by Tom Delahunt, the #hobopoet

In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl recounts a moment of quiet defiance within the unimaginable horrors of the concentration camp—a fellow prisoner dipping the ladle to the bottom of the vat to fish out a few peas. This small act, seemingly insignificant amid the relentless suffering, was not merely about survival but an assertion of human dignity. It was, in its own way, a song—a defiant aria against despair, where meaning was salvaged not through grand gestures but through the simplest of exchanges.

Another particularly moving passage involves a sunset, where he and other prisoners pause in their suffering to marvel at the colours in the sky. In that moment, Frankl realizes that meaning can be found not just in grand events, but in the fleeting, often-overlooked details of life—such as nature’s quiet beauty. This moment encapsulates his philosophy: that even in suffering, one can choose their attitude and find purpose.

Frankl understood that in the most stripped-down, dehumanizing circumstances, the deepest expressions of humanity emerge. Peas for a song, or light in the setting sun is more than just an anecdote; it is a meditation on the quiet negotiations between survival and meaning. The decision to share a few peas, or stop and see light to offer something when there is almost nothing left, reflects the profound truth that meaning is not only found in endurance but in the moments when we choose to honour life beyond mere existence. Even in the face of unspeakable suffering, humanity persists in the small, everyday choices to uphold integrity, kindness, and connection.

This moment is not simply about hunger, nor is it about the transaction itself—it is about what remains of the human spirit when all else is stripped away. To trade food, the last tangible thread to life, for a song—an ephemeral act of beauty—is to declare that even in the abyss, something sacred endures. Frankl’s insight is that meaning is not imposed from above but crafted in the choices we make, even in the darkest places. It is in these acts, these fragile offerings, that we find not just survival but transcendence. Peas for a song, an aria of defiance, a whisper of hope.

This particular moment in Frankl’s narrative carries a profound weight, echoing a timeless truth: the invisible struggles of the marginalized—those whose suffering is often dismissed or overlooked—are too often rendered invisible until they cannot be ignored any longer. It is the very act of bearing witness to such quiet, seemingly trivial moments of humanity that elevates them to their true significance. What Frankl conveys so brilliantly is that the capacity to endure suffering, and even to find meaning in it, lies in our ability to recognize and act upon the most subtle threads of connection between ourselves and others. These acts may not be celebrated in the world’s eyes, but they are often the most meaningful, for it is through these acts that we demonstrate our shared humanity in the face of a system designed to strip it away.

Frankl’s work transcends the horror of the concentration camp to offer a more universal meditation on the human condition. It speaks to the quiet power of choosing compassion, to the way in which even in the darkest moments, small acts of kindness can create ripples of meaning that defy the overpowering forces of suffering and oppression. These moments are not just personal triumphs but acts that speak to the potential for transformation in a world that often disregards the fragile, the broken, and the unseen. It is in these moments of offering—of dipping the ladle, of sharing a meagre portion of peas—that we are reminded of our ability to reclaim meaning from the depths of despair, and perhaps more importantly, of the immense value of those we tend to overlook.

This is the reality of academia. Its process-driven nature ensures efficiency, but at what cost? Its emphasis on streamlined productivity, its preference for order over disruption, and its demand for neatly categorized identities leave little space for those who do not fit. In particular, those with protected characteristics—disabilities, neurodivergence, chronic illnesses—find themselves trapped behind walls of process, their existence only acknowledged when it is convenient, their struggles hidden beneath the structures that claim to support them.

To be protected, one must first be visible. Yet, the hidden disabled are easy to keep hidden, easy to occupy behind layers of forms, assessments, accommodations granted but never quite sufficient. The nature of ableism in academia is not just in its explicit exclusions but in its quiet, relentless demands that the disabled conform, assimilate, and perform as if their struggles do not exist. The system allows for accommodations but punishes those who need them; it begrudgingly permits difference but does not celebrate it.

The #hobopoet, a Hermann Hesse (2000) riverboat philosopher of poetic rawness, sits at his chessboard, setting the pieces, waiting for company. He is both hopeful and alone, aware that for change to come, the game must be played. The board is a metaphor for the power structures within academia: the kings and queens of theory and administration, the knights of innovation, the pawns of precarious labour. He examines the pieces, wondering how to make space for the unheard, how to shift the game toward a more just and inclusive reality.

But this chessboard is not simply a game—it is a site of transfiguration, a Husserlian space of transcendental phenomenology. The pieces are not static; they move and evolve, much like the Wandering Lamb, a being that is neither simply an adventurer nor an observer. The Lamb is the mycelium, the vast, unseen network of connection and unconditional love that runs beneath the surface of humanity. This is the red thread, the legacy that binds past to future, thought to emotion, philosophy to social observation. The Peas for an Aria are not just a moment of kindness—they are the foundational roots of an existence understood through Parse’s theory of human becoming.

“In my honest opinion, I cannot validate my learning journey for others. It has been hell but relived, and the deaths of self, have been at my very core. You see, the real growth comes in the darkness, where you are left only with compulsion and sanity, lit with the fragile flame of hope.”
— Delahunt T. (2025)

The examination of the void is central to the process of human becoming, a place of internal rupture and profound transformation. Nietzsche’s concept of the abyss, where one must confront the monsters within, parallels this void, where trauma and pain distort our sense of self and reality (Nietzsche, 1886). In this place, the individual is often forced to reckon with the deepest parts of their psyche—those untold stories, unacknowledged wounds, and the invisible scars of past experiences. In trauma, as Dr. Parse suggests, human becoming is not a linear process of positive growth but rather an ongoing, sometimes painful, reassembly of selfhood from the fragments of our lived experience (Parse, 2014). This is where the notion of Kintsugi comes in: the art of mending broken pottery with gold, symbolizing the healing and honouring of cracks and fractures in our existence. Trauma, then, is not a rupture to be discarded but a part of the process that allows us to reconstruct and find meaning in the broken pieces of our lives. The very void in which our demons dwell becomes the place where new forms of knowledge and strength emerge.

As with all journeys of becoming, the most profound growth occurs in the darkness—where hope, though fragile, is our only guiding light. In the void, we are left with the rawest forms of compulsion and sanity, pulling us toward a deeper sense of self-awareness. This fragile flame of hope is the constant, the thread that connects us to possibility, even when everything else feels lost. As psychoanalyst and philosopher Carl Jung posited, it is through the confrontation with our “shadow”—the parts of ourselves we repress or deny—that we begin to integrate these darker aspects into our conscious self, ultimately leading to greater wholeness (Jung, 1953). This process is not quick nor painless, but it is in the very struggle, in the examination of our darkness, that we come to understand who we truly are. Like Kintsugi, the gold of our experience lies in the brokenness, the vulnerabilities, and the moments of fragility we endure. True transformation emerges not from avoiding the void but by stepping into it, embracing its lessons, and allowing it to guide us toward an evolved sense of being.

In considering the transfiguration of the hidden disabled, we are drawn into a philosophical and creative exploration that fuses the insights of Spinoza, Goethe, Kafka, and Frankl. Spinoza reminds us that all things, including suffering, are part of a larger, divine unity—meaning that even the hidden or disabled are integral to the unfolding of existence (Spinoza, 1677). Goethe’s notion of continuous transformation resonates deeply here, suggesting that the journey through suffering is not a breakdown, but a becoming, a movement toward wholeness (Goethe, 1809). Kafka, with his portrayal of alienation and absurdity, reminds us that transformation can be disorienting and frightening, both for those who experience it and for those who witness it (Kafka, 1915). Yet it is Frankl who offers the final piece, asserting that meaning can always be found within suffering, and that the fear others experience in response to the hidden disabled is an invitation to engage with that suffering and discover new layers of meaning (Frankl, 1946). Together, these thinkers suggest that the journey of the hidden disabled is one of profound transformation, where the discomfort of others can become a doorway to deeper understanding.

The fear that arises in those who do not understand this transformation is not something we must control, but something they must work through themselves. In our creative expressions, like the humble pea in soup, there is an invitation for others to witness the potential for change—even in the most difficult of circumstances. Frankl’s view that “suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds meaning” (Frankl, 1946) offers us a framework for understanding how even the smallest details—like peas in soup or a song—can become profound acts of resistance and hope. It is in the quiet moments, amidst the fear and the struggle, that we begin to see the true power of transformation—both for those hidden and for those who witness their metamorphosis.

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And what of the Butterfly Farmer? This is no simple poem on the wall of a university; it is the next layer, the semantic bridge between trauma sensitivity and emergence. It is the act of creating safety, of crafting spaces where hope does not just exist but thrives. It is a legacy project, a site of ontological formation, a Husserlian “what if”, much like Ken Robinson’s dream of an education system that fosters creativity rather than stifling it.

Mastery is not about reaching a destination but about understanding the symphony of thinking—the ability to blend, to harmonize, to become. The Table of Consciousness is not just a chessboard; it is a space of inspiration, of gathering, of artistic and existential arrival. It is the very essence of the Diamond Gardener, the celestial and visual embodiment of human potential realized. The pieces are no longer just players in a system—they are conduits of emergence, shifting the narrative, rewriting the game.

This is more than theory—it is lived experience. It is the reality of being left behind in early childhood, of witnessing trauma unfold in A&E wards across the UK and New Zealand. It is the understanding that poetry is not confined to books but lives in the classrooms of Kent, in the eyes of children like Max, who felt seen for the first time. The #hobopoet is the shepherd, but once, he was the lamb.

This is the Peas for an Aria: a moment of quiet defiance, a red thread of love, a legacy of transfiguration.

References:

• Camus, A. (1942). The Myth of Sisyphus. Gallimard.
• Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1990). Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience. Harper & Row.
• Frankl, V. E. (1984). Man’s Search for Meaning. Beacon Press.
• Goethe, J.W., 1809. Faust. Translated by A. H. Wells, 1938. Dover Publications.
• Harari, Y. N. (2015). Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind. Harper.
• Hesse, H. (2000). Siddhartha. Dover Publications.
• Husserl, E. (1931). Ideas: General Introduction to Pure Phenomenology. Macmillan.
• Jung, C. G. (1953). Psychological Aspects of the Persona. In Collected Works (Vol. 7). Princeton University Press.
• Kafka, F., 2002. The Metamorphosis. Translated by D. Wyllie. Legend Press.
• Nietzsche, F. (1886). Beyond Good and Evil. Project Gutenberg.
• O’Donohue, J. (1997). Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom. HarperCollins
• Parse, R. R. (2014). Human Becoming: A Theory for Nursing. Jones & Bartlett Learning. https://students.aiu.edu/submissions/profiles/resources/onlineBook/D6u5i7_0803633122Nursin.pdf#page=284
• Parse, R. R. (1998). The Human Becoming School of Thought: A Perspective for Nurses and Other Health Professionals. Sage Publications.
• Robinson, K. (2001). Out of Our Minds: Learning to Be Creative. Capstone.
• Spinoza, B., 1677. Ethics. Translated by E. Curley, 1994. Penguin Classics.
• Tolle, E. (1997). The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment. New World Library.