The Capacity for Pain

I hadn't planned on posting anything this weekend, because praise the Lord, my wife and I just closed on our first house! We're in the long and involved process of painting the house, re-painting the cabinets, cleaning, and getting it prepped to move into.

But all of this has gotten me thinking. I'm a software engineer for work, and my hobbies beyond writing include rollerblading, running, reading, and pickleball. I've enjoyed kayaking down Florida rivers, hiking up the slopes in Colorado and Oregon, and exploring my nearby forests and neighborhoods.

I was reminded of how blessed I am. Because instead of these things—walking, hiking, carrying boxes and bottles and beds—being a necessity, I do them for fun. That's crazy.

Some people are not as fortunate. Many are not.

I just finished CivilWarLand in Bad Decline by George Saunders. I know I have a section for book reviews, but since writing one for Foundryside, I haven't known how I want to do them. But that's irrelevant.

I highly recommend it. It does an excellent job highlighting various worlds in which many unfortunate people struggle to get by, struggle with injustice, struggle with pain and sorrow and things outside of their control. It grapples with people, real, human people down on their luck and taken advantage of by others.

It got me thinking too. George Saunders had an author's note at the end explaining some of his life and the situations he went through to get where he was, how he ended up writing most of the short stories in CivilWarLand. He didn't have it easy. He didn't have it incredibly hard, but it wasn't a walk in the park.

There's something about experiences like that that change us. That grow us.

I remember my brother-in-law, who was on a rowing team for four years, explain to me the capacity for pain that people must have.

Not only do I think that's a wonderful book title, but I also believe it. We, as humans, need pain. Need struggle. Need failure. That, in many ways, is why I believe we have suffering in the world.

That is not to say that there is not undue suffering, or even that all has a purpose. There are people beheaded in the streets, children stripped from their mothers, missiles raining down on innocent civilians and ripping through homes like paper mache. That's not to mention the starvation, plague, and corruption that piles on it like a stinking mound of horse crap.

The world isn't perfect, not by a long shot. But those of us, those who have it good, have it easy, have it peaceful, we need this capacity. We need struggle in our lives, from the smallest of things in sanding cabinets to larger, longer stretches of tight budgets, because it reminds us to be grateful. To see the good in what we have.

There's a quote by Glokta in Joe Abercrombie's Before They Are Hanged that sets a sour mood towards suffering, but makes sense given Glokta's story: "It’s a sad fact, but pain only makes you sorry for yourself."

I sat on that quote for a long time. In a cynical, Glokta-stained worldview, that's true. What else is there to do with pain than to dwell on it a spiral down forever? But there's more; there's better.

Pain might not always have a purpose. Failure might not always be necessary. Suffering might not lead to success. But one thing is true:

In all these things, we can persevere, we can learn, and though we will feel abandoned, there is an eternal hope we can rest in.

Keep it up. Take it one day at a time, even when it seems like everything could crumble around your feet at any moment.

You'll make it. And if you don't, you can always get back up.