Chapter 46: Putting All of Yourself Into Small Things

The Words: Fernando Pessoa (as Ricardo Reis), 1933

On 14 February 1933, a poet who signed his name Ricardo Reis wrote a short ode. In my own words, it says: to be great, be whole. Leave out nothing of yourself, and exaggerate nothing of yourself. Be all of yourself in each thing. Put everything you are into the smallest thing you do. The ode closes with a picture of the moon: the whole moon shines in every lake, because it lives high above. The poem was written in Portuguese. Its author, however, was not really named Ricardo Reis. He was Fernando Pessoa, one of the most unusual poets of his century.

The Life Behind the Words

Pessoa was born in 1888 and died in 1935. He spent part of his childhood in southern Africa, where he went to school in English, and as a young man he returned to the city of his birth and stayed there for the rest of his life. He earned his living by writing business letters in English and French for trading firms. In his lifetime he published only a little. After his death, a trunk was found full of his papers: many thousands of pages of poems, prose and plans, most of them unknown to the world.

Those papers showed something remarkable. Pessoa did not write only as himself. He invented other poets, each with his own life story, his own style and his own way of seeing the world, and he wrote whole bodies of work in their names. He called them heteronyms, which means "other names". One was a poet of nature, one was an engineer who wrote loud, modern poems, and one was Ricardo Reis, a doctor in the story Pessoa gave him, who wrote calm odes in the manner of the old poets who wrote in Latin. It is moving that a man of so many voices wrote such a clear call to be whole.

What the Words Ask of Us

The ode asks for two things at once. First, leave nothing out: do not bring only half of yourself to what you do. Second, exaggerate nothing: do not make yourself bigger or more important than you are. Together, these two rules describe a person who is fully present and also honest. The image of the moon explains why the size of the task does not matter. A small lake and a large lake both hold the whole moon. In the same way, a small task can hold all of a person.

Think of Tomás, who is forty and repairs shoes for a living. Most days bring the same jobs: a heel, a sole, a broken strap. He could do them half-asleep. Instead, he looks closely at each shoe, thinks about the person who will wear it, and finishes the stitching as if someone important would see it. Nobody praises a well-mended heel. Yet his customers keep coming back, and Tomás goes home tired but calm. He has been whole in small things, and the work has given him a quiet dignity.

Similar Words From Around the World

Michel de Montaigne, who wrote in French in the 1580s, says something close in the last of his Essays, "Of Experience". In my own words, he says that our great and glorious masterpiece is to live fittingly, which means to live well, as each moment asks. Montaigne does not point to great deeds. He points to the art of living the ordinary day properly. Reis and Montaigne agree that greatness is not elsewhere. It is in how fully we live the hour we are in.

An older voice, Confucius, adds another side. In the Analects, 7.22, he says that when three people walk together, one of them can be his teacher: he follows their good points and corrects in himself their bad ones. Reis asks us to bring all of ourselves to each thing. Confucius asks us to bring our full attention to each person, even on an ordinary walk. Both teach that nothing is too small to deserve our whole presence, whether it is a task, a moment or a companion on the road.

Living It Today

This idea suits many kinds of lives. A student can give full attention to one page instead of half attention to ten. Someone who cooks for a family every day can make one simple dish with real care. A retired reader may find that the smaller rhythm of later life gives more room for this kind of wholeness: the morning tea, the letter to a grandchild, the slow walk. Being whole does not need more time. It needs less hurry.

Today, choose one small thing you do every day, such as washing a cup, writing a message or making the bed, and do it with all of yourself. Notice the colour, the sound, the feel of it. Do not exaggerate it, and do not rush it. Just be there completely. If your mind wanders, bring it back gently. Like the moon in a small lake, you may find that your whole self can shine in the smallest place.

Chapter 47: The Love of Climbing Mountains

The Words: Abu al-Qasim al-Shabbi, 1933

In 1933, a young poet named Abu al-Qasim al-Shabbi wrote a poem in Arabic called "The Will to Live". It is about the strength inside every living thing that wants to grow, rise and go on. Early in the poem comes the line that many readers know by heart. In my own words, it says: whoever does not love climbing mountains will live forever down among the hollows. Later, the poet asks the earth whether she hates human beings, and the earth answers that she blesses those who have high hopes and who gladly face danger.

The Life Behind the Words

Al-Shabbi was born in 1909 in North Africa. As a young man, he studied the old learning of the Arabic language and later studied law. From his teenage years he wrote poems, and he became known for a new, fresh voice: he wrote about nature, love, freedom and the beauty of the world, and he wanted poetry to speak from the heart rather than repeat old patterns. Some older writers did not like this, but many young readers loved it.

He did not have much time. Since his youth he had suffered from an illness of the heart, and he died in 1934, at only twenty-five. A book of his poems, called Songs of Life, was printed after his death. It is striking that a young man who knew his own body was weak wrote so often about strength, height and the will to live. His mountains were not only the mountains of the earth. They were the hard heights of hope, effort and courage that he chose to climb in his short life.

What the Words Ask of Us

The line sets two places side by side: the mountain and the hollow. The hollow is low, safe and closed in. The mountain is steep and tiring, but from its top you can see far. The poet does not say that people in the hollows are bad. He says that if we never love the climb, we will never see the wider view. The key word is "love". He is not asking us to force ourselves up every slope. He is asking us to learn to enjoy effort, because effort is the way to the heights.

Think of Selma, who is fifteen and finds mathematics very hard. For a long time she has avoided it, and the subject has felt like a wall. One week, a teacher shows her that each hard problem is like one more step up a hill. Selma begins to look at problems differently. She still finds them hard, but now she feels a small joy each time she reaches the end of one. She has not yet reached the top. But she has started to love the climb, and the view is already a little wider.

Similar Words From Around the World

A traditional saying in Japanese adds an honest note: fall down seven times, get up eight. Anyone who climbs a mountain will slip sometimes. Al-Shabbi praises the love of the climb, and the old saying reminds us that slipping is part of climbing. Falling down does not mean we belong in the hollow. What matters is getting up once more than we fall. Together, the poem and the saying describe a brave and patient kind of person: one who aims high and does not give up after a stumble.

A traditional saying in Korean says that the beginning is half of the whole task. Long ago, the philosopher Aristotle, in his Politics, book 5, chapter 4, also quoted a proverb that the beginning is half of the whole. This speaks to the first step of every climb. The hardest moment is often leaving the hollow at all. Once we have taken the first steps upward, the mountain is no longer only a dream. Al-Shabbi calls us up the slope; the old sayings tell us that starting is already a great part of the way.

Living It Today

Everyone has a hollow and a mountain. For a young person, the mountain may be a skill or an exam. For someone at work, it may be a new task they fear. For a person who is ill or older, it may be one walk to the end of the street, or a phone call to an old friend. The size of the mountain is different for each of us. The poet's question is the same: will we stay where it is comfortable, or will we choose, at least sometimes, to go higher?

This week, choose one small mountain in your life, something a little harder than you usually allow yourself, and take the first step. Then, if you slip, get up again. Try to notice the pleasure of effort itself, not only the result. A poet who lived only twenty-five years still sang of mountains and of the will to live. His words invite each of us, at any age, to lift our eyes and climb a little closer to the light.