That Great Oxymoron: “Weakness is Strength”
If there has been any consistent theme in my life the past several months, it has been of “vulnerability.” Who hasn’t heard ad nauseam that wise adage that there is “strength in being weak”? Yes, yes, we all know this, don’t we? We hear the great wisdom of it recycled endlessly in the New Testament; in fact, it’s one of the primary messages of the gospels. Lambs are weak; Christians are sufferers; rich people must become poor; adults are to be like children; God is strong and we are helpless without Him. I think that maybe I have heard and read about this relationship between strength and weakness so unrelentingly throughout my life that I have utterly forgotten the latent power and significance of its truth. I have often dismissed it rather than engage it as an intelligent way of being in the world, but perhaps that is because I’ve been in need of a re-definition of weakness as an important kind of vulnerability—because being vulnerable, I have found, is not to be weak, but rather, to be open and trusting. Maybe the adage should more commonly be expressed as: “There is strength in vulnerability,” instead, since the word “weak” has such an unappealing ring to it, culturally speaking…
I was drawn into meditations upon this topic while on a plane several weeks ago. I was in the air, flying over the Pacific, thinking, “God, this is tremendous! I have the ability to fly over an ocean, to pick up and travel, to go explore, to be free! What blessing! What power! What exhilaration!” I was sitting there, staring out the window and imagining myself a seabird, gliding over the water to a remote island where I would have time to rest and rejuvenate and begin the process of deep awakening of something I knew had been asleep inside of me. I think I closed my eyes for a time to indulge in the feeling of liberation, but this reverie was quickly broken by an attack of anxiety: I was hundreds of miles above the ocean in a plane with a limited amount of fuel and there was no land in sight in any direction. There was limited food available, limited drink, limited everything. Quickly, my initial feelings of liberation and freedom turned to musings about the gross fragility of my existence, of my utter powerlessness as I was propelled through thin air, above enormous banks of clouds, miles above what surely seemed an endless stretch of depthless water…
I looked around and saw that everything for me relied upon these people I had agreed to entrust myself with—I had asked them to take care of me, to take me to the place I wanted to get to, and I assumed that they would treat me with the level of respect and dignity I felt I deserved.
* * *
All of these fears spurred me to return to my reflections on freedom, and I began to add into my initial equation the unavoidable dependence of my “liberation” upon other people, other factors. In order to reach that island I was after—that place where I felt I would be able to begin some serious work of healing and growth—rejuvenation and renewal—I would first have to place myself utterly in the hands of the universe—the environment, governments, laws, the goodwill and help of other people, God—and hope that they could make good on their delivery of me to my destination. But then I realized, of course, that there is never a single moment I am in actual control of anything, no matter how hard I belabor my illusion of it.
As if by synchronicity, for the duration of that entire trip, I was shown repeatedly how much it was, really, that I’m always floating in deep water that might, at any unexpected moment, sweep me out to sea. But every time I placed myself in the middle of uncertainty and possibility, unbelievable things happened to me; and places that had been locked up inside me began to finally open.
* * *
Perhaps my most valued moment—my most treasured experience that trip that taught me something more about vulnerability was the morning I found myself far out in deeper water than I had ever swam in before, equipped with a mere snorkeling mask, and turning circle after circle, looking down and out and up—to make sure there were no sharks approaching… I was waiting for the dolphins that were still another several hundred feet out to come back in… they were playful and had been swimming near the shore and back out for hours. I knew that if I didn’t wait for them out there, though, I might never get another chance to swim with them. I knew I couldn’t make them come to me, though I did try to call to them. I watched and waded, and kept putting my head under to survey the deep waters I was plumb in the middle of without protection. I started to feel so tiny—like a microscopic fish just sitting there, waiting to get eaten. The dolphins were still out too far for me to safely swim, and I was growing disconcerted. Just as I was about to turn around and swim back to shore, too afraid of being prey to whatever might choose to prey upon me, I remembered that dolphins look out for other creatures around them. In fact, they are known for encircling humans who are being closed in upon by sharks…and they fight off these deadly predators. I thought again about my vulnerability, and I looked again at those gorgeous, happy dolphins shooting themselves like slippery silver twirling torpedoes from out of the waves—out there, beyond me yet…
and I stayed.
My choice, in that moment, opened something up utterly inside me—I sensed a freedom, an exhilaration, a sense of fullness of being unlike anything I could remember having experienced, at least not in a long time… The choice to stay and trust, knowing the likelihood of my becoming mere meat weren’t enormous, filled me with a strength I desperately needed. This time, rather than putting my trust in people, I entrusted my potential safety and vulnerability to another species. For me, it was a powerful revelation.
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