Reflections on Shame

May My Wings Grow Again

"How could someone like me, someone so lowly and wretched, ever approach the perfect Lord? I was Icarus. Only, I was an Icarus who had broken his own wings."

— From my essay on Romans

There was a time when I, too, lived in the depths of despair.

I struggled to become a better person, someone who could pray longer and more earnestly. Back then, I described myself as "an Icarus who had broken his own wings." The shame I felt at being unable to draw closer to God was so overwhelming that I chose, instead, to break my wings altogether.

Underlying this feeling was a painful discrepancy between the person I believed I ought to be and the person I actually was. It was a sense of alienation, or perhaps more precisely, shame.

To close that gap, I wanted to strip away every trace of ugliness I could find within myself. But that was far easier said than done. No matter how fervently I prayed, how deeply I reflected, or how desperately I tried, nothing about me seemed to change.

Why, for instance, had I spent an entire day silently cursing a friend simply because of a harmless joke? Why had I nurtured envy and jealousy toward a friend who was working hard to live a meaningful life, rather than celebrating that friend's efforts?

Whenever I confronted these petty and narrow-minded aspects of myself, I was all too quick to break my own wings.

Strangely enough—or perhaps quite naturally—the poet Yun Dong-ju seems to have struggled with similar thoughts.

"Night after night, let me polish my mirror, With the palms of my hands, with the soles of my feet."

Yun Dong-ju is said to have possessed an exceptionally gentle and sensitive character. He was someone who could scarcely bring himself to speak harshly to others, yet remained endlessly severe and demanding toward himself.

This disposition is evident throughout his poetry.

In these lines, he attempts to polish the mirror reflecting his own shameful face. As though his hands were not enough, he is willing to scrub it even with the soles of his feet.

When I read Yun Dong-ju's poetry, I can almost feel the intensity of his self-scrutiny. Within that relentless examination of himself, I naturally recognize something of my own character.

Perhaps that is why his poems resonate with me so deeply.

In this sense, Yun Dong-ju polishing his mirror with the soles of his feet and Icarus breaking his own wings share the same understanding of the self.

Both are engaged in a desperate struggle to approach an ideal through relentless self-examination and criticism, hoping to find even the smallest measure of consolation.

At the slightest mistake in my words, or during even the briefest moment of self-reflection, I would break my own wings and plunge helplessly downward.

Thus, the sound of Yun Dong-ju scrubbing his mirror and the cracking of Icarus's wings carry essentially the same meaning.

Yet it is no coincidence that Yun Dong-ju, in particular, is remembered as the "poet of shame."

Throughout his life, he never seemed to tire of feeling ashamed of himself. He possessed the remarkable ability to weave self-criticism into virtually every poem he wrote.

It has been a long time since I last described myself as Icarus.

Perhaps I have broken too many wings. Now, I can scarcely claim that I am even capable of feeling shame.

There was once a time when I, too, seemed to polish my mirror endlessly, when I prayed without ceasing. But eventually, I grew weary of confronting a nature that refused to change, and I abandoned the practice of self-reflection.

There were stains that no amount of effort seemed capable of removing, and I simply became exhausted.

Unlike Yun Dong-ju, my threshold for shame has grown so high that I no longer feel the discrepancy between my actual self and the person I aspire to become.

Instead, the only shame I now experience comes from my inability to feel that discrepancy at all.

In other words, I have become desensitized to shame.

I am ashamed that I can no longer feel ashamed.

People sometimes tell me that being capable of such reflection is itself remarkable, that it is already proof of my maturity.

As much as I wish those words were true, I know they are not.

Merely facing the mirror is not enough. True meaning lies in having the courage to actually polish it.

At least, that is what I believe.

And yet, I find hope precisely here, because the ideal I wish to reach is unmistakably clear.

It is so clear, so simple, that I almost hesitate to acknowledge it.

I have a responsibility to fulfill the hopes once held by my younger self.

Even when it is painful, even when facing myself seems unbearable, I must learn to polish the mirror, just as Yun Dong-ju did.

Or, at the very least, I must find the courage to try.

I must hope that my broken wings will one day regain their strength.

There is only one thing left for me to wish for.

May my wings grow again.