More Like John Lewis

 “We have to be more like John Lewis . . . ”

                —Barack Obama

Suggestion or Statement?

I recently made the comment that a suggestion is often better than a statement. It was one of those moments—fairly rare in the life of an introvert—when I felt the words come out of my mouth before I had thought them through. Afterward, I kept hearing myself say: A suggestion is often better than a statement. It felt right, but what did it mean? My intuition grasped it before my mind.

A suggestion—like a hint or a clue—elicits curiosity, mental engagement, and emotional response, inviting discussion and participation. The follow-up to a suggestion is often: “What are you suggesting?” On the other hand, a statement is settled business, and much like a proclamation, statements are intended to end discussion and debate—close it down, shut it off. Case closed.

Suggestions are powerful because they raise questions and prepare the way for a flow of memories, thoughts, and ideas. A thin cotton curtain blowing in an open window, animal tracks in the snow, a leaf lying all by itself on a rock, a single bird's feather lying on ground—such images, whether presented visually or literarily, toy with one's thoughts and imagination. And imagination—both personal and communal—need I speak of its importance in the life of an individual and a society?

The exercise of imagination is dangerous to those who profit from the way things are because it has the power to show that the way things are is not permanent, not universal, not necessary. —Ursula K. Le Guin

Art—in all its varied forms—is never a statement; it is always a suggestion. There is always more to art than what meets the eye. Art offers a hint and entices the viewer to finish the story . . . in their own way, using their own imagination, drawing from their own personal experiences. 

There it is . . . the power of suggestion.

from Be Here Now, by Baba Ram Dass

   "Did I ever tell you about the time that Tim and I . . . "

   And he'd say, "Don't think about the past. Just be here now."

   Silence.

   And I'd say, "How long do you think we're going to be on this trip?"

   And he'd say, "Don't think about the future. Just be here now."

   I'd say, "You know, I really feel crumby, my hips are hurting . . ."

   "Emotions are like waves. Watch them disappear in the distance on the vast calm ocean."
   He had just sort of wiped out my whole game. That was it—that was my whole trip—emotions, and past experiences, and future plans.

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I wonder: What are we left with when we lose our "whole game?" What are we left with if we lose our past, lose our future, lose our emotional reactions? All we have is this moment . . . right now. We lose our "whole game," but what do we gain?