Transparency Schmarancy

I wish I could see people transparent. Like a mist that only barely veils the morning sun, the skin could thin and clear and give way to lucidity, to light. When we reach for each other is that our subconscious desire? We pull, and clutch, and stroke as if to rub away a skin-and-bone barricade. Perhaps only ugly science lies underneath. Garish grinning skulls, careless organs flung together, pumping hearts that heartlessly extend existence. The intangible quality that we call our "inner light" finds no real space in our bodies. The soul remains undiscovered, supposedly trapped beneath ropes of intestines or quietly slipping in and out of cellular corridors. Like a forgotten monster from legend or an extraterrestrial being flitting amongst the clouds, we search for that essential wisp of a soul whose necessity became ingrained at infancy. Maybe before. Stories whispered like secrets at night , lines of poetry read by the fire, the repetition of song. "What a piece of work is man...in action, how like an angel." We have glorified man. Like the Greeks. Like folks from the enlightenment smoking and postulating on man's supremacy, we nod and agree that yes, yes, we must be something quite special. Yet how prone to darkness he is, too. Capable of the crippling degradation of his own species, and passive blindness to pain, he moves amongst the world like a villainous wretch intent on himself and his own pleasure. Yet there are gentle hands. Hands that smooth salty tears away from a sick man's cheek, that crack and contort after years of lifting, pulling, reaching for provision's sake, and that press themselves intimately into piano keys to send sweet music to listening ears. But who tells these hands where to go? What bids one man to cause destruction while another brings revival? I suppose each man is capable of each. How terrifying. Sitting in a café observing fellow diners and passersby, I see myself in each. The homeless man shuffling his feet, worn, each tired step like a lurch that could send him tumbling to unforgiving concrete. The waitress who is only keeping up, on the verge of snapping, impatiently clattering dishes and shaking her head quietly as if to ask, what am I doing here? The businessman buried in his newspaper, in his iPhone, in his sandwich. Avoidance of the world passing slowly by, he builds a construct of busyness around him, terrified that slowing down might mean just ending it altogether. The elderly widow sitting primly, like a solitary forgotten queen poised in front of her decaf coffee. She is alone, but her napkin is neatly folded and her jewelry has been recently polished. She is alone, but she will be alone and she will go gracefully. A girl my age passes by and I smile at her. She ignores the offering and lets her stiletto heels do the talking for her as she strides away. I don't blame her. I don't judge her pride, or his weary shuffling, or the impatient clattering, or the busyness, or her grace. It is, all of it, a carefully concocted way to cope. To get on with it. I'd like to tell them all, it's okay. I understand. You're going to be fine. We are all trapped inside, outside, somewhere, somehow. And the we that we wish we were, that we hope we someday could be, it could be the soul speaking to us, an inner light beckoning us onto higher heights. We may never know down here. We may never know the source of the quiet prod that coaxes us into becoming angels, or the shadow that sinks our hands into malevolence. Yet isn't it a comfort to know that we all have a choice between one or the other? Perhaps wishing for transparent people is silly. Maybe it would be best to grip the whole of someone in our arms, not excluding romance or science. We could wrap our arms around the flesh, and the soul, and the shadow. Because we know what's in us, too. And enlightened or not, pretty or not, we all have to get on with it.

Identity and Living a Life of Apology

Perhaps it's just me. Perhaps mine is a solo sickness, a unique illness. But I doubt it. I doubt it because I've listened to enough conversations, seen enough struggle to realize that the lifestyle of living as if sorry to be alive is a pandemic. It's the sort where you walk into a room, breathe, and immediately apologize for it. Apologize for intruding, taking up space, wasting the oxygen of the more important people surrounding you. For making a joke. That was stupid. What a waste, you think. For not being as pretty as her. For being prettier than her. Weighing too much. Weighing too little. For singing like an angel. For singing off-key. For being anything more or less than static, than a monotone buzz on the frequency of everyone else's radio. I find this apologetic state is rooted mainly in fear, even terror. Terror of not meeting the expectation. Whose? Peers, professors, parents. Anyone whose opinion is given absurdly gargantuan and undeserved weight. I could blame society. Many do. It is easier to blame a "they" than a "me", isn't it? "They" do this to me. And we pick apart "their" conduct like jurors examine a culprit marching up to the witness stand. We don't realize that the ultimate Judge lies inside. The constant criticism, unfair expectation, and refusal to be really, truly happy has ugly root in our own hearts, not in the heart of any "they" in existence. The wild imaginings that all eyes are picking me apart are false. And yet. Yet. There is more to this. The idea of trying to meet certain expectations, and living in fear directly correlates to the notion of identity. Identity. Our attempt to nail down the essence of who a person is. We take personality tests, develop clothing styles, choose favorites (favorite colors, songs, celebrities, movies, books, vacation spots), pay thousands of dollars to specialize in a single field, and then accept shallow labels like "bubbly", "sarcastic", "silly", and "logical" as part of our innate nature. Perhaps this strange compulsion to apologize arises when we think we've stepped out of the boundaries of these labels. Or discover that one cannot, (and should not) be "bubbly" every hour of every day. I know that I am romantic. But that doesn't mean I am not also severely pessimistic. I discover that being "logical" does not remediate this strange desire to dance like a deranged monkey in front of my three year-old nephew. I can spill beautiful words onto a page, concoct pretty sentences, and inspire audiences with my manner of articulation, but I also think gibberish and cursing can be more expressive and enjoyable than anything Hemingway said on his best day. My heart pounds with delight and my breath quickens when I step foot into a Catholic church, but I can be irreverent, too. I cry over PETA videos one day and eat foie gras the next. Because I am not limited to one identity. Because identity is fluid. It cannot be stagnant, nor predictable. We should toss out labels like moldy bread. Feel free to kick someone in the shins if they call you a "kind" person. Or laugh if "they" say you're morose. Or make farting noises with your arm if they dare call you "elegant". Because while "their" intentions may be perfectly nice, they are laying a trap wherein you feel inclined to apologize for turning out to be anything but what's expected. Dare to fluctuate. Dare to accept where you are today. It doesn't mean that you shouldn't set goals. Or that you shouldn't reach for your highest potential. It doesn't mean you should defy everyone's high expectations by becoming a permanent fixture on the couch forever, but it does mean you should feel free to take a nap there if necessary. What was said yesterday doesn't have to become a prediction for all of your tomorrows. Stand proud in the imperfect you today. In the you that isn't fully developed or finessed. The final product of you doesn't exist on this earth. So, what are you apologizing for? And the ugly voice inside that constricts your lungs, that prevents a full inhale-exhale when you walk into the room? Feel free to laugh heartily at him. Write him off. Ignore his very existence. And he will become smaller. This new lifestyle requires practice. A practice that must be very conscious and deliberate. It's turning the spoon away from the mouth of insatiable Insecurity to the deserving mouth of Acceptance. As I write this, I find myself breathing in and out, fully. Completely. And I realize that it's been too long since I've done this. Allowed my lungs to expand to their fullest potential. Breathing fully is the natural requirement of laughter. I'm sure this is the next step. Laughing with less question and more ease. Laughter is, after all, the ultimate defiance of life's curveballs and the last thing anyone would expect in the midst of crisis. May as well get used to the laugh lines now. :)