Condensed Chicken Soup for the Condensed Soul

I have a couple of friends who are from wildly different backgrounds, who live in wholly different circumstances, and who nevertheless have a great deal in common.

If we’re really being honest here (and why not?) sometimes what they have in common makes me envious while it simultaneously brings me heartache.

What they have in common is the belief that, if they buy the right book, find the right past life, discover the right weight-loss program, employ the right combination of aromas, dress in the right colors, eat the right fruit, sleep the right number of hours—in addition to lighting the correct candles, watching the best movies, shenging the right fui, chanting the best mantra, consuming the highest fiber, eating the most fat, eating the least fat, pressing the right pressure points, and breathing the proper way—everything in their lives, from child care to pay grade to dress size, will then be perfect.

Whereas I know the truth: If you drink at least a liter of water a day, read at least two novels a month, find shoes that fit, and purchase the ideal lipstick (color stays on even when you eat but your lips don’t dry out), only then will all of life’s mysteries and problems be solved. I’d be happy to explain this to my friends, but they’re too busy with their reductive harebrained schemes to listen to my wisdom.
 
Want to know what I really think our problem is? We spend a lot of time wondering why our lives—and the world—seem so oddly out of kilter.

We want to make use of our talents, and yes, we want to make life better for those we love. We also want to improve the world and give it the benefit of what we have to offer. We want to know how to do this better and so we look to those who provide guidance.

But we’re terrified of organized religion, which tells us that whatever we do that we do to look after ourselves will damn us; we’re angry at systems that fail women and children; we’re tired of palliatives offered by those in power that advise us to give of ourselves until it hurts while the leadership remains rich, smug, judgmental, and sanctimonious.

We are left, therefore, will all this dispersed energy and diffused intelligence; we’re  hungry for good stuff, smart stuff. And we’re filling up on junk food.

Or if not actually junk food, then on pre-prepared, pre-mixed, pre-seasoned Condensed Soup for the Condensed Soul, a philosophy to be heated up and dished out as quickly as possible. At best it remains only partially satisfying—and it satisfies only momentarily.

We ask for bread—and although we aren’t actually given stones, we’re told in pious terms that carbohydrates aren’t good for us and that industrial farming practices are destroying the health of the earth. After hearing that tirade, the thought of getting stones doesn’t sound so bad.

From stenciling to spirituality,  from post-colonial theories of empiricism to post-feminist theories of empire gowns, from how to find the artist in yourself to discovering the amazing power of tantric sex, from how to get published to how to sponge paint your bathroom, we seek answers but find only promises. We knock, and the door is opened, but behind the door is a market-research team telling us to smear a brand of stretch-mark-fading cream, once used only by pregnant women, on our foreheads in order to uncover precisely the sort of outer beauty leading to inner happiness.

What’s wrong with cheap advice and quick fixes?  When made by somebody who loves you, chicken soup may indeed be good for a cold. But sometimes you need stronger medicine, stuff that’s less easily swallowed.

For example, “grow where you’re planted” is fine advice if you’re an endive.

But if you are an adult person, you should remember that  we don t have to stay buried where we’re planted but instead can rise up, brush off the dirt, and start moving.  

To start growing means that you not only bloom, but that you blossom. 

You flourish. You find your own way in the world, wearing well-fitted shoes and carrying a great book.