I used to believe, many years ago, that if I were a good enough writer, I could get everyone in the world to understand me. I used to believe that when people misunderstood me, it was my fault for not having communicated clearly enough. I would think: if only I could find the right words, then they'd understand... But I came to see that we interpret each other through the lens of our own experiences and values, and sometimes those are so vastly different that words, even the best and most carefully chosen, simply can't bridge the gap in understanding.
In spite of the fact that I recognize, intellectually, that this is the case, in my heart, I know some part of me still seeks the unattainable: complete understanding. It's why I write. It's why, over the years, I've kept up a voluminous correspondence with the people closest to my heart. It's a large part of why I blog. All of my writing, my best writing, says one thing over and over and over again: understand me.
I have set up a room here. I have decorated it. Through my writing, I have given all of you a view into the space I inhabit and have said: understand me. But I'm not able to give you complete access to the room; much as I try, all I'm able to give you is a window.
I imagine you arrayed outside in different locations: each with a different view into the room, none with a view that encompasses the whole room. One of you may be staring directly at me, while someone else looks at my lamp, or my arm, or my chair, or the little toe on my left foot. As I share, you shift positions: so that the person who was looking directly at me winds up staring at my toe, while the person looking at the lamp moves to look me in the eye. Each of you interprets what you see based on your own experience: you may see something that you think looks exactly like part of the headboard of a bed, when I can see it's actually a birdcage, or you may see that the pattern of the chair matches the pillowcases, something I myself have never noticed.
And in this medium of blogging, you can share what you see: when you comment on my posts, you hold up a mirror. As I gaze out, I see myself and my room reflected back many, many times. Sometimes the reflection looks very much like the what I see. Sometimes it looks much better (oh, I like those flattering mirrors). Sometimes the reflection I see is grossly distorted, fun house style, into the me I fear myself to be. Sometimes I see a vision of the me I could be (those are wonderfully useful mirrors). Sometimes I see the me I used to be, but left behind years ago.
At times, as the months have progressed and my blog has grown, I have been shocked to find that some of the most precious things in my room, my very special treasures, when reflected back from a certain angle, produce a horror show. But as disturbing as the horrific images themselves has been the possibility that they might be real. (After all, I used to live in the Matrix; reality can be a fuzzy thing with me.) It has taken me some time to trust my perceptions, to distinguish what was just a reflection, a trick of light, a distortion, based on the relative position of some of those mirrors to me. Yet, even after I have reassured myself that these images are not real, I've been left feeling shaken that they are something that could be seen here at all: as if Renoir, viewed from a certain angle could produce one of Hieronymus Bosch's scenes of Hell.
So recently, I've been afraid to put the most important parts of my life up for view. After all, I can stand to see a distorted reflection of my hand or a clock or a piece of jewelry, but I have not wanted to see that reflection of my own face, or my most precious treasures, again. So, for months now, whether you have noticed (as some have) or (as others have) not, I've been hiding; I've been turning my back to the window and holding up various small trinkets for your observation. But I am dissatisfied with hiding.
I am hoping that by admitting that I am sometimes disturbed by what I see, I can give myself permission to let those feelings go. I am hoping that by acknowledging that what I've seen at times have been illusions, I can laugh at the next ghost that shows its face. I am hoping that by writing this, I am building myself a prism to disperse the next distorted reflection I see. And, if all else fails, I know I can always turn off the comments when I need to and shut the curtains on all of those mirrors. Understand me or not, here I am.
Beautifully done.
Oh so eloquently said...
xoxo
LBC
Mary,
Your post "resonates" with the rumblings of my soul. For years I've had images of "fun house" mirrors, reflecting skewed views of myself it took DECADES for me to realize aren't ME ... but reflections of me from other perspectives ... that may have minimal validity and/or relevance. I'm reminded of two things as I type this comment. One is the Maya Angelou post I left at Sacred Ruminations yesterday (12-4-07) that I hope you’ll read. The other is a powerful little book called THE FOUR AGREEMENTS by Don Miguel Ruiz. They are (briefly stated):
1 - Be impeccable with your word.
2 - Make no assumptions.
3 - Take nothing personally.
4 - Always do your best.
Simple, though not always easy, rules for living that have made MY life better when I'm able to apply them. I hope you'll continue to share yourself just as you are.
Hugs and blessings,
I don't think I'd cope as well as you do with those ghosts.
Best wishes
This is my calling card or link"Whittereronautism"until blogger comments get themselves sorted out.
From the window I'm looking through, your room looks beautiful
It is so nice, though, in the midst of all the misunderstanding, to find someone who SO GETS ME. That was what was best about finding you, which has been one of the real treasures of blogging. Every time I think I'm done with comments, I remember that it's how we found each other.
Wow -- great images here. Thanks for opening up about this. I hope you feel better.
So glad storyteller brought up that book ... it's on my to-get list. That point, don't take things too personally, is the one thing I wish I put on my Rules list.
All of this, every ounce of living, is risky. So glad that you are willing to document yours.
One more thing: I've found that with blog posts, some more than others, people really want to share their life experiences and that sometimes that can come off as having a poor view into the window. But, truth be told, without the honesty and the life experiences, the comments would be dull as all get out! : )
Thank you for your courage. I pray that your writing helps you to find the freedom to be free.
I relate so well to that need to be understood. I wonder sometimes if it is because I cannot understand myself.
A little less than a year ago, I began to use my thoughts of others as mirrors to reflect into myself. I've discovered some ugly things and some beautiful things, both of which I've found it equally hard to accept.
My thoughts and prayers are with you.
Appreciating, as I so often do, your honesty and candor.
As I was reading this I kept thinking of two of your Rules to Live By post. About its all about you and its not at all about you.
I think we all want to be understood. Or maybe seen, but seen in whole, seen clearly.
I think of how many times I have wasted time and energy trying to explain to my husband AGAIN, as if it was my words that were unclear.
Anyways, write what you want here and people will comment or judge as they will. You're owning your own voice. And this is powerful stuff.
Lovely post. I really like the way you write, as you're very lyrical and poetic without being pretentious.
I haven't noticed you "hiding", to be honest. The only time I ever thought you were hiding something was when you were talking about your friend's new wife (you know thatfriend...the one whose wedding you went to). I could tell you really didn't like her, but you were so polite about it. I thought to myself "Oh, go on - just say that you think she's a bitch!". But, well, you're American and Americans are far politer than us Scots!
Meanwhile, you're busy holding up a mirror for me. There are parts of me that I can't see except in the reflection of your mirrors.
Keep on keeping on, mpj.
I think we all want to be understood. Or to be seen clearly. I've spent a lot of time and energy trying to explain things to my husband yet again, thinking that if I just get the words right, he would understand. But really, we don't agree and that's the issue.
Your post day reminded me of your laws according to me post. It is all about me and it is not at all about me.
Thanks for continuing to open up and let us see, even if we all see different things.
I think you are so cool.
Hieronymous Bosch's painting of hell is my touch stone, as you will have noticed, I am sure.
Crazy world. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. I love the closed curtains part of this. It made me feel safe.
You have brought up things here that I can relate to and that I have thought of myself. You put it so well.
I am confused here. I think what you reveal and how you reveal it is pretty amazing. Is it the whole picture? No it's not. I believe who we are has much more depth than we can reveal in words or a single conversation. And just because we can only perceive one dimension at a time doesn't mean the other dimensions do not exist or are any less valid. I guess that is why the present is so crucial; it's the point of experience where perception and reality meet. If it changes, and it will, our perception should change as well but often it does not. Possibly because we do not keep pace with the moment...change our perspective... see things from a different point of view.
I do get the wanting to be understood part though. I used to think (still do at times) that it was my job to communicate the true, correct impression. And that's silly, really. I just don't have that kind of influence over another's perceptions—no one does. I can, however, influence my own perceptions so I am trying to focus on that.
I'm not even sure if this is what your talking about. But as you can see, you have me thinking again. That's a pretty influential thing, no?
I'm thinking of you as you work through this and keeping you in my prayers.
Somehow I missed this post when it was first published.
I am moved by your lyrical candor. I understand what you are feeling, at least in the way the prism of empathy scatters rainbows that catch my eye and make me think about myself. Isn't that a little sad? When we are most trying to practice compassionate understanding with another, we can only exercise it by locating a vaguely similar experience from our own life. But that is the twisted beauty of the human experience. What is most important is that we reach out and try to understand and care for one another. The dichotomy: "I love you", but "it's all about me".
I love you. I love the way you write, the way you are willing to put it all out there, the way you are with your family, the love you have for your husband. I love your humor, and I really love your constant allusions to The Matrix, cuz it's my favourite movie. I've seen it 26 times. In the all about me category [because, you know, the last sentence wasn't:)]: I love that you get me, or at least that I think SOMEONE out there gets me, but maybe it is just your little left toe swaying to the music and not your hand waving Hi. Me Too! The point is that I feel good, and safe, and reasonable in here, even though there are times when the rest of the world thinks I'm nuts for staying and knowing, believing in my heart and soul, that I am happy with my Love and my family and as long as there is progress that is good enough for me.
I write. I won't do any self-promotion here, cuz this is your gig. But I am working on something that will hopefully be published and useful, and I know this much to be true: If you are not willing to be brutally honest with yourself, and carve every sentence with the sword of truth, then readers will not relate because they will think you a fraud and know that you are holding back from revealing your best stuff. It is the truth that sets you free. When you are not guarding every word in fear that it will make you too vulnerable, your muse will hold your hand and take you soaring into your true self. A little Peter Pan and Wendy for you there. On the other hand, that willingness to be vulnerable and divulge too much for the sake of the craft is what give us writers a reputation for being reclusive, eccentric, and slightly batty. There is a price to pay for being brilliant. It's usually sanity. But if you find yourself eccentric, embrace it as a badge of honor, and know that you are not alone. I'm somewhere in the Pacific Northwest superstitiously wearing an ugly, lucky sweater and eccentrically writing too.
Big Smooch.