Sampling My Reality
What is...
For the purposes of my project I’m defining “reality” as our honest experience of, engagement with, “what is.” Or as Gerald May calls it, with “life itself.” This made me wonder about what some random bits of my own reality are:
Reality is waking up to thoughts that it’s time, once again to face the cool morning bathroom to shower and shave. First I sort through what I know of the day ahead and consider how I feel about getting up. I’m aware that I wish it were 7:12 instead of 6:12. No alarm – just the pressure of a bladder calling.
Reality is realizing that years ago I used to get sick of lighting the fire in the woodstove every morning come March. But now I head down the stairs to the daily (winter/spring) ritual and greet it all gladly like a comfortable, contemplative practice – a “focal practice” (for fans of Albert Borgmann like myself) – especially when there is no time pressure on the day.
Reality is seeing the beauty of fresh snow coating all the trees, glistening in the early morning sun. And being pissed off at the beauty because it’s April 9, and I want to hate the snow, but I can’t quite.
Reality is the pang of realizing that all day I forgot the friend to whom I’d promised compassionate thoughts and prayers and then realizing that now can be that time. And my heart extends to my friend and the pain and fear that I hope don’t overwhelm her.
Reality is walking in the afternoon and seeing the branches about to sprout and the birds already busy. Feeling the lift of spring’s approach while still seeing much of the surface deadness of winter (and snow still persisting – aargh!). It’s feeling the dim awareness that my back is sore, again, and knowing that it’s best not to walk in afternoons as far as I would like to walk. It’s trying to choose not to resent this pain, but letting it slip back to the place where it’s half-forgotten, as long as I don’t overdo it.
Reality is recalling a time years ago – when, after a too-long, hard day as a therapist, including one particularly discouraging session, I was joined by my wife, Carol, at a theatre to watch Reign over Me, and we watch a scene in which Liv Tyler, playing a therapist, has a hard day with a discouraging moment, and she gives a brief, pained look – maybe two seconds long at most – and I find tears in my eyes, suddenly more aware of the toll my profession requires of me than I’ve been. And, somehow, I feel seen (by whom? me? is it weird to wonder if it’s God?). I would have completely missed that moment of reality if it weren’t for Liv Tyler’s two second look.
Reality is reading about one more war crime in Gaza: this time the deliberate execution of 15 clearly marked, unarmed medics. How much pain and outrage can I let myself feel? How much does any good? How much powerlessness before one gives up trying to do anything? The justifications of these crimes by “good people” is crazy-making, and yet ranting seems pointless or gets labelled as antisemitism.
Reality is being with gathered friends who at this particular moment do or say nothing more profound than just being together, talking trivially, sharing a drink, and feeling so deeply grateful that this moment is possible, that these friends are a part of my life and have been for a long time.
Reality is feeling evening-tired and, once again, choosing to watch a show because during this time there will be no responsibilities and no effortful thoughts. Maybe there will be a laugh or a chance to predict who the murderer was. Maybe it will feel like it was a complete waste of time. But at least the potato chips, and the restful time together, will be good.
Reality is a day a while back, having the automatic thought on a Sunday afternoon, that this is the time I should call my mom, but of course she died three years earlier. It’s wondering what that feeling is that came with that thought. Is it relief that the obligation to call was not required – after all the last year of calls were often difficult and awkward, a jumble of words that weren’t heard and memories forgotten and iPads that nursing home staff didn’t set up properly. Or was it missing the obligation, the tether to home and memory and mutual love that was strong even though often it didn’t quite find its groove.
Reality is when this leads to wondering what I did moving two thousand miles away from her with a wife and baby. What losses did that cause? How much pain did that create in her heart? But, considering how differently we saw the world - and God - how much pain did that spare us? Who can do this kind of math and have a clue whether it was wise or foolish? I turn my attention away from the painful question and listen to Max Richter’s Mercy that Carol had on the stereo. Was the sadness the music or the thinking? Would I even have had the thoughts if it hadn’t been for the music?
Reality is the realization that, while it’s been slowly changing, most of my life I’ve tuned my emotional awareness to medium low. During most of these past forty years that we lived apart from our origins and families and friends in Winnipeg, I’ve spent very little time feeling the distance or the consequences. Once, recently, I had the odd thought: do I owe my life a time of catching up on all of those feelings that I never gave much attention to? Do I need to go back and feel them all with some depth for once? And would that requirement be hell or heaven? I think that’s when I picked up my phone and scrolled Facebook.
So, now you all just became my therapists, listening to me connect a bit with reality, becoming my hopefully compassionate witnesses. Thank you.