𝗧𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗣𝗵𝗮𝘀𝗲𝘀

Transitional phases probably occupy a bigger portion of our lives than we realize. Because they occur “in between” two more or less defined and recognizable chapters or stages in our life, they sometimes appear to have a comparatively amorphous character. We have departed from one station or way of being, but we have not yet arrived at the next one. We are in transit. Sometimes things are so nebulous and half-baked that we fear there may not even be a “next” stage or phase—that we will remain permanently mired in a “batter” or “dough” state.

Persons who, for one reason or another, stubbornly resist change and transformation will generally have a tougher time with these transitional phases, while those who have undergone many significant inner and/or outer changes (and benefitted from the growth and development) will tend to be more trusting and patient with them. Such persons have learned that change is not always merely destructive.

These broad, abstract reflections about transitional phases emerged from earlier ruminations about writing as a means of moving through and moving on from the questions and riddles that roughly define my journey through life. I find that it is chiefly through writing that I am best able to articulate and confront these “defining” questions and riddles—to wrestle with them, fondle them, to allow them to possess and ravish me, to provide a womb and incubator for them, to become their spokesman and voice and protector in the white-noisy world, to make myself worthy of their service—and then to let them go and move on. Yes, it is a bit like raising children and turning them loose in the world (but the children have raised us, as well). And then, after a “transitional phase,” starting afresh with a new batch—a new generation—and doing it all over again, and again, and—perhaps—yet again. It’s a spiral or a corkscrew drilling down deeper and deeper into my core.

𝐶𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑠. The diarist sets his pen to a clean page, just as the painter sets her brush to a fresh canvas. The diarist could erase or “white out” previous entries and the painter could just as easily paint over her dried, previous paintings. But those journal entries and paintings had their rightful and deserving place, just as the new ones will.

A good, solid paragraph will have a kind of coherence or meaningful unity that is built up and reinforced by the individual sentences from which it is composed. Each sentence will contribute a kind and degree of meaning that merges with and substantiates the whole paragraph, which, in turn, supports and helps to compose the entire essay or text. Something akin to these units—sentences, paragraphs, chapters, books—can be seen, retrospectively, in the composition and structure of our life—or lives, since some persons’ journey through life undergoes such momentous transformations that we are almost justified in speaking of several quite distinct consecutive lives.

Differentiation is one way of clearing a new space in order for a new or previously unacknowledged way of seeing or doing things to emerge and grow. Picasso’s Blue Period (1903-5) gave way to his Rose Period (1905-7), which led to Cubism (1907-25), culminating in Surrealism (1926 onwards). The Norton History of Music reads: “Beethoven’s career is usually divided into three periods: (1) 1770-1802, when he mastered the musical language and genres of his time; (2) 1802-1816, when he asserted his individualism; and (3) 1816-1827, when his music became more introspective.”

We need not go so far as to say that Picasso and Beethoven exhausted the possibilities (of expression and exploration) in each of these “periods” that they entered, occupied for awhile, and exited, but it seems fair to suggest that, like many artists, they outgrew forms and modes that temporarily served their needs and purposes. Most of us have something in our past that roughly corresponds with Picasso’s “cubist” phase or Beethoven’s “introspective” period. It might be something as universal as “adolescence” or as general as “my college years” that leaps to mind. It may be “the time I lived in Philadelphia,” or “when I used to be in sales,” or “my first marriage.” But after those phases or periods came to an end, something else—something quite different—either abruptly or gradually took over and a new path opened up.

Maybe you never expected such a path to open up or perhaps you’d been waiting and hoping for it all your life, up till then. But, regardless of whether it was welcome or not, this new course took over, as if by a kind of necessity or destiny, and you were more or less obliged to deal with the persons, demands, and opportunities it threw at you.

In one way or another, this new path or chapter was absorbing, pleasantly or not, and even if you resisted and fought against it, you were still involved or preoccupied with managing the situation you were enmeshed and entangled in. Here we get a glimpse of what a transitional phase is not. Thus, regardless of whether we are voluntarily engaged and fruitfully cooperating with the phase or stage we are immersed in—or stubbornly, desperately fighting against the “clutches” we are caught in—our life is chiefly defined in terms of the “story requirements” of that stage. Resistance, denial, and willful distraction only prolong, but do not sever, our confinement to this stage of development.

We might even say that the transitional phase is earned after we have more or less successfully exploited the opportunities and learned the “life lessons” appropriate to some earlier level or stage of development. Viewed in this way, the transitional phase is a bit like a summer vacation or hiatus, allowing us a respite from the (onerous or satisfying, dreaded or joyfully embraced) work of creative growth.

What happens if we shift away, momentarily, from a “cradle to grave,” linear timeline model of a human life (diachronic) to an all-inclusive, all-at-once, atemporal (synchronic) view? This shift may shed a fresh light upon what we are calling a transitional period.

In suggesting a resemblance between a transitional phase and a vacation break, I wanted to draw attention to its “useless,” “un-productive,” and “furloughed” character. During such a phase a person may feel an uncanny and unsettling sense of shapelessness and purposelessness. Instead of feeling the benefits of rest between life-defining exertions, he feels the demon of restlessness pestering and tormenting him.

What if we were to insert into our daily routine a kind of miniature transitional phase—a homeopathic dose of salutary, deck-clearing self-erasure and deliberate “uselessness”? Isn’t this just an oblique way of describing meditation, one benefit of which is the momentary deliverance from our otherwise absorbing and enmeshing activities, investments, duties, and passions?

Meditation compresses and concentrates experience. It simmers the broth of lived life into a thick, rich gravy. At the same time, it distills and purifies raw experience so that its essential flavors, aromas, and nutrients are released. In this way, meditation greatly contributes both comprehensiveness and subtlety to our thinking—the two essential attributes of philosophical activity. When such concentration and compression are absent or deficient in my thinking, it is less deserving of serious interest or expression. It needs to be returned to the simmering stock, where at least it has a chance of contributing to an edible-credible mental meal.

What is my principal objective as a stove-tending thickener of thought-broths? My pot is my poll. After gathering and dropping the bones, the meat portions, the vegetables and the bouquet garni into the pure water and turning up the heat, I wait to see what pops up on the surface. These are the idea threads that are ripe for pursuit. They’ve been waiting for their moment to audition. They want me to hear them sing. Are they suited for the chorus or better as stand-alone soloists? Are they attention-grabbing sopranos or deep, ground-rumbling basses? Is their voice quirky and full of idiosyncratic “character” (Louis Armstrong, Bob Dylan, Bjork, Kate Bush) or is it an “everyman’ voice that has universal appeal (Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Judy Garland, McCartney)? Is it feeble and shy or is it a force of untamed nature? Anyone unused to dealing with a wide variety of ideas every day will think my analogy strange, but I have become increasingly sensitive to the astounding array of diverse voices and presences that ideas embody and give expression to. They are rather akin to animals in this regard—marvelously differentiated in terms of their form (morphology), dimensions, strength, natural habitat, longevity, defense strategies, courage in the face of an enemy, etc. Ideas are alive and ensouled (pace Descartes)—but how many people know this?

I am almost tempted to say that I owe my richest moments of lived experience to the generosity of ideas that have condescended to use me as their landing strip, their obliging mouthpiece, cook, one night stand, and cheerleader. Of course, human beings are in there, too, as inspirers and sharers of exceptional moments of quality, but as often as not, even these experiences owed their exquisiteness to the ideas that were secretly writing the script, staging the show, and casting my interlocutor/lover/friend and me as midwiving dialecticians. Once such divine and diabolical pleasures and transports have been savored to the full, it is hard to go back to the MUZAK that 98.6% of human discourse consists of.

To what extent is human consciousness composed of cultural-linguistic forms and systems? Because they are forms and (more or less organic, living) systems, cultures and languages are subject to influences that can be enriching or degrading, vitalizing or injurious, expansive or contracting. Because we can liken living, functional cultures to animate organisms, we can recognize their growth and decline over the course of time.

Agri-culture—which necessarily preceded the emergence of human cities and empires—pertains to the art of planting, tending, and harvesting crops. Agriculture depends on our knowledge and labor, of course, and when that knowledge is lost or that labor ceases, famine and starvation can occur. If agriculture is the base of the pyramid upon which civilized human life and institutions rest, it stands to reason that our cultural and political institutions similarly require special knowledge and reliable, skilled workers for their maintenance and health, to say nothing of their enrichment and expansion.

Regarding our present culture as the vehicle and means of expression for the human consciousness that employs it like a complex, multi-tiered instrument, what can we legitimately say about its general state of health or fitness? Since the individual is the actual carrier, embodiment, and instrument of both consciousness and culture, we must at once admit the co-presence of (at least) two quite distinct arenas or levels of culture and consciousness: the microcosm (individual) and the macrocosm (the collective expression of the culture). The two feed into each other and are constantly interrelated.

We can see that individual human beings are subject to a wide range of cultural-linguistic development and maturation, depending on a variety of decisive factors: talent, drive, education, good or bad fortune, milieu, companions, models, etc. Where there is ready access to the resources and instruction necessary for rounded and full cultural development, the individual has only himself to blame for neglecting these opportunities that are denied to the less fortunate.

But what are we to make of those situations where the culture in which one finds himself is sick and corrupt? Or obsolete and no longer able to provide what is minimally necessary for a decent or balanced existence? Or so shallow and devoid of substance that, in adopting it, we deform and degrade our souls? Such maladies can and do happen. Then the individual will be thrown back upon his own limited resources in order to protect himself from infection and contamination by the collective sickness and imbalance he is subjected to. I say that he is thrown back upon his own limited resources because the cultural norms and standards of his place and time are clearly failing in their traditionally assigned task of educating and supporting the individual’s growth and development as a contributing member of a healthy community.

An interesting thing about major transitional phases—psychological transformations or metamorphoses—is that we cannot foresee (with the certainty of lived experience) how things will turn out after the process is complete. And this true even if thousands or millions of other persons have been through much the same transformation and left their testimonies behind for us to consult and reflect upon. The concept of “mastery” (of the piano, of raja yoga, of Polish as a second language, etc.) is an altogether different kettle of fish than the actual experience of mastery—in much the same way that the film version of “The Battle of Algiers,” as realistic as Pontecorvo’s 1966 film attempted to be, was a far cry from the actual events.

It can be very easy, however, for someone who is in the midst of such a major metamorphosis or transformation to mistake his conception of what it’s like to be a butterfly for the actual experience, while in fact he is still something in between a worm and a winged creature. What pertains to the individual also applies to the culture at large—the culture as a mutating, transforming organism. But because the culture—any culture—is composed of and carried by more or less “evolved” or “matured” individuals, the collective transformation will not be uniform but cumulative—a kind of mean average of the agglomerated units.

Persons who “live in their heads” (as opposed to living “with their feet on the ground”) are more apt, figuratively speaking, to use credit and inflated paper currency than gold and silver in their transactions—where these will be accepted. Persons who live in their heads throw pictures around instead of quietly abiding with more solid and substantial objects and circumstances. Living in a picture world or a word world affords only illusory protection against actual experience—and the authentic process of transformation that can only happen when our experience is actual, not virtual or merely verbal-conceptual.

Love—which is quite different from desire and passion—is capable of calming down persons who hide in their heads in order to escape from actual experience. Its calming and stabilizing influence assists them in their efforts to quiet down the compulsive picture-throwing and concept-spewing habits of their restless minds. This soothing, reassuring love is precisely what is needed to inspire trust in the fundamental goodness and naturalness of the transformational process. Without the awakening and strengthening of this stabilizing love and anchoring trust, there is a good chance that fearful resistances will delay or prevent the metanoia or rebirth experience. Much must be “let go of,” voluntarily, before this metamorphosis can occur, and faith in the ultimate value and goodness of the outcome makes a potentially terrifying experience proceed much more smoothly. But such faith is always an individual matter, in the end—an issue that can only be faced within the private depths of one’s soul or spirit. Unlike a mere creed or theoretical concept, such faith is a lived experience. It cannot be faked. It cannot be borrowed or lent. It certainly can be inspired, awakened, and even strengthened by the compelling example of a mentor, a sage, or saint. But ultimately it is a question we must reckon with alone. In fact, it is our willingness to face this aloneness that is the test of faith. This willingness proves it in the same way that gold is proved by various trials and ordeals.

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