I was talking to a student the other day who said she relies on visual art because she feels like a weak writer. But she knows the audience needs words, or that her art would be stronger with solid writing. So by seeking out teaching, she’s inviting growth. She’s willfully beginning a process, she knows will be challenging.
I admire that willingness: to ask for help, to invest in learning, to begin a process that you know will challenge and push and frustrate you.
I know that growth begins with the small, delicate things. Seeds, eggs, sprouts, baby creatures learning to scoot then crawl then walk. Growth begins in things that are unripe, raw, just emerged. Growth is inevitable. Yet it is so difficult, espeically as adult people, to even become aware of, to admit (both: to say out loud and to allow) the vulnerable places in ourselves.
Logicially, I know that people who do things really well are constantly learning. A friend who speaks another language almost to native proficiency for years carried around a dictionary to constantly study words and pronunciations, look up synonyms. A master teacher I admire is constantly attending workshops, trying new teaching methods, exploring new lessons to bring into the classroom, and refines her approach after each class. People who embrace growth are willing to say, “I don’t know; let me look it up,” and so they become masterful in thousands of small, willful actions.
On the other hand, many people who avoid learning, who don’t want to admit they don’t know how to pronounce x word, don’t ever grow, won’t ever learn to pronounce it. And so they remain stagnant. Instead of seeking growth, we often defend our delicate spots and become fearfully protective of them instead of opening them to the fresh air of exploration and tending, like letting a wound breathe.
So I, as a poet ever-interested in language, was looking for a word to describe these places in ourselves that feel so vulnerable, and settled on “raw.” Why raw?
This is why I love language. I was trying to find a word: weak, vulnerable, sensitive, undeveloped, unripe. None of these seemed exactly right. I wanted a word that meant both unfinished and sensitive, almost painful. I was picturing a soft spot on fruit, a bruise or small cut on an arm that keeps getting prodded.
Life does that, right? It keeps prodding us, poking those weak places, those vulnerabilities, until we notice and tend to them. It prods until we stop pushing up our hands in defense and begin the process of healing and new growth. We might call these “weaknesses,” but they’re weak only because they haven’t been through “processes of … finishing, refining.” They’re painfully open and exposed, just asking to be addressed. They’re unprocessed, unevaluated, inexperienced, untrained — which means they can be, they’re waiting to be processed, evaluated, experienced, and trained.
And these untrained, undeveloped parts of us are “grossly frank.” They’re painful, calling our attention, and we must be grossly honest to acknowledge them. Kids are so brutally honest in that way. They haven’t learned the adult, socialized way of polite white lies or ignoring what should politely be ignored. They stare at people and speak up and comment on whatever is happening. If these raw parts of ourselves are like small children ready to grow and experience, they can serve us in the same way — by forcing us to be brutally honest with ourselves about who we are, where we are, who we’d like to be, what we’d like to be able to do. Raw in one sense means unadorned, uncovered by our usual ways of performing our competence. Raw is brutally, honestly, saying “I don’t know.”
And children are also usually unabashedly curious and courageous in learning; they fall and stumble and recover quickly. They poke around and get excited, like my friend learning language, my friend thinking of new ideas for her classroom. Maybe we develop more fear as adults in exposing ourselves to falls and wounds. There’s a courageousness, a verve in children learning to ride a bike or take on a new skill. There usually isn’t shame in not knowing — but joy in gaining something new, gaining a new ability, being enabled to do new things.
Learning is difficult. It’s challenging. It’s uncomfortable. To begin, first we have to admit to “I don’t know” or “I need guidance.” But that utterance frees so much new potential. In the pain and sensitivity in those tender spots, the not-yet-developed state, there’s this excitement of what will be. When we begin to feel that “click” or resonance of new knowledge, seeing in a new way, how good that process of work and becoming feels, even when it’s a struggle. We can hide in defensiveness and protection, or we can open up those raw spots to air and move forward, imagining the small seedling one day bloomed.
See more about my work with learning: language, literature, mindfulness.