as humans, we instinctively reach for coherence. when faced with contradiction, our first impulse is more often than not resistance as opposed to curiosity. we get frustrated. we get uncomfortable. we want it gone. but why is it that something that adds so much beauty, complexity, and depth to life such a source of shame?

f. scott fitzgerald once said:

“the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.”

the human impulse to draw false lines between things is an unfortunate side-effect of our rational instinct. we are uncomfortable with the intersection of the venn diagram. it’s aesthetically unpleasing, impious, and a matter of bad taste. and so, we grow lazy. we sort our beliefs into neat categories where right and wrong, true and false, loyalty and betrayal can happily occupy separate circles that never touch.

joan didion’s remark that “we tell ourselves stories in order to live” is, to me, one of the most insightful assessments of the human condition.

she writes:

“we tell ourselves that it makes a difference whether the naked woman is about to commit a mortal sin or is about to register a political protest … we interpret what we see, select the most workable of the multiple choices. we live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the ‘ideas’ with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience.”

as humans, our instinct to tell stories is as old as we can remember; something that can be traced to ancient hieroglyphics and the mapping of constellations. it is, in essence, a symptom of our insatiable need for meaning.

the philosopher, the historian, the artist and the scientist all have a common aim, and that is to make sense of the events and experiences of life. but this isn’t the problem. making ‘sense’ is how we survive, and the existentialists were right to say that there is nothing noble in nihilism.

the problem, then, is when our need to tell stories, to make sense, incapacitates us in the face of nuance, ambiguity and chaos.

if there is one philosopher who beautifully embraces the chaos and contradiction of life, it is nietzsche. as he so famously said:

“you must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.”

living in the gray area and wrestling with our contradictions takes courage. but i believe it’s also where life, and people, are at their most beautiful and interesting. to be compassionate with others, and perhaps even more challengingly, with ourselves, requires that we accept the contradictions that live within us. we are not fixed beings. we evolve and grow, much like perennials resurfacing with each new season.

growth is both inevitable and necessary, but it often puts us at odds with our former selves. it can be uncomfortable, undoubtedly. especially when we fear that changing our views makes us appear inconsistent, unprincipled, or hypocritical. but what if the ability to change is, in fact, a higher principle?

whenever i think about contradiction, i think of wittgenstein. in his early writings, wittgenstein believed that language had a fixed, logical structure where meaning was rigid and objective. in his later thought, however, he abandoned this view in favour of a more dynamic one. one that challenged, if not completed contradicted, the ideas that he once expressed with absolute conviction. instead of being fixed as he once believed, the significance of words changed within the confines of social context.

while drawing rigid lines may make us feel safe and give us a sense of stability, it also closes us off to nuance, ambiguity and truth. embracing contradiction is much more a mark of a mind that thinks deeply and a heart open enough to welcome new understanding than it is a sign of weakness or lack of principle. the discomfort that comes with this kind of introspection is what fuels real insight, and that’s why, at its most honest, writing is so vulnerable. it exposes our contradictions and refuses to let us hide. writing then, becomes an opportunity to see ourselves and others in all our beauty and complexity.

The Swan, No. 1, Hilma af Klint (1915)

committing to a set of values and striving to embody them with consistency is, without question, a noble thing. but maybe what is even more admirable is the willingness to hold those principles up to the light, to re-examine them in response to new experiences, new information, and a deeper understanding of the world and ourselves. and in having the courage to do so, we make space for others to do the same.