If you don't know, why ask?
Photography by Joana Marques herself.
On the day of the commemoration of the 100th anniversary of Amália Rodrigues' birth, a reporter asked Jorge Fernando, who, on the occasion of the centenary, reformulated a version recorded in 1996 of "Ai Vida" (this is the new version), if he thought it was worth keeping alive the memory of the fado singer. I stopped and went back - wonders of technology?! - to make sure I had heard it right. I listened.
I was angry with that question, which, to me, was meaningless, unkind to the life and work of Amália and to the work and friendship that Jorge Fernando had with Amália. So unrespectful of the contribution of both to our collective identity and memory and of the legacy of both to the Portuguese language, to fado, to what we say with full mouth that is a part of being Portuguese. Yes, it is to remember and, yes, it is not to forget! What will become of us only with what happens here-and-now? What has become of the deep time, of the long time?
But well, why would the reporter ask a question: 1) to which the answer was more than obvious; 2) whose answer "never" would and could not be "No, I don't think so, we'll burn all the records and files. We won't remember Amalia anymore!"; 3) "You think so? Of course not. I had nothing else to do and, look, there are worse entertainments"; 4) among a list of other (im)possible and absurd answers.
Now, the poor reporter who, at last, was there live, perhaps also felt ashamed as soon as he realised that this was a "microphone foot" question, as a person I knew many years ago used to say, that is, a question to "fill sausages", to ask when no other idea comes to mind. A shitty question.
And don't we all, so often, ask similar questions? Yes, we do!
For, then, if we don't know, why do we ask? I am troubled by two distinct aspects of the question "If you don't know WHY do you ask"?
The first, and ultimate, in the case of the first question in this article; if we don't know what to ask (or what to say), why don't we: 1) remain silent until we know; 2) listen, only, and we may find out what we really want to know; 3) conclude the "interview" and... end.
The second is related to the practice of coaching and to a perfectly transformative learning path(1) that helped me to see beyond "what the sun shines on", through conversation, the virtues of words and the necessary distinctions and, above all, the discovery that asking, more than satisfying my curiosity, can (should, as far as coaching processes are concerned) serve to help the other to question themselves, to discover themselves, to have enough courage to "change the observer", which is to say, to be humble, curious and candid in order to accept the infinite points of view that can exist on a given reality, thus questioning whether their own reality is real and whether it is the only one.
In this respect, Rilke, in Letters to a Young Poet, is the "greatest". At least, for me, who read it as if the letters exchanged between him and Franz Xaver Kappus (the young poet) were, between the lines, principles and learning for a young coach. I can glimpse them in several passages:
Ask if his verses are good. Ask me. Before you asked others. He sends them to periodicals. He compares them with other poems, and worries when certain editors reject his attempts. (...) The Lord looks outward, and that is above all what he should not do now. (...) There is only one way. Enter into yourself. Investigate the foundation which calls you to write; test whether it takes root in the depths of your heart; admit whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. Above all this: in the quietest hour of your evening, ask yourself: 'must I' write? Dig inside yourself in search of a profound answer. And if it must sound affirmative, if you are allowed to face this serious question with a strong and simple "I must", then build your life according to this need; your life to the core of the most indifferent and limited hour must become a sign and a witness to this impetus. Then approach nature. Try then, like a first man, to say what you see and experience and love and lose. Do not write love poems; avoid from the start those forms that are too common and ordinary: they are the most difficult, for it takes great strength, mature, to give something personal in a field where good and partly brilliant traditions accumulate. Flee, then, from the gracious motifs your own daily life offers you; portray your sorrows and desires, the passing thoughts and faith in some beauty - portray all this with intimate, serene, modest sincerity, and use to express yourself the things of your environment, the images of your dreams and the objects of your memory. If your daily life seems poor to you, do not accuse it; accuse yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to summon its riches (...) Your innermost happenings deserve all your love, it is on them that you must work, in whatever way.
I see here the invitation to search within oneself, believing that each one of us gathers all the necessary resources; powerful questions (some somewhat extreme, however) - admit if you would have to die if you were forbidden to write; the conviction that each one is capable of building his own path which is different from that of others, with a language of his own sense and meanings; the capacity to learn or recognise authorship, the responsibility for what one is, for what one feels, does and says; the call to commitment to oneself and to the action(s) defined; the deviation from common languages and formats "from others", already worn out or not serving one's own; the recognition of the candour necessary forany encounter with oneself.
And if you find it disturbing and tormenting to think of childhood and the simple and peaceful things you associate with it, because you can no longer believe in God who seems to appear everywhere in it, then ask yourself, dear Mr. Kappus, have you really lost God? Is it not rather that you have never possessed Him? For when was that ever to have been? Do you believe that a child can have him, him whom men only with effort carry and whose weight oppresses the old men? Do you believe that he who really has it could lose it as if it were a pebble, or do you not also think that he who had it only by it could be lost? (...) then what thing gives you the right to miss him, as if he were someone from the past, he who never existed, and to seek him, as if he had been lost. Why do you not think that he is the one who is coming, who is imminent from all eternity, the one to come, the final fruit of a tree whose leaves are us?
Here, for me, is the idea that we will not find a God who does not exist until we build him within us, we do not lose him if we never build him. Whatever form God takes, let God be what he makes us, what makes up the map of who we are, a God who progresses with us, who moves backwards with us, who has doubts and pains and joys and certainties like us, who does not oppress us but invites us to metamorphosis.
Isn't the time for questions precious? And the questions themselves? So precious that it should be a serious offence and we should lose points for every time we ask a question without knowing why we are asking it.
As Roman Krznaric (author of The Good Ancestor) asked today in the House of Beautiful Business, "are we being good ancestors"? Are we caring for those who still belong to the future with the same care, the same love and courage with which we (say we) care for the here-and-now? Are we asking ourselves the right questions? Are we preparing the new generations to (ask) questions capable of (trans)forming reality(s)?
We have come this far because their thirst (for Rilke, for the "young poet", for Amália, for Jorge Fernando - it still is - and for so many) was long and their souls insatiable! To ask if it is worth keeping their memory alive is as stupid as naive and inattentive is the way we ask so many questions, so often. Thank you for the questions you asked, the answers you gave, and the questions you left for those who were (are) still in the future to try asking and answering!
May we be able to see and ask beyond what our narrow horizon allows us. May I be taking care so that my beloved niece Olivia, who does not yet know this world from the outside, knows that Ithacas (2) there are as many as her curiosity, courage, generosity and candour want to know and make known. And so be it!
PS: I hope I have not forgotten that these are just a few points of view, mine.
1. I finished last June, Way Beyond's Coaching Training Programme - the Way Beyond Coaching Class.
Ithaca, Konstantino Kaváfis in 145 Poems, FLOP edition. In the Way Beyond Library.
