I did a small thing for someone who didn’t ask for it. His reaction was beyond gracious. I wish I could describe how big his smile was. And how small and selfish I felt a couple of minutes before. Driving away, the disparity must have triggered something in my head. Tears came to my eyes out of nowhere. I stopped randomly to enjoy the outdoors. It turned out to be the complete opposite of random. The moment and place spanned backward in a huge arc, traversing almost 40 years. I’m not sure if I’m crazy or the world is. Since I’m a part of it, there might be no difference, much in the same way that colors on the opposite end of the spectrum are an illusion of optics and nerve endings.
I’m 57. One of the things I’m grateful for is that I am almost oblivious to self-image issues. Most of the people my age spend way too much time preoccupied with how they think they look. Some will say that my gender affords me a different perspective. I wish I could infect people with my attitude. You can fight the tide of aging as best you can. But if you are lucky, age will gift you with more years. In exchange, you’ll pay the price by seeing a different person in the mirror. Be who you are if you can. Since there is no such thing as a universal standard of beauty, regardless of how you get there, it still won’t satisfy everyone. Almost all fashion and appearance trends are geared toward the external, which is a strange way to focus and spend time and energy. Most say they do certain things to make themselves feel better about how they look. There’s nothing wrong with this approach unless you also disingenuously fail to acknowledge that the way you get there is by feeling like people think you look good. It’s the same problem with social media; the likes and approval feed our need for validation and interaction. There’s an element of control and curation about how we present ourselves. All of which is bizarre to me. People see us and hear us in real time each day, without filters. We are who we are in full display. Rather, we’re supposed to be. Beauty is where you find it. As is entertainment, joy, laughter, and grief.
The same circumstances and appearances cause some to blossom and others to flail. This is proof enough that the entire game is a personal perspective. You can ride the wave or swallow seawater.
Though I’ve given away many of my sentimental things, I still have one of my friend’s first paintings. She rendered the woman on the beautiful hill and the sun as black.
Below the art is a framed caption I wrote: “Black Hole Sun: The same sun, yet filtered by negligent eyes renders darkly all that shines.”
We are not designed to be immortal or perfectly rendered. We are supposed to strive to do and be our best. We’d be a hell of a lot better off by focusing on our minds and brains, which avoid physical scrutiny and bring satisfaction in ways that function independently of our faltering bodies. What purpose does it serve to be an Adonis or Helena if entropy demands that it cannot be maintained? Everything falters with time.
It’s not depressing. It’s liberating because it requires you to get up, make coffee, and put on your boots. You nod at the wrinkles and instead focus on what makes you satisfied. You can’t get there if you’re fixated on what must fail.
The universe definitely has a perverted sense of humor. Perhaps It is providence that it wants to repeat a lesson or theme until it sinks in. Possibly it is coincidence.
The other morning, I wrote a post sharing myself and my thoughts. As happens, someone reacted very badly to it – and rightfully so from their perspective. But their reaction was based on a misunderstanding, one that punctuates what I was trying to say. I wish I could have given them a hug. It wouldn’t have solved anything, but silent human acknowledgment is often more than we need. She accused me of being self-righteous. It stung and triggered a defensive reaction. Which of course means that she’s right. We only react when something challenges us. I earned myself self-righteousness. It does not serve me well and of course I understand that it makes me unlikeable to some people.
I had so many alcoholics in my periphery that their stories overlapped. It’s because at the heart of it, it is the same story repeated in an endless loop, like trying to ride a unicycle while drinking hot tea.
All of us are out here in the world staying busy, earning a living, and avoiding facing the idea that in so many ways we are small children camouflaged as adults.
By coincidence, someone on my periphery was secretly struggling with the consequences of someone else’s choice to dive into the bottle. Her story overlaps with mine. Although she didn’t say it in that way, I could feel the ambivalent resentment and love reverberate. It’s a feeling I know all too well. It’s why I wrote the Bystander’s Prayer that sometimes comes back around to me on the internet.
There are people around you right now who need hugs and attention. But what they’re getting is the temporary allure of things that distract them. The distraction comes with a price, one paid incrementally and almost always ending the same way.
The things we choose to numb us end up isolating us. If not in person, definitely in our own heads.
Sunlight cures almost all of this. Setting aside secrecy. Embarrassment. Shame. Not changing is a choice. We’re supposed to be honest and open, starting with ourselves. The fact that we can’t be adroitly explains why we cannot be that way with other people.
No argument, appeal, or logic can pierce the veil of insistent ignorance. Learning can only occur if the person accepts new information as a new opportunity. Too many people consider their knowledge and opinions to be finished forever. Coupled with the inability to understand that they might be wrong, this tendency toward close-mindedness becomes toxic to both the person and the society around them. It also leads you to wrongly conclude that either Rush or Nicki Minaj sounds great at any volume.
“…but scientific ideas have been proven wrong…”
They are supposed to be. The premise of knowledge is expansion. New information isn’t met with denial. It’s embraced so that the base of understanding can be revised. Being wrong is built into the scientific method. We went from an Earth-centric bubble to one in which we are a minuscule component of a vast universe.
Among examples of this is that it wasn’t until the late 1980s that it was declared unethical to perform surgeries on babies without anesthesia. Another great example is that people thought Led Zeppelin made great music. The man who insisted that ulcers weren’t caused by stress was told he was an idiot – until he proved it by infecting himself. Germs didn’t exist for centuries.
We should strive to live our individual lives with the same mantra: new information leads to new ideas.
“Regarding human affairs, the expectation that you can heal someone’s inability to be open to new information is among the most foolish.” If you think that bombarding someone with information will change their mind, you’re forgetting that you’re talking to a closed door.
“I know what I know and no amount of proof otherwise will sway me.” This quote is from something I wrote four years ago and it perfectly sums up so much of the problem. We expend considerable money and effort to educate people. It’s useless unless all of us are willing to listen, absorb, and change our fundamental understanding of anything and everything.
Study after study has proven that we tend to believe something and then find ways to substantiate it, excluding other possibilities. It’s the problem with politics, religion, and interpersonal relationships.
Knowing you’re ignorant is the essence of humility. Just because I don’t know something doesn’t mean it’s unknowable. If you blind yourself to the likelihood of error, you’re going to be betting on dead horses.
Ignorance is easy to exploit. A questioning mind, though still ignorant, can’t be locked into permanence.
At 2:02 a.m., I watched a meteorite burn out across the sky to the north. I was sitting by the pool in the dark in a strange place watching the American flag wave across the street. Yesterday’s clouds were gone, leaving an open canopy view of the overhead nigjt sky. The cicadas were keeping me cacophonous company, their shrill ancient sounds providing a background syncopation to my thoughts. I made a wish upon a star. It went right to the heart of my reoccurring theme of abandoning secrecy and living a life of accountability and openness.
We can’t understand ourselves or other people if we continue to insist that we can control and curate the dissonance in our lives resulting from believing that secrecy is beneficial.
Some of my posts are interconnected without seeming to be. A few years ago, I went to one of the local ERs. My family member, who I will call Susan, had an accident. In the course of her treatment, it was discovered she had fallen at home and likely suffered an event triggered by a brain injury. Because I have a background both in medical and secrecy, I was glad to have shown up. Had I not, she would have been administered a medication that likely would have killed her quickly. Another family member had decided to keep Susan’s history of excessive drinking secret. I understand the tendency to not discuss it. Being me, I didn’t hesitate to pull medical staff aside and indicate that alcoholism was an undisclosed factor. The doctor, despite having experience with all manner of such non-disclosure, reacted with surprise and took measures to quickly change how Susan would be treated.
Much later that day, I visited the hospital and discovered that some of the information had not been passed on to the nursing staff. The nursing staff once again immediately changed the medications for the course of treatment for Susan.
I’m not telling the story so that I will somehow look better. People who know me well know the opposite is true. I’m not saying any of this to point the finger at anyone. Most of us do the best we can and hope that we are rationally making the best choices. Family honor, misguided loyalty, and the inability to tell ourselves or the people around us tough truth combine to rob us of a better life.
Part of my truth is that a portion of my identity is tied to the resentment I experience when I deal with people who want to live in secrecy. The stubbornness and resentment has caused me sometimes to stick my foot in icy water and challenge people. My early life is full of such stories. One of those stories resulted in me discovering a sister. Others pushed me into huge fights when I foolishly tilted at windmills and asked people to choose differently. Conversely, the same obstinacy cemented my own feet, resulting in my idiocy morphing words of concern for my choices into accusations. We tend to recognize it later as love or concern. But in the moment? Our defensiveness whispers to us that we are being unfairly attacked.
My life history is littered with people who ruin their lives with alcoholism, addiction, or anger. Every person in my family who drank too much finished their lives still suffering from the little voice in their head that insisted that they continue drinking. It’s one of the reasons I’m proud of my sister. It took her a long time to look back on the arc of her life and tell herself that enough was enough. Each of us usually only takes action when it’s the only other choice. We sometimes talk and nod toward one another, once again agreeing that it has nothing to do with intelligence. We make choices, or adopt maladaptive ways to feel better. And then our strategies turn traitor and entrap us.
All of the preceding words also disclose my volatile resentment regarding secrecy. People can’t develop long-term drinking issues without secrecy. They can’t blow up their marriages without secrecy being perverted into privacy. We can’t become helplessly overweight unless we don’t talk about the elephant in the room or the ostrich in the closet. Depression blossoms because the difference in what people experience inside their private worlds in their heads becomes disproportionately silent. Isolation in thought or action inevitably brings toxicity. Even to otherwise normal behavior that becomes an unhealthy obsession.
If we had to experience the accountability of people around us knowing us in our private moments, it would be difficult to continue the charade of secrecy. Instead of choosing authenticity, we spiral into a cocoon of self-fulfilling prophecy. Image truly becomes the identity we cling to. The people around us flail and overthink because they bear witness to the consequences of our choices. Further out into our personal periphery, the people in our orbit are unaware. Most of the time I think we have this backwards.
A little bit ago, I navigated the dark and put my feet into the pool. After a few minutes, another dimmer meteorite scorched its way into non-existense as it penetrated the atmosphere above me. I didn’t make another wish, even though initially I wished that I wouldn’t overthink. I’m sitting in the late night or early morning of the last day of July. I’ve outlived people who were better than me. Definitely smarter.
For a brief second, the lesson of detachment and gratitude reminded me that it’s to be experienced. And the only way to experience anything meaningfully is to unflinchingly know yourself and live in the reality that you’ve been given rather than the one you attempt to craft.
Secrecy can kiss my ass. It’s no irony that I’m sitting in the dark writing this.
I’m sitting outside in the dark at 3 a.m. There’s a beautiful breeze, the cicadas are buzzing, and I’m watching the surface of a small beautiful swimming pool. Above me is a crescent moon. Occasionally I can hear the flap of a small American flag across the street snapping in the breeze. Next to me is a delicious cup of bitter coffee. I’m in a conflicted state of Zen. One part of me is experiencing the beauty of the dark, absent other people. The other part of me is thinking and overthinking.
Over the weekend, a friend posted a list of guidelines for living a good life. Superficially, they are great rules. Something about them, though, bothered me.
“Honesty builds trust and integrity. It involves being truthful and consistent…”
“Never pose with alcohol. Maintaining a responsible image is important.”
There is a dissonance to some of these guidelines.
Image over authenticity is dishonesty. It sometimes provokes a wolf in sheep’s clothing and goes to the heart of secrecy.
Feeling obligated to dress well outside the confines of comfort and practicality is foolish. Clothing is artifice, concealment, and misdirection. It does not add respect or enhance either you or the job you do. Underneath those clothes, you are a human being, functioning like all the rest. Fashion is a wasteful misdirection of veneer over authenticity.
Using the example of alcohol, if you choose to drink responsibly, people see you drink and you’re setting a good example of how to do it. If you’re not drinking responsibly, concealing this takes away the accountability of your choices. It also leads people to misjudge whether you need help before it’s too late.
So many of our problems as individuals stem from our apparent need to control what people might think of us. Some are one person on social media and another in private. It’s why we have alcoholism, drug use, depression, and hidden toxicity.
The issue isn’t image or professionalism. Rather, it’s how we live our lives in each moment, openly and honestly. If you choose to drink, smoke, or even enjoy crocheting small turtles, the people around you should know. If you’re in a picture doing any of these things, the picture is a true reflection of your choices.
If you don’t go to church often, it shouldn’t be a secret. In the early centuries of the church, worship was almost exclusively conducted in small groups or at home. If you don’t believe some of the practices of your church or religion, reveal them so that people can understand you. Even if they don’t understand or agree, the truth is that every person I know picks and chooses which parts they find to be meaningful.
If you’re gay, transgender, or enjoy wearing clothing that other people say isn’t inappropriate, live your life anyway. It’s passing quickly and expecting to have the approval of everyone around you is a goose chase over hot coals. I’ve rarely met a person who doesn’t have some secrets.
Why are we afraid for people to see the real us?
Why does secrecy play such a large role in our lives?
The cicadas buzzing all around me don’t have an answer.
I’ve been here at the apartment simplex for a little over 3 years now. One of the best parts of the year, even though my door reaches almost 180°, is the return of my favorite hummingbirds. One of the hummingbirds I recognize has brought a tiny version of itself to investigate my feeders. It flies faster than a 4-year-old boy trying to explain that he is not the culprit who ate all the cookies.
I remember my 5th birthday, a plain white cake with white frosting. My grandma made it for me, the one cake that embodied practical love. My cousin Michael Wayne sat excitedly at the table with me. Because I have to reconstruct the tangents of memories, I know he was only three years and two months old at the time.
My mom never made a cake for me, at least not that I can remember. If I had one on subsequent birthdays, it would have involved my Aunt Ardith. So much of my childhood came from her generosity. She spoiled my cousin Jimmy on his birthdays and those cakes were more than enough to satisfy my cravings for cake. I don’t look back with sepia memory about my birthdays, but I also don’t remember with animosity. Mom had her own issues to contend with. That almost all of them were the result of her choices is irrelevant. The realization of my own hypocrisy prevents me from judging her like I once did. Having said that, if I were to hear her say, “I am what I am” one more time, I’d use her hair spray to light her bee bonnet hairdo on fire. My brother Mike grew to turn his hatred for our mom’s mantra of “I am what I am” into a series of brilliant jokes, often rendered in the voice of Popeye.
When I think about my fifth birthday, I also love to frame it in the context of the fact that an entire secret life was already gestating inside a stranger’s body. My birthday is in March. As my cousin and I sat in a shotgun house’s kitchen devouring cake, my sister still had two months to wait before she’d come into the world.
It wasn’t until a few short years ago that she and I reconstructed why my dad broke his vow to never again leave Monroe County. After being in Indiana and prison, he returned to his stomping grounds, insistent that he’d die in his boots in the dirt of his birthplace. Despite his promise, it wasn’t long after that my family suddenly fled to Northwest Arkansas. It wasn’t until New Year’s Day in 2021 that I met my sister for the first time. We accidentally discovered that my dad fled Monroe County to escape his secrets. My sister was at the fulcrum. Dad died in 1993, 28 years before I’d met my sister.
I love that my obstinacy regarding genealogy and DNA gave me answers I KNEW were there – and that the same stubbornness on my part to accept the family’s malevolent veneer of family honor gave my sister answers. I ripped the truth out of their hands.
When I dream, I often think of zooming down from the sky, rapidly approaching the tin roof of the little house on the hill that bookmarks my childhood. I end up sitting on the porch. Because of technology, I can “see” the overlay of memory. Though it’s been five decades, the two trees in the front are still standing. This amazes me. The house is long gone, the driveway was expanded for a nearby house, and even the ditch banks gave way to gentle slopes. But under the picture is the template of tar paper, storm cellars, creosote railroad ties, mosquitoes, and screen doors that had better not be slammed. These things are the ghosts that are more real to me than what my eyes see on Google Maps.
Time moves ten times slower there. Even when I sit outside here, listening to the cicadas, I’m hearing them from my childhood, out in the fields. The roar of insects in the middle of expansive fields and heat is something that I wish everyone could experience. It’s the background static of the universe if you live in a place to grow things. The night is truly night in those places.
People wax nostalgic about those times, to return to simplicity. It wasn’t simpler. It’s just that we gloss and filter, remembering the terrible valleys and also the green fields and the people who sat with us when we witnessed them.
My other sister’s birthday is Monday. She will be 21,917 days old. That’s 60 years for those of us mundane enough to celebrate the wrong milestones. We don’t live in years. We wake up to the sunrise with the ability to start over. She started over a few short years ago. And because life is a series of lightning bolts, she recently started over again. When my sister talks, the Monroe County inside her oozes through her with a drawling Southern accent. I think she is wise enough now to see that the birthday isn’t the thing she should be happy about. Birthdays require no nod and come to us relentlessly if we are lucky. I hope she celebrates the 21.917 days instead. Monday will be just another day, one she’s waking up to. I ask her to dive into memory and recall what it felt like to sit in the back of a pickup for endless hours over mountains, seeing the house on the hill finally come into view. Knowing that Grandma would be inside.
For me, I’m going to sit and think about white cake and cicadas. And secrets that should have never been secrets. One of them was a person, an entire universe of life that was kept hidden.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 