"No Man is an Island"

John Donne sermonized, "No man is an island. No one is self-sufficient; everyone relies on others." Nowadays, you don't often hear that quote. It flies in the face of modern "reason." Maybe our rugged individualism started with the self-reliant spirit that enabled pioneers to populate North America. And maybe that is a fiction.

A little time-travelin' music, maestro.

Let's travel back in the collective history of our minds; how's that for a touchy-feely, new-age term, "collective history," cool, huh? Anyway, imagine yourself as a pioneer, camping for the night. Stand next to your covered wagon, after you've unhitched and grazed your mules, of course. Take a look around, and what do you see? Wagons are parked in a circle, portable walls for the portable community. But you're not interested in others' wagons. You watch the folks, hurrying around near their own wagons, forming hunting parties, preparing meals, repairing their wagons and tack, and trying to rein in their playing children. Do you see isolated people, rugged individuals refusing help? Not likely! The fabled, pioneer spirit of Hollywood westerns and pulp novels didn't exist among the American pioneers who struggled each day for survival. And the real cowboys didn't ride out alone with six-shooters slung low on their hips, but loaded their horses with the tools of their trade and rode in teams. The people of the old west were skilled at plying their trades, but depended upon each other for survival.

We, the neurotics!

No wonder "we the people" are collectively so screwed up! Our collective, revisionist history, or pop-culture base, is pure fiction. We need help, but won't admit it. Why? Because we are a culture of perfect people--or should be, according to the Tube and trendy magazines. Eventually, our--your--personal demons will claw their way through your superficial shell of respectability. Eventually, personal issues will arise that bravado won't cover and psychobabble slogans won't assuage. The imagined, self-sufficient you will become the isolated, vulnerable you, and if you can afford it, you will secretly join the quest of millions to find "professional help." So, what do you look for in "professional help" when you've reached the end of yourself? The best therapists don't tell you what to do about a problem; advice--isolated and without probing--is worth little, no matter the price. Like smoke, it fogs your vision and burns the eyes of your soul. The best therapists help cut you open, revealing inner issues that need attention. The best therapists can help you heal. But, what if you can't afford "professional help," or have already spent a fortune on it, and found no relief? There seems no option but to suffer your demons' pitiless onslaught, acting out where you can, or retreating inside to a fetal position, figuratively sucking your thumb.

Therapy you can't afford to pass up.

The best therapist of all, the chief soul-surgeon, is God's Word, "For the word of God is living and active and sharper than any two-edged sword, and piercing as far as the division of soul and spirit, of both joints and marrow, and able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart." (Heb 4:12 NASB) God's word will cut you open to expose your carefully hidden "issues," the source of your infection, and help you excise the malignant pustule; that is the only cure. If you need more help, spiritual, God-honoring counselors with the pastor's gift will ably assist in the surgery. Such therapy requires--shudder--yielding yourself to God's healing, allowing him to place your self-sufficient pride on Christ's rough, wooden cross, and enduring the agony of its reluctant death. But for writers--those who must write to go on living, who write whether or not they make a cent on it--God has another able assistant. Since he knew we would be the most vulnerable of patients, the least likely to survive his surgery, he blessed us with a passion for self-expression and gave us the process of writing fiction and poetry. The blood produced by our surgery flows onto blank pages as words forming thoughts, thoughts forming ideas, ideas that form healing stories. We are the fortunate ones. God doesn't strap us to an operating table to passively endure the surgery. Rather, he straps us to a tablet, typewriter, or keyboard, and frees our minds and fingers while he cuts deeply but theraputically. So, why do we strive to sell the products of our soul-surgery to a critical and profane public? Is it because of some hidden, masochistic bend within? Perhaps. But if they're sucker enough to buy our stuff it sure helps to pay the bills. And maybe, just maybe, our process of healing will point the way for someone else.