car. This societal norm can significantly reinforce our desire to possess and protect our belongings, linking them directly to our self-worth and societal standing.
However, this attachment can lead us into a cycle of endless striving, where we’re constantly seeking the next thing to acquire, hoping it will bring us the satisfaction we crave. But as we’ve often seen, this satisfaction is usually temporary. The excitement of a new purchase eventually fades, and we’re left seeking the next thing, caught in an endless cycle of desire and dissatisfaction.
This cycle of possession and dissatisfaction is also reflected in our relationships. In an attempt to find security and happiness, we may seek to ‘possess’ people, to make them ‘ours.’ This can manifest in various ways, from the relatively benign (e.g., wanting to spend lots of time with a loved one) to the more harmful (e.g., trying to control a partner’s behavior or friendships).
When we treat people as possessions, we run into two main problems. First, people are autonomous beings with their own desires and needs, not objects to be owned or controlled. Trying to ‘possess’ a person invariably leads to conflict and harm. Second, like with material possessions, the security and happiness we seek in ‘possessing’ others are elusive. People change, relationships end, and the sense of security we hoped to find proves fleeting.
The idea of possession also often extends to the intangible elements of our lives, such as ideas, beliefs, and ideologies. These can also become ‘possessions’ we fiercely cling to and defend. For instance, political, religious, or philosophical beliefs often become integral parts of our identity. Just as with material possessions, we can react negatively if these beliefs are challenged, seeing such challenges as attacks on ourselves.
One reason we attach so deeply to these kinds of possessions is that they help to structure our understanding of the world. They provide a framework that makes sense of our experiences, giving us a sense of control and predictability. Therefore, when these beliefs are threatened, it can feel as though our whole understanding of the world is under threat, triggering a defensive reaction.
However, just as with physical possessions, this attachment can lead to problems. When we’re so deeply invested in a particular belief or ideology, it can close our minds to new ideas and perspectives. We can become rigid and inflexible, unable to adapt to new information or changing circumstances.
This rigidity can also lead to conflict with others who hold different beliefs. When our identities are so tied up with our beliefs, it can be challenging to engage in open, respectful dialogue with those who see the world differently. Instead, we may feel threatened by these differing viewpoints and respond with hostility.
Yet, one might ask, how can we not hold onto beliefs? Aren’t they necessary for making sense of the world? While it’s true that beliefs play a crucial role in our understanding of the world, the problem arises when we cling to them rigidly, refusing to consider alternative viewpoints or update our beliefs in the light of new information.
Just as we can enjoy material possessions without being attached to them, we can hold beliefs without being enslaved by them. This requires a certain level of open-mindedness, a willingness to question our beliefs and consider new ideas. It also requires a level of humility, an acknowledgment that our understanding of the world is always limited and imperfect.
By developing this kind of flexible, open-minded approach to our beliefs, we can avoid much of the conflict and suffering that comes with rigid attachment. We can engage more productively with those who hold different views, seeing these interactions not as threats, but as opportunities for learning and growth.
The concept of possessions, whether tangible or intangible, thus challenges us to reassess our relationship with the world around us. While possessions can provide a sense of security and identity, our attachment to them can also lead to suffering and conflict.
Faith – reality in unseen ?
The concept of faith is one of the most profound yet elusive aspects of human life. Rooted in the intangible and often transcending the bounds of logical reasoning, faith is a powerful force that shapes our worldviews, influences our actions, and gives meaning to our existence. In its most fundamental form, faith is a complete trust or confidence in something or someone. However, the nature and implications of faith are much more nuanced and multifaceted.
Faith operates in various dimensions of our lives, not just in religious or spiritual contexts. We exhibit faith when we trust our loved ones, when we believe in the promise of a better future, when we have confidence in our abilities despite past failures, and even when we participate in social or economic systems. Faith, therefore, is deeply ingrained in our daily lives, influencing our decisions and perceptions, often without us consciously realizing it.
When it comes to faith in things unseen or events yet to happen, the dynamics become even more complex. This kind of faith typically involves a degree of uncertainty and mystery. It requires a leap beyond the confines of empirical evidence and tangible proof. But why do we, as rational beings, place faith in the unseen or the unknown?
Part of the answer lies in our inherent desire for meaning, purpose, and connection. As conscious beings, we yearn to understand the world around us, to make sense of our experiences, and to feel connected to something greater than ourselves. This quest for understanding and connection often leads us into the realm of the unseen, the unproven, the mysterious. It’s in this realm that faith becomes an essential tool.
Moreover, our experiences shape our faith. Experiences of love, compassion, resilience, and transformation can reinforce our faith in positive values, in humanity, or in a higher power. On the other hand, experiences of pain, loss, or injustice might challenge or even shatter our faith. Nevertheless, it’s often in the midst of adversity that faith evolves and deepens, as we grapple with questions of meaning, purpose, and hope.
The role of faith in our lives can be multifarious. For some, faith in a divine entity brings comfort and guidance. It instills hope during trials and tribulations, fosters a sense of community and belonging, and provides a moral framework for life. For others, faith in human potential and progress fuels the pursuit of knowledge, justice, and innovation.
Does faith have anything to do with what has happened and what’s going to happen? Indeed, faith is often interwoven with our perceptions of the past, present, and future. Past experiences can shape our faith, as we learn from our triumphs and failures, joys and sorrows. Our faith, in turn, influences how we navigate the present and envision the future. It can give us the courage to face challenges, the patience to endure hardships, and the inspiration to dream and create.
At the same time, faith is not about predicting the future with certainty. Rather, it’s about embracing uncertainty with hope and resilience. It’s about daring to dream, to strive, and to love, even when the outcomes are unknown. It’s about trusting in the potential for growth, transformation, and transcendence, regardless of our current circumstances or past experiences.
Is faith real? The reality of faith might not be tangible or measurable, but its impact on human life is undeniable. Across cultures and throughout history, faith has inspired art and literature, fueled social movements, shaped civilizations, and transformed individual lives. Its reality is manifested in the courage of those who dare to dream and create, in the resilience of those who endure suffering with hope, and in the love and compassion that transcend boundaries of race, religion, and ideology.
It’s worth noting, however, that faith is not about passive acceptance or blind allegiance. True faith involves questioning, seeking, and growing. It’s a dynamic, evolving journey rather than a fixed destination. It requires humility to acknowledge the unknown, courage to question and explore, and wisdom to discern truth from illusion. While the nature of faith is complex and elusive, its essence can be encapsulated in the timeless words of Martin Luther King Jr.: “Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.”
To deepen our exploration of faith, let’s consider it from various perspectives: philosophical, psychological, sociological, and spiritual.
From a philosophical perspective, faith brings up interesting questions about knowledge and belief. Philosophers have long pondered how we can justify our beliefs or knowledge claims, particularly when they concern the unseen or the unproven. Can faith be considered a form of knowledge? Does it require justification or evidence? Different philosophical traditions offer diverse answers. For instance, the school of pragmatism posits that beliefs (and by extension, faith) can be justified if they yield positive outcomes or experiences.
From a psychological perspective, faith can be viewed as a cognitive and emotional mechanism that helps us navigate uncertainty and complexity. For instance, when we face a difficult decision or an unpredictable situation, faith can provide a sense of direction and confidence. Psychological research has shown that faith (both religious and secular) can contribute to mental well-being, resilience, and prosocial behavior. For instance, faith in one’s abilities (also known as self-efficacy) is a key factor in motivation and achievement.
From a sociological perspective, faith plays a crucial role in social cohesion and collective action. Shared beliefs and values can foster a sense of community and cooperation, enabling societies to function and evolve. For example, faith in democratic values underpins democratic institutions and practices. Moreover, faith can inspire social change. The civil rights movement in the United States, led by figures like Martin Luther King Jr., is a powerful example of faith-driven social activism.
From a spiritual perspective, faith is often associated with the relationship between the human soul and the divine or the transcendent. Faith can manifest as trust in divine providence, commitment to spiritual practices, or aspiration for spiritual growth. For instance, in the Bhagavad Gita, a sacred text of Hinduism, Lord Krishna advises Arjuna to perform his duty with faith and without attachment to the results – a principle known as Karma Yoga.
Let’s consider a few examples that illuminate the multifaceted nature of faith. Imagine a student who is preparing for a challenging exam. Her faith in her abilities motivates her to study diligently. She also has faith in the fairness of the educational system and the value of her chosen field of study. This faith sustains her through the stress and uncertainty of the exam period.
Consider also the example of a social activist. He has faith in the possibility of a more just and sustainable world. This faith fuels his advocacy and activism, despite the challenges and setbacks he might face. He also has faith in the power of collective action and the potential for social change.
Finally, contemplate the faith of a spiritual seeker. She has faith in a higher power and a deeper reality beyond the material world. This faith guides her spiritual practices and informs her life choices. Even in the face of doubt or despair, her faith provides a source of strength and solace.
Let’s consider some more aspects of faith: faith as an act of surrender, faith and reason, faith and doubt, and faith as a dynamic process.
- Faith as an Act of Surrender: In many spiritual traditions, faith is often depicted as a surrender, a relinquishing of the illusion of control. When we face life’s uncertainties, we often try to manipulate outcomes according to our desires. However, faith involves trusting the flow of life, even when it does not conform to our expectations. It’s like floating on the surface of a vast ocean, trusting in its currents to guide us, rather than struggling against them. This concept of surrender is not about inaction or defeat, but about embracing life’s unpredictability and recognizing our limited perspective.
- Faith and Reason: Faith and reason are often viewed as conflicting forces, particularly in the discourse between science and religion. However, they can also be seen as complementary aspects of our human quest for understanding. Reason involves the critical examination of evidence and the logical analysis of ideas. It is indispensable in our pursuit of empirical knowledge and practical wisdom. Faith, on the other hand, steps in where reason reaches its limits. It enables us to navigate the mysteries of existence, to live with uncertainty, and to aspire for ideals that transcend empirical evidence.
- Faith and Doubt: Doubt is often seen as the antithesis of faith, but it can also be an integral part of the journey of faith. Doubt prompts us to question our beliefs, to seek deeper understanding, and to remain open to new insights. A faith that has never been challenged by doubt may be unexamined or dogmatic. As philosopher Paul Tillich put it, “Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is one element of faith.”
- Faith as a Dynamic Process: Faith is not a static state but a dynamic process. It evolves as we encounter new experiences, insights, and challenges. Faith is not about clinging to fixed beliefs, but about cultivating a receptive and resilient spirit. It involves not only trusting in something beyond ourselves but also believing in our capacity to learn, grow, and adapt.
To illustrate these aspects, let’s revisit our previous examples. The student preparing for an exam may experience moments of self-doubt and anxiety. However, she can choose to see these challenges as opportunities for growth rather than threats to her faith in her abilities. By acknowledging her doubts, she can deepen her understanding of herself and her aspirations. By surrendering to the process, she can relieve her anxiety and focus on her effort rather than the outcome.
The social activist might face skepticism or opposition, testing his faith in his cause. But rather than deterring him, these challenges can strengthen his commitment and clarify his vision. His faith is not a blind belief but a conscious choice, informed by his understanding of social issues and his conviction in the power of change.
The spiritual seeker may grapple with profound questions about the divine and the nature of existence. Her faith does not prevent her from questioning or exploring different perspectives. Instead, it serves as a compass in her spiritual quest, guiding her through the vast and often confusing landscape of spiritual wisdom.
These examples underscore the richness and complexity of faith. Rather than a monolithic entity, faith is a kaleidoscope of perspectives, experiences, and choices. It is a multifaceted gem, whose beauty and depth are revealed in the light of our personal and collective journeys.
Anticipatory anxiety in Human Relationships
Human relationships, particularly the relationships we share with those we deeply care about, are characterized by a multitude of emotions, experiences, and dynamics that can often seem paradoxical. One such paradox is the experience of having a rush of things to share with a loved one, only to find ourselves going blank when we finally meet them. This experience can be perplexing, but it is not uncommon.
Firstly, it’s crucial to acknowledge that communication in the context of love is not just about the exchange of words. Love is a deep, complex emotion, and our communication with those we love often extends beyond the verbal. When we meet our loved ones, our subconscious mind, which is a powerful part of our emotional processing system, comes into play. It relishes the presence of the loved one, focusing on the nonverbal cues like their expressions, their body language, the warmth in their eyes, and their overall energy. These subtle signals can trigger an emotional response, which can be so overwhelming that it temporarily clouds our conscious thoughts, leading us to experience the ‘blank’ state.
Secondly, the anticipation of sharing experiences with a loved one can create a psychological phenomenon known as ‘anticipatory anxiety’. Anticipatory anxiety refers to the anxiety that individuals experience in anticipation of an event. In this case, the event is the sharing of experiences with the loved one. This anxiety is not necessarily negative; it could just be the result of the excitement and eagerness of wanting to share and connect. However, it can sometimes lead to over-preparation, where we mentally rehearse the conversation multiple times, creating an information overload. When the actual moment of sharing comes, the overload coupled with the emotional response to being in the presence of the loved one can cause our mind to go blank.
Moreover, the desire to share our experiences with our loved ones stems from our need for connection and validation. We yearn to be seen, to be understood, and to be acknowledged. However, when we are in the presence of a loved one, especially if the love is deep and genuine, their mere presence can provide the connection and validation we seek. This can reduce the urgency of the need to share, leading to a calming effect where our thoughts settle down, and we find ourselves enjoying the moment rather than focusing on narrating our experiences.
Another angle to consider is the dynamics of vulnerability in love. Sharing our experiences, particularly those that are personal or emotionally charged, involves opening up and making ourselves vulnerable. While we may feel comfortable with this level of vulnerability at a conceptual level, the reality of opening up in person may feel more daunting, causing us to retreat into ourselves.
Furthermore, it’s essential to understand the role of ‘presence’ in love. Being ‘present’ is about being fully engaged in the here and now, immersing ourselves in the current moment without being distracted by past memories or future anticipations. When we are with our loved ones, we are often naturally pulled into the present because of the depth of our feelings for them. This state of presence can calm our mind, helping us let go of our preconceived plans to share, and instead, allowing us to just be and enjoy the moment with them.
In the realm of love, relationships, and emotional intimacy, the phenomenon of ‘going blank’ when in the presence of a loved one is multifaceted and deeply linked to our inner selves and our perception of the world around us. The depth and breadth of human emotion, particularly those we experience when we’re in love, are often too vast to put into words. This cognitive-emotional interplay can add another layer of complexity to the ‘going blank’ phenomenon.
Sometimes, the vastness of what we wish to share and the depth of our feelings can be so overwhelming that it becomes difficult to articulate them into coherent thoughts or words. This may be because language, while an effective means of communication, is sometimes limited in expressing the depth and complexity of our inner world. Some feelings, experiences, or ideas may not have exact words to define them, causing a disconnect between our internal state and our ability to express it verbally. This can result in the feeling of being ‘blank’ when we attempt to communicate our experiences to a loved one.
There’s also an element of what psychologist Carl Rogers referred to as ‘unconditional positive regard’. Unconditional positive regard involves showing complete support and acceptance of a person regardless of what they say or do. When we are in the presence of a loved one who provides us with this unconditional positive regard, it can create a deeply comforting and validating environment. This environment can be so emotionally fulfilling that our need to share or discuss our experiences diminishes, as our emotional needs are already being met through the connection itself. This can contribute to the sensation of going ‘blank’ in their presence.
This concept aligns with the Eastern philosophy of ‘being versus doing’. In the hustle and bustle of our daily lives, we are often caught up in a constant state of ‘doing’ – planning, executing, achieving, and communicating. However, when we’re with someone we deeply love and trust, we transition from ‘doing’ to ‘being’. In this state of ‘being’, we are fully present, engaged, and immersed in the moment, not driven by the need to accomplish anything or express everything. This transition can lead to the settling down of our thoughts, contributing to the ‘blank’ state.
The ‘going blank’ phenomenon also has an interesting correlation with the concept of ‘flow’ introduced by positive psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. ‘Flow’ is a state of being completely absorbed in the current activity to the extent that we lose track of time and our surroundings. When we’re with a loved one, especially when the connection is deep and genuine, we can experience a similar state of ‘flow’, where our focus shifts from our thoughts and experiences to the shared moment. This shift can give rise to the feeling of ‘going blank’.
It’s a reminder that sometimes, words are not necessary, and that love and understanding can be conveyed through a mere look, a touch, or shared silence. As the renowned poet Rumi once said, “Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation.” So, when we ‘go blank’, we are not experiencing a lack, but rather a transcendence from the verbal to the non-verbal, from the explicit to the implicit, from ‘doing’ to ‘being’ in love.
Abhishek Fanse 