Know Thyself –It’s the first inscription on the wall at the Oracle of Delphi.
Teachers and philosophers of every culture, in every time have told us that knowing the essential nature of who we are is our number one job. And so, with their implied blessings, I am—and have been—cultivating a shameless habit of contemplating my navel—so to speak. And for that, I say to heaven, “Thank You.”
As I struggle to find my voice with these postings, I look at how many of my interests have dissolved like salt in water, and I am happy to see that a significant few, each as important as breathing, have remained: the need to write, the need to sing, and the need to know who I truly am.
I’m thoroughly content to sit and stare at the rising and setting sun, take a nap at noon, chant, or get into existential conversations with folks whose eyes don’t cross with the mention of God. Thus, metaphorically speaking, I stare at my navel a lot.
When I was around eleven, my mother discovered that a bunch of cotton lint had accumulated in my navel. No, I don’t know how it got there (of course I bathed!), but I can tell you that the story of that discovery has made its way to younger generations as an embarrassing family tidbit. What I do know is that the incident was potent enough to startle me into checking my navel continuously. So in that sense, I come by navel staring honestly.
The thing about all of this know thyself-ness is the potential for discovering things about myself that I don’t like. I’ll explain.
For years, I’d stick out my less than attention getting chest and proclaim, “I struggled with college on my own. My parents did not pay a dime.” Well, that’s not quite true, and I am retracting that statement.
A few weeks ago, I opened a fortune cookie (remember, I like tea leaves and such!) that said something like “Facts written in pale ink are stronger than memory.” Hmm. I mulled it over as I chewed on vegetarian General Tso’s chicken. Back to the chest thumping…
Several years ago, Mom gave me a packet of stuff that had been buried at the bottom of her paper stacks. It was an envelope filled with my stuff—elementary school grades (ew), my high school diploma and report cards, a map to my father’s grave site…and a postcard. I had buried the envelope at the bottom of my own paper stacks, but on this particular day I wanted the map to my father’s grave site. That’s when I found the postcard.
There were three things about the postcard that held my attention. First, Mom had kept it. Second, I had sent it. Third, postage on the thing was five cents.
I probably was about 19 years old when I wrote a note to my parents asking for more money for college. I think it was the best I could do at the time.
Dear Mother and Dad,
I received the money and must tell you how satisfied I am. But…I need $35 more for a gym suit, shoes, sweatshirt, etc. I’ve got my classes: English, Education for teachers, Biology, Social Science, Gym (uh) and music for elementary teachers. On Tuesday and Thursday only, I have two classes and on Monday, Wednesday and Friday I have four and get out of school at 12 (Ain’t it grand?). Love and will write soon.
Thirty-five dollars was a huge amount of money for them, but nowhere in that note were the actual words, “thank you.”
Have you ever seen those cartoons where a small snowball is pushed down a mountainside, and as it rolls along it picks up more snow, more speed, and more power? Contemplating one’s navel is like that.
Perhaps Mom saved the postcard as proof that I said “thank you” in the best way I could. Perhaps she saved it to show that she knew that I really did have appreciation for all that they did. At this point, her memory will not be able to access the answer to these questions.
It’s true that I have grown over the years. But navel watching has allowed my memory to access an uncomfortable side to my otherwise charming self. From now on, I will be sure to use the words. Thank you.
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‘Nuff said. I’ll be back with my usual stuff later.
Sala
Catch-Up
Today’s word is not in any way synonymous with the condiment slathered on fried potatoes. That would be too easy.
I’m writing about “catch-up,” a white-hot energy. “Playing catch-up” is an experience where we feel we have to make up for lost time, and it’s an experience that can lead to excitement or anxiety. As I grow older, (ah, these birthdays and the reflections that go with them…) I look at the benefits and folly of playing catch-up. Since I feel like somewhat of an expert on the subject, I want to say that I choose to be excited rather than anxious about running from behind to get where I want to be.
When I become anxious, catching-up is like an internal cattle prod pushing me to do everything that I didn’t do when I was younger. This is just not possible, but the internal dialogue is intense.
“What about retirement?” (Who’s retiring?)
“Sing. Perform!” (Doing that.)
“Publish.” (Doing that.)
“What about marriage?” (Sigh.)
When I am excited, catching-up feels like I’m managing a colorful kite that’s soaring in the wind above my head, where’s it’s been for a while, until I decide to reel it in. With this game, I recognize that my catching-up is not so much about status and impressing others as it is about knowing—knowing who I am and what I want; knowing who I want to be around (I do not suffer ignorance gladly) and what makes me happy. Catching-up is about being able to tell the difference between environments that are healthy for me and those that are toxic (insecure bosses need not apply!)…you get the drift.
Then, there are the things that will never be caught–up. Just today, in a conversation with my mother, she asked,
“Did you ever have any children?” She’s forgotten again. This happens more frequently now.
“No, Mom.”
“Why not?”
“I would have had a very different life with children.”
“Different?”
“Yes. I would never have traveled or met so many people or learned so much about myself.” She does not understand a word I am saying. Learn about myself?
“You can still have children.”
“Do I look like Sarah in the Bible?”
“You can always adopt.” Sigh.
Regret is such an oily word. There is too much emotional residue that you cannot wash out once you have played in the waters of regret. I don’t regret my choices, but I do look back on them, even when the reflection comes with doubt.
In a workshop the other day, a woman talked about foster care and, just for a moment, I felt this tug, a push to look at what my life might have been had I not stood in opposition to family and societal expectations for women.
“You can,” she suggested, “be a foster parent.”
Oh, yes. I remember. God’s delay is not God’s denial.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the fire of regret was gone. One of my favorite songs is one that was sung by Edith Piaf, the great French singer.
Non, je ne regrette rien. I regret nothing.
For me, it’s about the balance of things when playing catch-up. In this game, everything must go under the bright light of reflection, but nothing should ever be submerged in the oily waters of regret.
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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Life Stories, Reflection, Values and Spirituality, World View