For a great most of us who occupy a small space of this world at one time or another, we justify it wholly acceptable yet restlessly unsatisfying to continue living just as we do. At least, this is a valid question of self-meaning that emerges at some bold moment during our lives, and for some, throughout our lives. This is because we, at least I, have lived a life of half-intentions, unrequited dreams and part-way glances, meeting the selves of others halfway and my self nearly not at all, at least, the deep parts of me that matter. We find discomfort in too long gazes and too short looks but stare just enough into others to run a mental algorithm, after a few exchanges, or even fewer encounters, to decide where on the value scale they fall in reference to our own, or to our family's, or to our morality's, and so forth. And therefore, treat them as such, as though appearance, preclusion of traits, occupation, accent, inherited wealth, or poverty, or all other habits of things that become formulations of value to us; we offer our own selves capable in that instance to determine what comparative relation we have with them, and they to us, which of our vectors align, or intersect, or run opposite, at least the ones we care to measure and discriminate, and that this becomes the conditional nature of how our human relationships take form. Or never do.
The in-between of too short and too long is a mechanical protective narration we follow; to never fully stay too long or go too deep for fear of what will be revealed. We find impermeable unchallenge to the habit of socially constructed human transaction - to manage superflous introductions or conversations as a polite follow-up to our pre-determinations, or in hopes that the person will do something, say something, that leans them more favorably to our judgment, and as well, leans us towards theirs. It is difficult for any one of us to just be, and this I think is true for some if not most. But not for all, however, because there are those rare humble earthstones who deliver only what they have to offer, typically a small open box with not much inside. They arrive on the doorstep of every conversation saying,"Hey, it's all free, and I don't mind if you don't take a thing." Many more of us claim this category than who should. In fact, the paradox of humility almost prevents such knowing.
That we may never completely know if others say what they mean or do as they believe, if their beliefs are deeply rooted or an accident of erosion; we do not know, but in any case, we find easily our gavel of judgment. We know about this judgment thing well, very well, in fact, because we are secretly guilty of the exact incrimination we graft upon the world.
Greater than the laws of science and experiment, it is necessary to place ourselves under the microscope of our own barrage of questions to carve a meticulous form of self-fact from the rigorous exercises of deduction and discovery and devices of all things inward. This is a type of necessary absolution, that is, to meet our eye with as much whole courage as we have wholly lacked, and finds no respite invitation in our social discourse, because eh, yes, the discourse means we talk less about each other and only of ourselves. What an awful, obscene proposition; to require those of us who hover stealth opinions about everything unrelated to our own deep selves to produce a handful of self-facts and some genuine vulnerability to prove it. Many of us have no ill intention by it; others, yes, but ill intended or not, the unknowing is quite the same.
For this I have no answers. Why is it that we are unafraid to wield analysis to all outer extremities - of governance, of community, of enemies, of lovers, and friends, and even complete strangers, of which we have exact and often extreme opinions. But to the facts of ourselves, we find we have very few, and even of those we would rather not be tested. Why is this? Why are we so afraid to know better the only inner creature we are given, to become more than merely acquainted with ourselves, to offer that peculiar stranger within more than small conversation during infrequent quiet moments, or retort with continuous doubt at her attempts of expression. This is what I do not understand, either of myself or of anyone guilty of the same charge. That is, we misuse the same incomplete application of algorithm against our self as we do against others, and by consequence, our self-knowing joins the army of our inaccuracy that predominates how we understand and participate in this world; indeed, not as wildly and fully as we should.
The entire lesson is God; He does not give the lesson but rather is The Lesson. This I believe. I also believe God plants seeds of wisdom where we can reach them, and perhaps, with which to feed our souls. One simple lesson, then, might arise as wisdom from the infant generation. This is the distinctive charm of children: they find no fear or haste in staring into us for long periods of time - listening, observing, absorbing the ordinary magic we have to offer. Children make us feel magical - they beckon to the surface those childish qualities of ours, and emerging with their permission are those parts of us that are unpolished and unfascinating and nonsensical; the parts of us that wish had a place in this world to belong. Perhaps we must, as they do, ask simpler questions and accept simpler answers. Of ourselves and of each other. We may find that we have far fewer answers than we claim to know, about others and the world, and of course, about ourselves. We may find fluidity in our self nature. Within this fluidity is time, space, courage, and openness to learn new things without feeling threatened or chained to something former or too stubborn to become something untried. Outside of this fluidity is where we, satisfied or not, reside. Children, thankfully, live inside this fluidity. Children accept. They emit joy when it's in them, they listen, or they don't listen and ask another question, then another, and yet another; they cry when they must and dance when their hearts sing; they move, they do not dwell. And in that freedom lives their natural forgiveness of all things, and their inability to judge us because - they have not yet learned what it is to judge themselves, as least not yet.
Therein is the absolution, the magical overture, of how we may lay aside the complicated persona and simply become the person.
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