Blood and Spirit

Nietzsche said the only kind of writing he loved was that written by a person in his or her own blood. “Write with blood,” Nietzsche said, “and you will find that blood is spirit.” Spirit, or essence, finds its way into our words only when we risk offering ourselves wholly—the totality of our selves—not part, but every part, the sanguine and the shadowed, the composed and the awkward, the beautiful and the ugly strains of who we are. And this very much is a risk because such offering entails exposure, letting go of undue concern with the reactions and opinions of others, knowingly and willingly putting aside the many masks and protective coverings we so casually clad ourselves with, to intentionally forgo some of our safety, at least in some of our relations, and instead be bare before another as it were, and, conversely, to allow and invite some others to be with us in the same manner, exposed, raw, and simple. Living as such is not for the faint of heart. It requires real courage, and a reacquaintance with the dynamics of the heart. Indeed, the word “courage” comes from the Latin word cor meaning heart. To be heartfelt is to live courageously by spilling blood—one’s own—voluntarily, sacrificially, to speak, write, relate, and emote with others at the deepest level, as one knows oneself to be, and so to evoke the very same in the other. Bloodletting is loving. And true love hurts. But this is a good kind of hurt, a healthy and therapeutic hurting, the kind that comes with authentic being, the kind that recognizes real relations cost something at our core, of our essence, of our blood, of our spirits. My heart is hurting when I share, the poet Anthony Kiedis once wrote. Is yours?