I’ve been thinking about my soul.
Hi, I’m Rick Thyne and I’m grateful that you found your way to these pages. Perhaps in these conversations we’ll find our way to more of the common good that is - for me - our best hope for a future in which all of us thrive. If you've found this column and would like to get my latest column delivered, free, to your inbox every two weeks, you can subscribe at the bottom of this page.
A friend caught me off guard by asking, Do you have a soul? Ever since, I’ve been trying to figure out what my honest answer might be. For most of my long life, I’ve lived with the assumption that I am a body and a soul; my soul is part of me, like my liver or lungs, only spiritual. It is that mystical place in me where God is ever-present, and which contains my eternal identity that will continue when my body turns to dust.
But as I’ve thought about this in fresh ways, I realize this notion of my soul is irrelevant to my ordinary life. When I’m in deep therapeutic conversation with a client, when I’m engaged with family or close friends, or when I’m quietly reading or writing, I never think about or engage with this mystical place. This traditional description of my soul has lost its value as I try continually to figure out who I am and why I’m here.
In months of reflecting on her question, I’ve come up with a different way of thinking about my soul. Maybe Soul is that part of us which we usually define as Self, our basic human identity; in my case, the essential Rick Thyne that I am.
Perhaps your soul is not something you’re born with, like a spiritual organ; instead, it gets inseminated in your consciousness, or your unconscious, the first time someone talks to you in a way that lets you know she loves you, and you love her back with baby goo goos and happy eyes. Maybe your soul is that Self that grows whenever you allow a person to get deep inside you and put you in touch with who you really are. And maybe your soul withers a bit each time you’re with someone who sucks life out of you and leaves you with the fear that, if you engage with them for too much longer, there’ll be nothing left of your soul but sand.
This soul, this Self of mine, is the imprint of these early and lifelong relationships; and it’s more. It contains as well the cluster of ideas that hold their truth for me over time, like the value of every human life and our need to find the common ground from which we can create a human family; emotions that have become less impulsive and more appropriate to each immediate circumstance, like my diminishing fear of failure and my improved control over my once-eruptive anger; beliefs that remain trustworthy when so many others have fallen away, like my conviction that another person’s love permits me to give them access to my authentic self, and allows me to respond in loving ways, regardless of our differences.
I confess that, in the end, none of us really knows what our soul is, or how it functions. But I now choose to imagine my soul as this internal constellation of memories, ideas, emotions, and beliefs.
As of this morning, here is that cluster.
I’m a multiple-cancer survivor, but I seldom worry about a recurrence because I get evaluated regularly and, so far, the test results are reassuring. Still, nearing eighty, I’m increasingly aware that death approaches. I don’t fret about dying, though I certainly don’t want my life to end on a long off-ramp of misery. The most consistent experience of joy in my life is being with my three grandchildren, not just watching them develop but engaging them in conversations as often as I’m able and they’re willing. I’ll be ready to die when I can no longer have this conscious, conversational relationship with them. Until then, I’ll fight like hell to thrive so I can dance at our now-eight-year-old granddaughter’s wedding.
My unruly pleasures have barely mellowed with age. I want more wine than is good for me, and drink up despite my better intentions. I want more sex than I’m capable of. (Dare I admit that the wine is part of what limits me?) I continue to re-read books and re-watch films I know by heart and adore as longtime companions. I love plump but not-too-briny oysters, Vietnamese Lemon Chicken, barbequed ribs, chile rellenos from our neighborhood Mexican restaurant, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (heavy on the peanut butter), and Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream. As you might surmise, I worry about my weight.
I grew up with the American Songbook my mother introduced me to (the Gershwins, Johnny Mercer, Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, et al.), which still enchants me, especially Ella Fitzgerald’s collections of these timeless songs. I’ve lived through the entire history of rock and roll, from pre-rock Race Music in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s through today’s diverse catalogue, and I still throb to its rebellious roar. I like most but not all forms of jazz, and I’m learning to appreciate the bits and pieces of hip hop I make myself listen to. Choral music from Bach to John Adams lifts me to a place of wonder no other art form takes me.
I’m finally coming to terms with my white male supremacy, the life-long conscious and unconscious messages that tell me I’m better than Others and therefore deserve to be in charge. I wake each morning to the comforting conviction that God is my loving Creator but, when intellectually pushed, I don’t think God exists. I have an increasingly simple devotion to the stories by and about Jesus of Nazareth that describe this brilliant, compassionate and courageous man on whom I model my own life and who is, for me, a constant challenge and inspiration.
Money is tricky for me, a constant tug-of-war between wanting a classy new shirt or the latest pair of cool shoes, maybe an updated BMW, while also wanting to exercise exemplary generosity by corralling these consumerist urges and giving away more and more of my affluence to the poor. I take great pride in the ways my wife and grown children care for the world’s marginalized children: my wife defends them in court; our daughter is a pediatrician for Los Angeles County, where her husband works as a psychiatrist; our son is a therapist with college students and young people struggling with substance abuse, and his partner is a social worker. They prod me to do more than I now do for these neglected kids.
Sadness is a constant bass-note since our sweet son Jesse’s death twenty-one years ago. My back hurts after I’ve walked what used to be an easy distance. I can no longer run, so I’m careful not to get caught having to suddenly escape oncoming traffic. Late in her life my mother said to me, When I think about you, Rick, the first thing that comes to mind is that you’re working. I have worked hard since I had a paper route when I was 10 years old.
I’m a good and faithful friend. I’m not an intellectual, but I’m a well-educated and thoughtful person, sometimes (dare I admit it?) one of the wise elders in my tribes. I’m still trying to squeeze myself comfortably into this conviction. I’m an excessive conversationalist and a very good public speaker.
Sometimes I don’t realize that I think or feel or believe or remember something until I’m in the process of writing it down, as if the very act of putting something into words loosens a densely embedded fragment of the soul that I’m not sure I have. This was often true as I wrote these paragraphs.
So I construct a Self out of these bits and pieces. When it fails me – as it inevitably will – I repair it and re-inhabit it, time and again.
That's what I've been thinking - what do you imagine your soul to be?
Blessings,
– Rick