Latest / My Playful Wife — A Tender Literary Love Story / My Playful Wife — Season 1, Episode 48: The First Lesson

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My Playful Wife — Season 1, Episode 48: The First Lesson · My Playful Wife — A Tender Literary Love Story

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My playful wife. Until I could hear it. Until
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I stopped thinking it was dull and realized I'd
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just been deaf. I felt her smile against my shoulder.
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I'm the ninth day version. It just took me about
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two years instead of nine days. Tara came to
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the workshop on the first real morning expecting
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to be taught something, and Saloni taught her
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nothing, on purpose, for nine days, and very
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nearly lost her over it. I had this from both
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of them, over the weeks, from Saloni at our table
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in the evenings, and from Tara herself, much
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later, when she had come far enough to laugh
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about it. But that first morning there was no
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laughing. Terra arrived hungry, electric, ready
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to be shown the secret advanced things, the clever
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cuts, the master techniques that would let her
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leap ahead of her peers and begin, at last, her
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ascent. And Saloni handed her a bolt of the plain
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undyed base, the cheapest, dullest cloth in the
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room, the nothing cloth, the blank, and a pair
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of scissors she was not to use and said, don't
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cut anything. Don't make anything. For now, just
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learn this cloth. Sit with it. Handle it. Find
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out what it wants before you ever ask it for
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anything. Come back to me when you can tell me
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what it does on the bias without cutting it.
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That's the first lesson. And then she walked
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away and left her first apprentice sitting at
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a new table with a bolt of the dullest cloth
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in deli and instructions, essentially, to do
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nothing with it. for as long as it took. I confess
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I did not understand it either. At first, when
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she described it to me, the deliberate withholding,
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the nine empty days, the apparent waste of a
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gifted young person's time. It looked, to my
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untrained eye, exactly like the thing Tara accused
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it of being, a master keeping the good things
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back. It was only later, watching what it produced,
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that I understood I had been making the beginner's
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error, the same one Tara was making, the error
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of assuming that teaching is the transfer of
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content, that to teach is to hand over what you
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know. Saloni was teaching the opposite way, the
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deep way, the way that does not hand over anything
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at all, but instead arranges the conditions under
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which the student is forced to find the thing
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herself. It is slower. It is harder to watch.
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It is the only kind that lasts. Tara lasted about
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three days before the resistance broke the surface,
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which Celonie said was longer than she'd expected.
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She thinks I'm wasting her, Celonie told me on
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the fourth night, not unsympathetically. She
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thinks I'm hazing her or testing her patience,
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or worse. That I'm one of those teachers who
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keep the good stuff back out of vanity, who make
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the apprentice grind through pointless drudgery
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so the master can feel important. She came to
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me to ascend, and I've sat her down in front
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of a bolt of nothing and told her to stop. Every
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instinct, she has a screaming that she's being
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held back, made to do something beneath her,
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that the clock of her ambition is running, and
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I'm stealing days off it for no reason. She turned
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her cup, and I can't explain it to her. That's
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the maddening part, the part she'll hate me for,
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for a while. Because if I explain it, if I say,
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I'm teaching you to listen, the listening is
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the whole thing, the cloth will teach you what
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no technique can, she'll nod and think she understands
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and she won't, because you cannot understand
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the lesson by being told it. You can only understand
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it by sitting with the dull cloth until something
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happens. The explanation is worthless. The nine
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days are the lesson. And there's no way to tell
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her that the boredom and the frustration and
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the feeling held back are not obstacles to the
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teaching. They are the teaching. So she has to
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suffer it without knowing why, and trust me on
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no evidence, and that's a great deal to ask of
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a hungry young person, and some of them don't
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make it and walk out, and I let them, because
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a maker who can't sit nine days with a dull cloth
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is not a maker I can teach the deep things to
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anyway. That seems hard, I said, cruel almost.
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It's the opposite of cruel, she said. It's the
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only honest thing. The cruel teachers are the
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ones who give the hungry student what she's hungry
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for, the techniques, the shortcuts, the impressive
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tricks, and send her out fast and skilled and
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deaf, a brilliant maker of dead things who never
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learned the one thing that would have made her
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work alive. That's the cruelty, feeding the hunger
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instead of teaching the listening. I'm not going
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to do that to her, even if she hates me for the
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nine days. Especially then. On the sixth day,
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Tara confronted her. Celonie had been waiting
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for it, almost hoping for it, because the ones
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who confront you are the ones who are still engaged
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enough to bother. She came and stood in front
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of me, Celonie said, and she was shaking a little,
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with the particular fury of a proud person who
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suspects she's being made a fool of, and she
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said, I didn't come here to fold cloth. I came
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to learn from you. I'm good. You know I'm good,
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you saw it. And you've got me doing an exercise
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you'd give a child. I have things I want to make.
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I have a whole life I'm trying to start. And
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you're spending my days making me stare at a
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bolt of cloth nobody would ever use. If you don't
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want to teach me, tell me, and I'll go somewhere
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that will. Saloni almost smiled, telling it.
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She was magnificent, furious and proud and completely
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wrong and absolutely the kind of person worth
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teaching, because only someone who cares that
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much would get that angry. What did you tell
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her? I told her the truth, which I knew she couldn't
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use yet, but I owed it to her anyway. I said,
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you think the cloth is the dull part. and the
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making is the real part. You have it exactly
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backwards. The making is the easy part. I can
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teach a competent person to make in a year. The
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listening is the hard part, the part almost no
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one ever learns, the part that separates a maker
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whose things are alive from one whose things
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are merely well -made. And you cannot learn to
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listen to a brilliant cloth, a cloth that's doing
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half the work for you, seducing you with its
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own beauty. You can only learn to listen to a
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dull one. The plain base has nothing to offer
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you but what you can hear in it. That's why I
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gave it to you. Not to waste you. Because it's
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the only teacher honest enough to make you do
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the actual work of listening with no help, no
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flattery, no shortcut. Stay with the dull cloth,
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Tara. It is trying to teach you the only thing
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I actually have to give you. Or go. But if you
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go, go knowing that what you're running from
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is the lesson, not the absence of one. And she
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stayed. She stayed, Saloni said, furious. But
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she stayed. And that was the moment I knew she
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might actually become something, because the
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staying, when every instinct says go, the staying
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with the dull, true, slow thing when the whole
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world is offering you the bright, fast, empty
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one, That's not a small capacity. That's the
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whole capacity, really. That's the thing the
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entire craft is built on. She just demonstrated
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she has it. She doesn't know she demonstrated
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it. But she did. It happened on the ninth day,
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the thing Celonie had been waiting for, and Celonie
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was not even in the room when it came, which
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she said was exactly right. You can't be watching
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when it happens, she told me. It's too private.
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It's a person meeting their own hands for the
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first time. You don't stand over that. I'd gone
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out for chai, and I came back and she was sitting
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completely still with the plain cloth held up
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to the window light, the way I held the gray
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-green the day I found it, and she had the look,
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not the excited look, the other one, the still
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one, the one that means something has finally
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gone quiet. And she didn't say anything for a
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long time. And then she said, almost frightened,
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it moves differently than I thought. On the bias.
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I can feel it now. I couldn't before I was looking
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at it, but I couldn't feel it. It's been telling
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me the whole time, and I wasn't listening. I
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thought it was a dull cloth. It isn't dull. I
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was just deaf. Saloni's eyes were bright, telling
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me this. With a particular pride that has nothing
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of ego in it, the pride of a person watching
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a thing they love be successfully handed on.
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I have seen that particular pride only a few
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times and never in connection with anything a
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person did for themselves. It is not the pride
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of achievement. It is something quieter and rarer.
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The pride of transmission. The joy of having
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got a true thing safely across the gap between
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one person and another. Parents have it, sometimes,
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watching a grown child do well the thing they
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try to teach. Real teachers have it. It is, I
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think, the purest form of pride there is, because
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there is no self in it. Saloni gained nothing
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from Tara's breakthrough, added nothing to her
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own name or fortune. She simply watched a thing
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she loved take root in new ground, and was glad,
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the way you are glad when something you planted
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comes up. That's it, she said. That's the whole
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lesson, and she got it in her own hands on the
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ninth day, with nobody telling her. She'll spend
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the next ten years learning technique, and that
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part one can teach her easily now because the
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technique will be in service of the listening
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instead of a substitute for it. But the listening,
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the actual capacity to feel what a cloth wants,
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to tell the true thing from the merely impressive,
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To hear what goes quiet. She has it now. It's
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hers. Nobody can take it back out of her hands.
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I didn't put it in. I couldn't have. You can't
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put it in. I just took away everything else until
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she had no choice but to find it in herself.
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That's all teaching ever is the real kind. Not
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putting things into people. Taking away everything
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that's keeping them from hearing what's already
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in them. I wrote that sentence down before she'd
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finished saying it because it stopped me the
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way the truest things she says always do and
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because I recognized it intimately from the inside.
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That is what she had done to me. Across the whole
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remade marriage, across the fortnight of the
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offer, across every silence she kept at the right
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moment, she had never once put anything into
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me. She had not taught me to love her better
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the way you teach a fact. She had not installed
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the awareness, the attention, the capacity to
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stay awake. She had simply, patiently, with enormous
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discipline, taken away everything that was keeping
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me from hearing what was already in me. The noise,
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the defendedness, the habit of leading with my
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reactions, the sleepwalking, until the man I
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actually was underneath all of it had no choice
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but to surface. I had thought for years that
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she was changing me. She was not changing me.
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She was uncovering me. The whole project of love,
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done well, I understood. Writing it down is not
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the addition of new qualities to a person, but
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the subtraction of everything that stands between
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them and the truest version of themselves they
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already, secretly, contain. You do not improve
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the people you love. You excavate them. I had
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spent the early years of our marriage, the sleeping
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years, doing the opposite, trying in my clumsy
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way to add things to Celonie, to improve her,
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to fix the parts of her that inconvenienced me,
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as though love were a renovation project and
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she a house with faults to correct. It never
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worked, of course. It only ever made her smaller
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and warier, because being improved by someone
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is indistinguishable from the inside, from being
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told you are not enough as you are. The remaking
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of our marriage had run the other direction entirely.
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We had stopped trying to improve each other and
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started. Instead, the slow, tender work of clearing
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away everything that kept each of us from being
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fully the person we already were. That is the
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only renovation that ever makes a person larger
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instead of smaller. And the deepest teaching
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in a workshop or a marriage is the same single
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act. The patient removal of everything that keeps
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a person from meeting their own hands. That evening,
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Saloni was quiet in the good way, the satisfied
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way, and she put her head on my shoulder on the
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sofa, and we sat in the lamplight, and she said,
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I gave her the first thing, the real first thing.
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Everything else is just details now. You gave
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it to me too, I said. The same thing. Years ago.
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I only just understood that's what it was. You
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sat me down in front of the dull cloth of my
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own ordinary life and made me stop trying to
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do something impressive with it and just listen
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to it. Until I could hear it. Until I stopped
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thinking it was dull and realized I'd just been
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deaf. I felt her smile against my shoulder. I'm
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the ninth day version. It just took me about
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two years instead of nine days. You were a slower
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student than Tara, she said, with great affection.
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But you got there. And you stayed, which is the
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whole thing, through all the dull days when you
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didn't understand why. You stayed with the cloth.
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Her hand found mine. That's the only lesson there
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is, really, in the end. The staying with the
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true slow thing until it turns out not to be
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dull. You learned it. Now I get to teach it to
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her. And someday she'll teach it to someone and
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I'll be gone. And the lesson will still be going
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hand to hand down a line of people I'll never
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meet. All of them learning to stay with the dull
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cloth until it starts at last to speak. I wrote
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the last of it in the fifth notebook, the ninth
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day behind us, the lineage transmitting. The
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first lesson. Saloni taught Tara nothing for
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nine days on purpose, handed her the dullest
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plain undyed base and said, don't cut, don't
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make, just learn this cloth, find what it wants
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before you ask it for anything. Tell me what
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it does on the bias without cutting it. That's
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the first lesson. Tara. Hungry. Came to ascend,
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resisted. Thinks I'm wasting slash hazing her.
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Keeping the good stuff back. Every instinct screaming
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she's being held back. Saloni. Can't explain
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it. If I say, I'm teaching you to listen, she'll
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nod and not get it. You can't understand the
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lesson by being told. Only by sitting with the
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dull cloth till something happens. The boredom
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and frustration aren't obstacles to the teaching.
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They are the teaching. The cruelty is the other
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way. The cruel teachers feed the hunger. Techniques,
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shortcuts, tricks, and send her out fast and
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skilled and deaf. A brilliant maker of dead things.
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Day six Terra confronts her. I didn't come here
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to fold cloth. If you don't want to teach me,
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I'll go somewhere that will. Magnificent, furious,
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and proud, and completely wrong, and exactly
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worth teaching. Saloni tells her the truth she
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can't use yet. You think the cloth is the dull
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part and the making the real part backwards.
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Making is easy, teachable in a year. Listening
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is the hard part almost no one learns. And you
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can't learn to listen to a brilliant cloth doing
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half the work slash seducing you. Only to a dull
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one with nothing to offer but what you can hear
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in it. Stay with the dull cloth. It's trying
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to teach you the only thing I have to give. Or
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go. But know what you're running from is the
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lesson, not the absence of one. She stayed furious.
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The staying with the dull, true, slow thing when
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the world offers the bright, fast, empty one,
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i .s. the whole capacity the craft is built on.
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She just showed she has it. Day nine, Saloni
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out for chai. You can't be watching, it's a person
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meeting their own hands, Tara still, playing
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cloth to the window light, the still look, not
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excited. It moves differently than I thought,
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on the bias. I can feel it now, it's been telling
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me the whole time, and I wasn't listening. I
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thought it was a dull cloth, it isn't dull. I
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was just deaf. The lesson? She got it in her
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own hands with nobody telling her. I didn't put
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it in, you can't. I took away everything else
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till she had no choice but to find it in herself.
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That's all real teaching is, not putting things
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into people, taking away everything keeping them
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from hearing what's already in them. Narrator's
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recognition, the mirror, from inside that's exactly
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what she did to him across the remade marriage.
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Never put anything into me. Just patiently took
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away everything keeping me from hearing what
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was already there. The noise. The defendedness.
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The sleepwalking. I thought she was changing
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me. She was uncovering me. Love done while isn't
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adding qualities, but subtracting everything
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between a person and the truest version they
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already contain. You don't improve the people
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you love. You excavate them. KP safe tender beat.
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I gave her the first thing. Everything else is
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details now, slash he. You gave it to me too.
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Sat me in front of the dull cloth of my ordinary
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life and made me listen till I stopped thinking
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it dull and realized I'd just been deaf. I'm
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the ninth day version. Took me two years, not
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nine days, forward slash. You were slower than
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Tara, but you got there. And you stayed through
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the dull days you didn't understand. The staying
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with the true slow thing till it turns out not
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to be dull is the only lesson. There is. Someday
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she'll teach it to someone and I'll be gone and
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it'll still be going, hand to hand, down a line
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of people I'll never meet, all learning to stay
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with the dull cloth till it starts to speak.
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To be continued in episode 49, The Hunger. All
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rights reserved. That was episode 48 of My Playful
20:25
Wife. If this story is staying with you, the
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