The I's have it!

Someone once said, “we should always count the I’s.” His point was that we reveal a lot about ourselves, and our perspective on things, by the words we use. In this particular case, he was showing how our frequent use of “I” reveals a preoccupation with self. The speaker caused me to pause and see if I was guilty of such self-centered language. The answer, unfortunately was, yes.

Twelve-step recovery circles speak of “the bondage of self,” and I know those chains only too well. They also have a humorous saying: “I’m not much, but I’m all I think about,” which wouldn’t be so funny if it wasn’t so true.

The chains that bind us are everywhere we look:

·      The politician who speaks of public service while increasing his net worth ten-fold.

·      The minister who preaches about the community of all believers while making sure the spotlight is always pointed in her direction.

·      The couple who makes sure their names appear in the top supporter group not because of their passion for the organization but their preoccupation with being seen as leaders in their town.

Such examples abound, but what about “ordinary people” like you and me - the ones who have no office in the capital, no pulpit in which to stand? We might think we’re free from such self-centeredness, but an honest examination might prove otherwise.

·      Do we turn conversations in our direction?

·      Are we particularly fond of those who are fond of us?

·      Do we give our opinions and answers more than we ask questions?

·      Do we offer help in hopes of being seen doing so?

There’s a “more excellent way,” one that frees us of our self-centered fears. Spiritual leaders have often shown us the way. Jesus said anyone who wants to find his life must lose it, and the final words in the prayer attributed to St. Francis says it as well:

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

I don’t know about you, but I need to be reminded to look beyond myself, so the I’s no longer dominate my words and actions.

It’s then I’ll be free.

Grief

            I suppose we’re friends, but I can’t say I like him much. We’ve spent most our lives together, like riding beside each other in a car for forty-five years. I sometimes forget he’s here, but then he coughs or shifts in his seat, and I remember. Looking over, I act surprised to see him, but he rolls his eyes and folds his arms knowing it’s a lie. “What, you thought I left?” he shrugs. “You’re stuck with me.”

            I’m tempted to look back at the road and press down on the gas pedal like I’ve done countless times before. Moving quickly helps me ignore him, but today I turn toward him and strike up a conversation. He seems surprised. I’ve tried ignoring him for so long.

            We speak about the moment we met, how my mom and I got off the elevator after dinner and saw that look on the nurse’s face. Something was wrong, and people were racing in and out of my father’s room. We recall how I stood in the hall watching the monitor of his heartbeat so I could be the one to tell Mom he died, and how I found her sitting on the floor of the waiting room with her back against the wall and hands over her face. She was crying, something I’d never seen before.

            I lower the window in hopes the memories, like smoke, will leave, but he continues - not about that night but all the nights and days since. He mentions our going back to college as if everything was alright when it wasn’t, our graduating and not having anyone to help find a job, or how to buy a suit. The pain makes me want to look away, but he seems determined to continue. “And remember how lost and unprepared you felt getting married? There was no one to talk to about what it means to be a husband, let alone a father.” I beg him to stop. “No wonder you ran to the church. No wonder you’ve made such a mess of things.”

            I tell him to shut up, but my words are useless. If I have any chance of moving on, I need to let him speak. He continues for what feels like hours until he falls asleep, exhausted from his relentless monologue.

“Finally,” I sigh, “peace!” But only until he awakens again.

Portraits

“Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.”
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

I grew up surrounded by portraits. My father often explained who was who, but the people were only caricatures of distant relatives. I heard stories about them, but they were never real to me. Sadly, the portrait collection eventually included ones of my father and mother. Unlike the others, I’d known them. The portraits provided me with a sense of comfort at first, but, in time, they, too, have become little more than paintings on the wall. I miss the people, the real flesh and blood – the smell of my father’s Vitalis, the sound of my mother’s laugh, and countless other things. You know, the things that made them real.

As I sat with such thoughts, I realized how often we settle of portraits. Whether in the people we spend time with, or the versions of ourselves we offer to others, we present images rather than the real thing. Some of us are master artists, carefully working the paint so that the lighting and posture are just right. Often, what we see or what we offer is impressive . . . but they’re not real.

At some point, the paint cracks.

I think it’s time to put the portraits away. I think its time we let people see and know who we truly are. It’s scary to be real, vulnerability is the ultimate act of courage, but the result is better than being an image. Who knows, maybe by doing so, we give others permission to do the same.

And then there’s this way of saying it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8GY3sO47YYo