On the Disorderliness of Lives

I'm currently taking a class on the history of the French Revolution, and the professor is incredible. He is the most brilliant individual I have ever met. Also, he is incredibly well-spoken and lots of fun to listen to. The other day in class he made a comment on which I have been ruminating. He was talking about the Terror, the period of the revolution where everyone started guillotining the aristocracy and anyone who betrayed the revolution, and he was trying to help us understand its causes and what it was like for people to live through that time period. And then he said it: "lives are not orderly." It was very simple, and yet so deeply profound.

Growing up in the church you are often led to believe the opposite-- that there is a distinct order and pattern to which one must adhere to in life. When you're eight, you are baptized. For boys, you receive the priesthood at the age of twelve. After high school, you go on a mission. After getting back, you get married as soon as possible. You go to school. You get a job. You have kids as soon as possible. And then you support your family. And that is the order of life.

But the problem with looking at life this way is that lives are not orderly. There is beautiful degree of chaos that seems to govern our interactions, and life is anything but predictable. Setting up a system of rigid expectations becomes harmful because when they fail us, we feel deeply discontent, even like we're failures for not adhering to the order of things. (Of course planning, preparation, and having some concept of orderliness is important--let's not throw out the baby with the bath water. But that's besides the point I'm trying to make.) I've found both in myself and in others that when things become disorderly to a certain degree, people begin to freak out and want to give up. But I think that being frustrated over disorder is missing the beauty in the ordeal.

Anyone who has talked to me for more than fifteen minutes about humanity will know that my favorite comparison is to trees. I always compare people to trees. (Sidenote--I was giddy with joy the other day when I read moral psychologist Jonathon Haidt say "I think a better metaphor is that people are like plants...") The reason I do this is because trees are messy. They grow in random shapes and the branches twist in different directions. No two trees are completely alike, and yet they all have an incredible, inherent beauty. And here's the thing I love most about trees-- they don't try to be beautiful. Nothing in the natural world (except people) really tries to be beautiful. Sunsets, oceans, and waterfalls are all just inherently beautiful. And you know what? We don't really have to try to be worth something either. Each of us has an inherent worth simply because we exist. Also, trees don't make mistakes... they just grow. Viewing our mistakes solely as awful infringements against some grand, eternal moral code has never sat well with me. I find more utility in viewing them as growth opportunities.

But with trees and forests and the natural world... there's an element of disorder to it all. And I think it's the disorder that makes it beautiful. So when unpredictable changes come and our lives seem to be falling apart, I think it's useful to ponder on the disorderliness of lives and to remember that the disorderliness is part of what creates the beauty.