Krista Tippett, host: I'm
Krista Tippett. Clinical depression is an epidemic of our age. This
hour, we'll explore spiritual dimensions of this illness and its
Andrew Solomon: In a
sense, after you've been through a depression, it gives you a different
relationship to the world.
Anita Barrows: Suddenly,
in depression, you are ripped from what felt like your life, from what
felt right and familiar and balanced and ordinary and ordered.
Depression is absolutely exhausting. It's why, day by day for months at
a time, I wanted to take my life. What I don't understand is why some
people come through on the other side and reclaim life with new
vividness and with new intensity. That is the real mystery to me.
Ms. Tippett: This is Speaking
of Faith. Stay with us for "The Soul in Depression."
Ms. Tippett: I'm Krista
Tippett. One in 10 Americans and, even more dramatically, about one in
four women will experience clinical depression at some point in their
lives. This hour, we'll explore spiritual dimensions of this illness
and its aftermath. From American Public Media, this is Speaking
of Faith, public radio's conversation about religion, meaning,
ethics, and ideas. Today, "The Soul in Depression."
As a society, we're increasingly aware of the many faces of
depression, and we've become conversant in psychological analysis of
depression and medical treatment for it. But there is a growing body of
literature by people who've struggled with depression and found it to
be a lesson in the nature of the human soul. Such insights are scarcely
possible while one is in the throes of depression, but they can come
later after a process of recovery and healing.
I have experienced severe depression. And when we first created
this program several years ago, I took the making of it as an occasion
to walk with some trepidation back through the spiritual territory of
despair. The voices of this hour span a range of varieties of
depression and religious perspective. Anita Barrows is a poet,
psychologist, and Buddhist practitioner. Parker Palmer is a Quaker
author and educator. My first guest, Andrew Solomon, is the author of The
Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression, for which he received the
National Book Award and a Pulitzer Prize nomination.
Mr. Solomon: And when I
was going through the depression, I had the sense that many of the
qualities by which I had defined myself were abandoning me and that I
was no longer the person whom I had previously been. And yet, there was
something within me that seemed to stay the same, something essential
remained at the core, and I thought, 'What is that essential thing?'
Ms. Tippett: Andrew
Solomon first went public, writing about his depression in The
New Yorker magazine, in 1998. He described his breakdowns in
excruciating detail and his extreme immersion in the brave new world of
antidepressant pharmacology. That article elicited over 1,000 letters
from New Yorker readers. After the article and his subsequent book,
Andrew Solomon was interviewed widely.
What struck me as I listened, as a survivor of depression
myself, was how Andrew Solomon's questioners tended to focus on his
physical collapse and not on his eloquent insistence between the lines
that depression for him was also a spiritually revealing experience.
And Andrew Solomon is not a religious person. His mother's death when
he was 27 triggered his first major depression. As he recounts in his
book The Noonday Demon, she committed a planned suicide
in the presence of him, his father, and his brother to end a bitter
struggle with cancer.
Andrew Solomon realized later that the opposite of depression
is not happiness; it is human vitality. And in a life of vitality, even
pain has its place. He now traces the onset of his depression from his
incapacity to grieve the death of his mother.
Mr. Solomon: The passage
from grief into nothingness was very alarming and very strange. There
was a sense — I mean, I still would have said, you know, 'I'm
terribly upset that my mother died,' and so on and so forth, but the
feeling went out of it. And I think that's why, when the feeling comes
back, you think, 'Oh, this is a soul. This is a spirit. This is
something profound and alive, which returned to me after taking a leave
Ms. Tippett: I think
what I found really refreshing about your book and something that I
don't think is out there enough is, you know, what depression really is
and what it really is not. It's not sadness, really. I think you say
that the opposite of depression is human vitality.
Mr. Solomon: It's an
experience, I think overall, of finding the most ordinary parts of life
incredibly difficult: finding it difficult to eat, finding it difficult
to get out of bed, finding it difficult and painful to go outside,
being afraid all of the time and being overwhelmed all the time. And
frequently, it's quite a sad experience to be afraid and overwhelmed
all the time. Nonetheless, those are the essential qualities of it. It
isn't, I think, primarily an experience of sadness.
Ms. Tippett: Right.
Mr. Solomon: And it
teaches you how big emotion is. The profundity of the inner self, I
suppose, would be the best way of putting it.
Ms. Tippett: Are
passions, maybe in a real classical sense of that word, also a way to
talk about the largeness of emotion that you're describing?
Mr. Solomon: I think
passions are the only way to talk about it, the passion which is the
essential motivator for all human activity. In a sense, after you've
been through a depression, it gives you a different relationship to the
world. It gives you a different sense of how your interior monologue
really determines everything, and you're left mystified as to where
that interior monologue originates and where those passions come from
and why they're so mutable and what it is within them that's immutable.
Ms. Tippett: I'd like to
talk about medication. You are still on medication, I believe …
Mr. Solomon: Yes.
Ms. Tippett: …
and, I suppose, will be forever, which is becoming the advisable way
for people who've suffered multiple depressions. Is that right?
Mr. Solomon: That is
Ms. Tippett: What kind
of regimen of medication do you live with now?
Mr. Solomon: Well, I'm
in the process of shifting things around, because at the moment I'm on
really more than I'd like to be. But right now I'm taking Lamictal,
Zyprexa, Lexapro, BuSpar, and Wellbutrin.
Ms. Tippett: So I wonder
if people ask you, how do you know that this person you are now and
these observations you have to make, even this wisdom that you have,
that this is really you, when you are so influenced by chemicals?
Mr. Solomon: I think the
idea that there is a real self and that changing it in any way with
medication is artificial is like the idea that you really have teeth
that fall out when you're 30 and that you're artificially changing them
by using modern dental care. I just think the authentic thing goes
through periods of flaw and illness and problem, and that you have to
address those problems. Taking these medications brings about effects,
which are also brought about by certain kinds of talking therapies and
external experiences, and I'm a great believer in those therapies and
also continue to work in those areas and arenas.
There's a lovely passage from The Winter's Tale,
which I quote toward the end of the book, beautifully phrased, and I
wish I had it in front of me. I'd read it out loud.
Ms. Tippett: Here's a
sentence I think may have been from that passage or your commentary on
it, "If humanity is of nature, then so are our inventions."
Mr. Solomon: Yes,
exactly. And it ends, that passage, with then the line, "That art
itself is nature."
Ms. Tippett: You also
quote the poet Jane Kenyon, "We try a new drug, a new combination of
drugs, and suddenly I fall into my life again." And from my own
experience, I remember that, and I think that, again, is so hard for
people to imagine who haven't been through this, that it is not like
you are changed into someone new, but you fall into your own life
again. So mysterious.
Mr. Solomon: I feel that
very strongly. I've talked with people some of the time — and I
think I relate this anecdote in the book, but there's somebody who I
used to know, and I was at a party, then was on my way home and ran
into her in the street. And I said, 'How are you doing?' and Jane said,
'Well, I had a very serious depression.' And I said, 'Oh.' I said, 'Are
you taking medications? Have you been in therapy?' She said, 'No, I
just decided it was the result of stress, and so I eliminated the
stresses from my life. I broke up with my boyfriend, because that was
difficult, and I gave up my apartment to just live in a one-room place
because I thought that would be less demanding. And I don't really go
out to parties anymore, because I find being with people is just very
difficult for me.' She went on and on with this catalog, and I thought,
'That is not true to yourself. I've known you for years, and you are a
I feel as though I've made, in effect, the opposite decision.
I have the personality that is consistent with the personality I had
when I was 10 and 20 and 25, and that then began to fall apart a little
bit later on. And I have the strong sense that the medications have
returned me to myself.
Ms. Tippett: Author Andrew
Solomon. His award-winning book The Noonday Demon is at once a memoir
and a compendium of the many nuances of depression described from
medical, scientific, and social perspectives. He also delves into
historical attitudes towards depression, including religious ideas,
which have formed modern attitudes in the West.
Many ancient classical thinkers did not understand the psyche
as detached from the body. By contrast, the great fifth-century church
father St. Augustine labeled depression a disease not of the body but
of the soul, and a mark of God's disfavor. This Christian stigma,
Andrew Solomon says, has endured in modern America even when the
theology behind it has not. I asked him what, if any, religious
literature he found to be helpful.
Mr. Solomon: I think I
would say that I found a particular comfort in the harder rhetoric of
Judaism, though I vastly appreciate the more forgiving nature of the
New Testament. But the Old Testament had a certain doctrine of
acceptance and law and endurance that these terrible things happen, and
you just stick it out, and maybe they get better and maybe they don't
get better. But there's a kind of hardness in it which — one
would expect in a depression that what one needs is softness, and I
think one does need softness from other people. But I found those basic
lessons, which I had absorbed in those Sunday school lessons when I was
a child, there was a sternness in them that I found very believable
even when I was at my lowest. At a time when I couldn't have believed
that God loved me, I could believe that there was logic and structure
in the world. And so for me, as a Jew, I think that was a particularly
potent comfort to me and guide to me through what was happening.
Ms. Tippett: You know
what, I think that's fascinating, because on the surface, it doesn't
sound — I don't know, you would think that those passages
especially might alienate a modern person, a sophisticated, educated
Mr. Solomon: They're
much easier to believe if you're a sophisticated city dweller.
Ms. Tippett: OK. I think
I'd like to end with something that is maybe the first line in your
book, that depression is the flaw in love. What do you mean by that?
It's a haunting sentence.
Mr. Solomon: It seems to
me that, in a way, the most fundamental and important capacity we have
as human beings is the capacity for love. And I think the feeling of
love couldn't exist without a range of other feelings that surround it,
the primary one being the fear of loss. If the loss of someone you love
didn't make you sad, then what substance would the love have? And I
think that therefore the emotional range that includes great sadness
and great pain is essential to the kind of love and attachment that we
form. It seems to me that the kind of severe depression that we've been
talking about represents an overactivity of the mood spectrum, but that
without the basic mood spectrum of which depression is the extreme end,
we couldn't have the experience of intimacy, which that brings.
Ms. Tippett: And you
also have spoken a lot about how the experience of depression for you
and also a recovery of the capacity or a deepening of your capacity for
intimacy go together. Does that flow from that same thought?
Mr. Solomon: Yes, I
think it does. I think the awareness of my own vulnerability has made
me more aware of other people's vulnerability and more appreciative of
people who cushion me from the things to which I am vulnerable. So I
think it's made me both more loving and more receptive to love and
given me a clearer sense than I would otherwise have had of the value
of love. And I suppose, again, without wanting to get into a suggestion
of specific doctrine, that that has also given me a sense that some
abstract love in the world, which I suppose we could call the love of
God, is essential and significant, and it has been increased in me,
both in terms of my appreciation for it and my feeling of being loved
I mean, I use that word "soul" very advisedly. I don't
particularly mean something that will eventually acquire wings and go
off to the kingdom of heaven. I guess, though, if you say "the mind" or
you say all of those things that get used in scientific discussions of
depression, like "emotional infrastructure" and other phrases like
that, they just seem to me not to capture this essential self.
Ms. Tippett: Those are
too clinical, right. Yeah.
Mr. Solomon: And it
seems to me that who other people are is always mysterious. What I
realized in the wake of depression is that who I am is fully mysterious
to me. And so since I don't fully know it and since I can't fully
comprehend it — it's not simply that I don't, it's that I can't
— then there has to be some mystical element in it and some
element that's obviously present and yet beyond my comprehension. And
that, I think, is what I was trying to characterize when I used the
word "soul," because I think the recognition of that fundamental
reality has been much stronger in religious writing and in religious
contemplation than it has been in other areas of considering an
Ms. Tippett: Yeah, I
know that you used the word near the very beginning of your book and
right at the end again, I noticed. I'm not sure you used it many other
Mr. Solomon: Yes. That
was quite deliberate actually. I felt, given that I didn't want to
write a religious book, because I am not in any very mainstream way a
religious person, that I didn't want to adopt the word all the way
through. But I felt that it was an important mode of description, and I
felt I wanted it to frame all of what I was saying.
Ms. Tippett: Andrew
Solomon is the author of The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of
Depression. I'm Krista Tippett, and this is Speaking of
Faith from American Public Media. Today, "The Soul in
At speakingoffaith.org, we've provided links to organizations
that help people with depression and related illnesses. I've also
posted some writing I've done about my major bout of depression when I
was in my mid-30s. My symptoms were classic: sleeplessness, weight
loss, fear, anxiety, and a devastating inability to concentrate. In
depression, I found body, mind, and spirit to be shockingly,
maddeningly inseparable. As I was gradually emerging, I read an essay
by the author Parker Palmer, which echoed this experience of my own.
But the article surprised me. I knew of Parker Palmer as a guru of the
soul, a wise Quaker thinker whose books and speeches had helped many
people integrate their deepest spiritual values into their lives and
work. And yet, here was a revelation by Parker Palmer that he had
suffered two episodes of crippling depression in his 40s.
Mr. Palmer: People walk
around saying, 'I don't understand why so-and-so committed suicide.'
Well, I understand perfectly why people take their lives. They need the
rest. Depression is absolutely exhausting. It's why, day by day for
months at a time, I wanted to take my life. What I don't understand is
why some people come through on the other side and reclaim life with
new vividness and with new intensity. That is the real mystery to me.
Ms. Tippett: When Parker
Palmer experienced his depressions, he was the revered leader of a
Quaker spiritual community. At first, because of this, he felt ashamed,
but ultimately, he says, depression forced him to reconsider the core
of his understanding of spiritual life itself.
Mr. Palmer: Going into
my experience of depression, I thought of the spiritual life as sort of
climbing a mountain until you got to this high, elevated point where
you could touch the hand of God or, you know, see a vision of wholeness
and beauty. The spiritual life at that time had nothing to do, as far
as I was concerned, with going into the valley of the shadow of death.
Even though that phrase is right there at the heart of my own spiritual
tradition, that wasn't what it was about for me. So on one level, you
think, 'This is the least spiritual thing I've ever done.' And the soul
is absent, God is absent, faith is absent. All of the faculties that I
depended on before I went into depression were now utterly useless.
And yet, as I worked my way through that darkness, I
sometimes became aware that way back there in the woods somewhere was
this sort of primitive piece of animal life. I mean, just some kind of
existential reality, some kind of core of being, of my own being, I
don't know, maybe of the life force generally, and that was somehow
holding out the hope of life to me. And so I now see the soul as that
wild creature way back there in the woods that knows how to survive in
very hard places, knows how to survive in places where the intellect
doesn't, where the feelings don't, and where the will cannot.
Ms. Tippett: So where is
God in all of this?
Mr. Palmer: Well,
Tillich, you know, described God as the ground of being. I no longer
think of God as up there somewhere. I think of God as down here, which
I think is — in my own Christian tradition, is pretty consistent
with incarnational theology, with the whole notion of a God who
journeyed to Earth to be among us compassionately, to suffer with us,
to share the journey.
Ms. Tippett: I love
this, there's a sentence from your book: "I had embraced a form of
Christian faith devoted less to the experience of God than to
abstractions about God, a fact that now baffles me: how did so many
disembodied concepts emerge from a tradition whose central commitment
is to 'the Word become flesh'?"
Mr. Palmer: Mm-hmm,
yeah. That's a baffling question to me to this day. But I take
embodiment very seriously, and, of course, depression is a full-body
experience and a full-body immersion in the darkness. And it is an
invitation — at least my kind of depression is an invitation
— to take our embodied selves a lot more seriously than we tend
to do when we're in the up-up-and-away mode.
Ms. Tippett: You know,
let's dwell with that for a moment, because I think one critique I've
heard of how Christian tradition does not help people who are suffering
from something like depression is that suffering itself, you know, by
some interpretation, it would be said to be glorified. But you're sort
of turning that image around in terms of the way you've come to apply
Mr. Palmer: Yeah. I am.
I mean, I think there's a lot, unfortunately, about suffering in
Christian tradition that's hogwash, if I can use a technical
theological term. It's awfully important to distinguish in life, I
think, between true crosses and false crosses. And I know in my growing
up as a Christian, I didn't get much help with that. A cross was a
cross was a cross, and if you were suffering, it was supposed to be
somehow good. But I think that there are false forms of suffering that
get imposed upon us, sometimes from without, from injustice and
external cruelty, and sometimes from within, that really need to be
I do not believe that the God who gave me life wants me to
live a living death. I believe that the God who gave me life wants me
to live life fully and well. Now, is that going to take me to places
where I suffer, because I am standing for something or I am committed
to something or I am passionate about something that gets resisted and
rejected by the society? Absolutely. But anyone who's ever suffered
that way knows that it's a life-giving way to suffer, that if it's your
truth, you can't not do it. And that knowledge carries you through. But
there's another kind of suffering that is simply and purely death. It's
death in life, and that is a darkness to be worked through to find the
life on the other side.
Ms. Tippett: Parker Palmer.
As we've updated and broadcast this program over the past five
years, we've received a rich tapestry of listener stories about their
experiences with depression, generating conversations that can be
difficult to have elsewhere and conversations that we hear help many
who discover them. Read those reflections, share your own with our
community of listeners, find links on our home page,
After a short break, more of Parker Palmer's reflections on the
soul in depression. Also, psychologist, poet, and Buddhist thinker
Anita Barrows. I'm Krista Tippett. Stay with us. Speaking of
Faith comes to you from American Public Media.
Welcome back to Speaking of Faith, public radio's
conversation about religion, meaning, ethics, and ideas. I'm Krista
Today, "The Soul in Depression." We're exploring a growing body
of thought on the spiritual aspects of clinical depression and its
aftermath. Author and educator Parker Palmer, with whom I'm speaking
now, experienced two crippling bouts of depression in his 40s. He
recalls a particular thought offered by his psychologist, which helped
him reclaim his life. The therapist said: "Parker, you seem to look
upon depression as the hand of an enemy trying to crush you. Do you
think you could see it instead as the hand of a friend pressing you
down onto ground on which it is safe to stand?" Today Parker Palmer
writes theologically about depression. He even traces his own collapse
back to his midlife conversion to contemplative Quaker tradition.
Mr. Palmer: You know, I
think you could make a case that, as a friend of mine once did —
I mean, I actually went to a friend at one point. She happens to be a
member of a religious community, a sister. And I said, you know, 'I've
been on this wonderful Quaker journey, and I've been sitting in silence
and I've learned to pray, and I've been feeling so much closer to God
than I ever did when I was just clinging to doctrine. Why am I now
feeling so full of death?' And she said, 'Well, I think the answer is
simple: The closer you get to the light, the closer you also get to the
darkness.' And it was another one of those phrases, like the one that
my therapist gave me, that I didn't understand right away, but right
away I knew there was some kind of truth in it that I needed to try to
Ms. Tippett: Well, how
do you understand that phrase now?
Mr. Palmer: I understand
that to move close to God is to move close to everything that human
beings have ever experienced. And that, of course, includes a lot of
suffering, as well as a lot of joy.
Ms. Tippett: Yeah. And,
you know, and, again, just getting back to the subject of this show,
the fact that — I think the thing in the midst of a depression
that feels so absent, I would say, is your very soul, right? The ground
of your being has dropped out.
Mr. Palmer: Right.
Ms. Tippett: And I don't
even think I could think about God one way or the other. I had to put
the idea of God to one side.
Mr. Palmer: Right.
Ms. Tippett: And yet
some of the most profound observations that you're making and that
you're saying that can be possible out of some depression are precisely
about those aspects of human experience.
Mr. Palmer: Right. And,
you know, as I said earlier, as best I can reconstruct it — and a
lot of it's hard to reconstruct because, you know, you're so out of it
that I don't entirely trust my capacity to reconstruct it. But as best
I can reconstruct it, like you, the thought of God, all of those
theological convictions, were just dead and gone during that time. But
from time to time, back in the woods, that primitive wildness was
there. And if that's all God is, I'll settle for it. I'll settle for it
easily and thankfully.
Ms. Tippett: When you
were talking about how Quaker tradition — that people know how to
be silent, I was recalling that passage in what you've written about
your depression, about the friend who helped you the most, who would
just come be with you.
Mr. Palmer: Right. I'll
just tell that story quickly, because it's such a great image for me. I
had folks coming to me, of course, who wanted to be helpful, and sadly,
many of them weren't. These were the people who would say, 'Gosh,
Parker, why are you sitting in here being depressed? It's a beautiful
day outside. Go, you know, feel the sunshine and smell the flowers.'
And that, of course, leaves a depressed person even more depressed,
because while you know intellectually that it's sunny out and that the
flowers are lovely and fragrant, you can't really feel any of that in
your body, which is dead in a sensory way. And so you're left more
depressed by this, quote, "good advice" to get out and enjoy the day.
And then other people would come and say something along the lines of,
'Gosh, Parker, why are you depressed? You're such a good person. You've
helped so many people, you've written …'
Ms. Tippett: 'You're so
Mr. Palmer: 'You're so
successful, and you've written so well.' And that would leave me
feeling more depressed, because I would feel, 'I've just defrauded
another person who, if they really knew what a schmuck I was, would
cast me into the darkness where I already am.'
There was this one friend who came to me, after asking
permission to do so, every afternoon about four o'clock, sat me down in
a chair in the living room, took off my shoes and socks and massaged my
feet. He hardly ever said anything. He was a Quaker elder. And yet out
of his intuitive sense, from time to time would say a very brief word
like, 'I can feel your struggle today,' or farther down the road, 'I
feel that you're a little stronger at this moment, and I'm glad for
that.' But beyond that, he would say hardly anything. He would give no
advice. He would simply report from time to time what he was sort of
intuiting about my condition. Somehow he found the one place in my
body, namely the soles of my feet, where I could experience some sort
of connection to another human being. And the act of massaging just,
you know, in a way that I really don't have words for, kept me
connected with the human race.
What he mainly did for me, of course, was to be willing to be
present to me in my suffering. He just hung in with me in this very
quiet, very simple, very tactile way. And I've never really been able
to find the words to fully express my gratitude for that, but I know it
made a huge difference. And it became for me a metaphor of the kind of
community we need to extend to people who are suffering in this way,
which is a community that is neither invasive of the mystery nor
evasive of the suffering but is willing to hold people in a space, a
sacred space of relationship, where somehow this person who is on the
dark side of the moon can get a little confidence that they can come
around to the other side.
Ms. Tippett: Parker Palmer
is the author of many books. He writes about his depression in his book
Let Your Life Speak.
I'm Krista Tippett, and this is Speaking of Faith
from American Public Media. Today, "The Soul in Depression."
Depression runs through the literature and poetry of every
culture. From ancient Greece to the medieval Arab world and into the
modern West. It was often approached with the term melancholia. The
psalmist of the Hebrew Bible wrote repeatedly of the "pit of despair."
The 16th-century Spanish mystic John of the Cross penned the phrase
"the dark night of the soul." And there is a growing Buddhist
literature on such themes.
My next guest, Anita Barrows, has been a practitioner of
Theravada Buddhism for most of her adult life, and she has lived with
depression as far back as she can remember, first of all, through life
with her mother.
Ms. Barrows: My mother
would say things like, 'I talk to God. I talk directly to God, and he
answers me.' And I always sort of had the image when I was a child that
God was this, you know, sort of old man, half-shaven, in a bathrobe who
had a direct phone line to Sylvia, my mother, but didn't do very much
to help her. I was always — I thought, you know, 'If she has such
a direct line, why doesn't he make her better?'
What I was told about my mother being in bed so much was that
she had warts on her feet. It was kind of an odd thing to have been
told. And the warts had a wonderful name. They had an Italian name. It
was verruca, which to me sounded kind of like a Hebrew prayer, Baruch
atah. And so I was sort of fascinated with the word. But I would sit
outside the door to my mother's bedroom, and I would hear her crying or
just sort of wait for her to wake up. And that was very much the
experience of my childhood.
I remember even a very strong sort of sensation walking
through the door. We lived in an apartment during that middle part of
my childhood, from the time I was about seven to 10. And I remember
walking through the door and really feeling a change in the atmosphere
from the sort of vivid outside world where I loved to be. Whatever the
weather, I loved to be outdoors. And I would walk inside and I would
feel a kind of permeable darkness, and that was my mother's depression.
Ms. Tippett: That's an
amazing image. You're already getting at something that I want to try
to sort of bring into the light, which is depression is something many
of us have experienced either ourselves or through others. And we talk
about it from a medical standpoint and from a psychological standpoint,
but permeable darkness is really — it's really a good description
of the wholeness of that …
Ms. Barrows: Yes,
permeable in that I could sort of walk in and out of it myself, you
know, and put my hand in it and feel what it felt like. And I think
that, you know, it was certainly something that my mother lived with
all her life, and it's a state that's familiar to me as well, although
I have lived it differently from the way my mother did.
Ms. Tippett: Anita Barrows
had own first struggle with depression at 17, after she left home for
college. Then after the birth of her first, much-wanted child when she
was 31, she suffered a major collapse. That depression had an organic
cause, an autoimmune disease of the thyroid, and after many false
diagnoses, it was easily treatable. But like all of us who've been
touched by depression, whatever its trigger or form, Anita Barrows
remains marked by the presence of this illness in her life, and she
embraces it actively. As a psychologist, she cautions that the
Buddhists embrace of inner darkness can be terrifying and even
dangerous in the depths of clinical depression. But like my first
guest, Andrew Solomon, she honors the interplay between darkness and
light as a commonplace feature of life. She has explored this through
writing poetry and translating the work of others. Together with
Buddhist scholar Joanna Macy, Anita Barrows created a stunning
translation of Rainer Maria Rilke's Book of Hours. And as
a psychologist who is also a lover of language, she complains that the
word "depression" itself does not do justice to this human experience.
Ms. Barrows: It almost
becomes a way of dismissing it. I see it much, much more as a kind of a
minor-key chord that is a constant accompaniment to one's life. I mean,
I am …
Ms. Tippett: To any
life? Or to the life of a person that's …
Ms. Barrows: To many
lives. Well, I think to the life of a person who is inclined in that
direction. You know, Rilke loved the darkness, and there are many poems
where he speaks about darkness in a way that really, I think, is what
drew me to these poems. Can I read one?
Ms. Barrows: (reading)
"I love the dark hours of my being.
My mind deepens into them.
There I can find, as in old letters,
the days of my life, already lived,
and held like a legend, and understood.
Then the knowing comes: I can open
to another life that's wide and timeless.
So I am sometimes like a tree
rustling over a gravesite
and making real the dream
of the one its living roots
a dream once lost
among sorrows and songs."
Ms. Barrows: "I love the
dark hours of my being," he says. I mean, I think that there have been
times certainly in my life when, you know, the depressed mood — I
mean, it's such a terrible word. The dark mood. It's a word that has
taken on so many rotten connotations, you know. It's sort of a medical
term now. I want to redeem it from the medical and the clinical. There
is a point in depression that is so devastating that only in retrospect
would anyone want to say, 'Well, I am glad I touched bottom, because
now I know what that is.' But this other kind of living with darkness,
which is so familiar to me, I think is a very sort of spiritual place.
I mean, there is a kind of ripening that goes on in that place, a
quieting, a listening, a place of non-activity.
Ms. Tippett: Well, and
also a loss of illusions about what activity will get you
Ms. Barrows: Exactly.
All you can do in that place is kind of sit and listen and be, and be
very simple. You know, Rilke again says, "Be modest now, like a thing
ripened until it is real, so that he who made you can find you when he
reaches for you."
Ms. Tippett: Here is
Anita Barrows' reading of a poem from Rainer Maria Rilke's Book
of Hours, which she translated with Joanna Macy and subtitled Love
Poems to God.
Ms. Barrows: (reading)
"You are not surprised at the force of the storm —
you have seen it growing.
The trees flee. Their flight
sets the boulevards streaming. And you know:
he whom they flee is the one
you move toward. All your senses
sing him, as you stand at the window.
The weeks stood still in summer.
The trees' blood rose. Now you feel
it wants to sink back
into the source of everything. You thought
you could trust that powerwhen you plucked the fruit;
now it becomes a riddle again,
and you again a stranger.
Summer was like your house: you knew
where each thing stood.
Now you must go out into your heart
as onto a vast plain. Now
the immense loneliness begins.
The days go numb, the wind
sucks the world from your senses like withered leaves.
Through the empty branches the sky remains.
It is what you have.
Be earth now, and evensong.
Be the ground lying under that sky.
Be modest now, like a thing
ripened until it is real,
so that he who began it all
can feel you when he reaches for you."
Ms. Barrows: Suddenly,
in depression you are ripped from what felt like your life, from what
felt right and familiar and balanced and ordinary and ordered, and
you're just thrown into this place where you're ravaged, where the wind
rips the leaves from the trees, and there you are. Yeah. Very, very
much the soul in depression.
Ms. Tippett: And the
word "stranger" in there, which is the complete alienation not only
from others but from yourself.
Ms. Barrows: Ah, from
oneself, exactly. That's the worst of it.
Ms. Tippett: I don't
know — there's just this paradox here that's running through all
the conversations I'm having about this subject and thinking, and you
bringing it up again, which is that depression eventually can yield
maturity and growth and a kind of spiritual insight and — "a
bigger soul" is the way some people might say it — but in the
moment, in the depth of that experience, that is what is completely out
of the question, that kind of reflection.
Ms. Barrows: Yes,
Ms. Tippett: I mean,
what does that mean? What is this?
Ms. Barrows: Exactly.
No, I think that's absolutely right. And I think that all of the talk
about, 'Oh, well, this will, you know, be really good for your soul or
your character, this will make a better person of you,' feels like
absolute rubbish when you're in the midst of the wretchedness of
depression. But I think that in a way, I mean, it almost feels sort of
physiological. If the soul were material, I think depression sort of
works on it the way you could work a piece of clay, so that it softens
and it becomes more malleable. It becomes wider. It becomes able to
take in more. But that's only afterward. In the fire, what you get is
And this is a poem called "Questo Muro." It is a phrase from
a passage in Dante's Purgatory. Dante has been in the depths of
depression, in the depths of the inferno, and he's now working his way
out of it toward Beatrice, who is — you know, you could call her
the soul or the anima. And he and Virgil are climbing the mountain, and
all of a sudden they get to a wall of fire, and you can't go any
farther unless you go through it. So this is my poem, and it really is
a poem, I think, about finding the courage to persist, to go through
Ms. Barrows: (reading)
"You will come at a turning of the trail
to a wall of flame
After the hard climb & the exhausted dreaming
you will come to a place where he
with whom you have walked this far
will stop will stand
beside you on the treacherous steep path
& stare as you shiver at the moving wall, the flame
that blocks your vision of what comes after.
And that one
who you thought would accompany you always,
who held your face
tenderly a little while in his hands —
who pressed the palms of his hands into drenched grass
& washed from your cheeks, the tear-tracks —
he is telling you now
that all that stands between you
& everything you have known since the beginning
is this: this wall. Between yourself
& the beloved, between yourself & your joy,
the riverbank swaying with wildflowers, the shaft
of sunlight on the rock, the song.
Will you pass through it now, will you let it consume
whatever solidness this is
you call your life, & send
you out, a tremor of heat,
a radiance, a changed
Ms. Tippett: "Questo Muro"
by Anita Barrows. Her most recent poetry collection is Kindred
Flame. With Joanna Macy, she translated Rilke's Book of
Hours: Love Poems to God. Here in closing are the final lines of
one of Anita Barrows poems, titled "Heartwork."
Ms. Barrows: (reading)
"The angle of light
is low, but still it fills
this space we're in. What interrupts me
is sometimes an abundance. My sorrow, too,
which grew large through summer
feels to me this morning
as though if I touched it
where the thick dark stem
of it is joined to the root, it would release itself
whole, it would be something I could use."
Ms. Tippett: Earlier in
this hour, you heard Parker Palmer and Andrew Solomon.
The kind of reflection and learning that these voices have
attained by way of depression can only come after a period of recovery
and healing. If you or a loved one are currently suffering from
depression, resources are available. The National Institute of Mental
Health has a Web site, nimh.nih.gov. The National Alliance for the
Mentally Ill offers information about local support and resources. That
number is 1 (800) 950-6264. You'll find these and other links and
resources listed on our Web site at speakingoffaith.org.
And last fall after the economy began to falter, we began an
online project we've called Repossessing Virtue, a series of
conversations with former guests addressing moral and spiritual aspects
of our common economic present. We've found these perspectives to be
fresh, wise, and challenging, so we decided to weave together some of
these voices for next week's program. And we'll be producing a second
radio program in the coming months dedicated to your voices. We're
hearing a lot of stories in the news about how people's lives are
changing in unanticipated and difficult ways. We'd like to take this a
step further and ask how our common sense of meaning and morality is
being tested and perhaps changing. Do concepts like trust or community,
of reassessing what matters and what sustains you have relevance in
your life in different concrete tangible ways? Has something or someone
surprised you as you or those around you have faced hard economic
realities? Look for links to add your experiences to our Repossessing
Virtue series at speakingoffaith.org.
The senior producer of Speaking of Faith is Mitch Hanley, with
producers Colleen Scheck, Shiraz Janjua, and Rob McGinley Myers, and
with help from Amara Hark-Weber and Nancy Rosenbaum. Our online editor
is Trent Gilliss, with Web producer Andrew Dayton. Kate Moos is the
managing producer of Speaking of Faith, and I'm Krista