We all have things about ourselves that we don’t like. Some of these foibles of physicality or fumbles of character date back far into our memories. Take my ears. I have never fully embraced them. They are quite functional, to be sure, but unfortunately that functionality comes with a price: they stick out too much. What boy of the ’60s could like crew cuts when the only thing visible (to him) in the mirror each morning were ears the size of Dumbo the elephant’s? A boy such as that would try to brush what hair strands remained as far as water and effort could stretch them. When the rules of hair cuts were eventually his to make, he would let his hair grow, shaggy-dog style, so it would cover not only the sides of his head but much of the front as well. He would learn to hide his social blush, to tilt his face in such a way that his eyes – and the outside world’s view of his inside spirit – were just slightly averted, sheltered. He would feel exposed, revealed, if ever a barber’s scissors trimmed too much of the complete mop of scalp camouflage that the decades kindly gifted him.
At the age of sixty-one, I can now laugh at that boy – and at the man he became. What conceits I am so easily able to form and carry! Like bricks unnecessarily stuffed into my life’s backpack, I have burdened myself with my fair share of needless cares and distractions. While I have learned to forget my ears, my focus has shifted to other, more obvious limitations in my form, function, and social fit. My eyebrows, for example, resemble caterpillars just before they roll into chrysalides. And the way my eyes and brow judge others, well, that is anything but attractive. Why do they have to be so expressive? After this many years on the planet, shouldn’t I be better able to hide my thoughts and emotions from those around me?
Hmmm – no doubt you see my dilemma. I aspire to growth, as a person and a soul graced with human form. But the habits of selfness, the vanities and insecurities of experience in the form of conscious being, they are not to be under-estimated. Just when I begin to applaud myself for making some progress in life’s journey, the inner mirror, the awareness that knows me so well, is ready to reflect a bit too much honesty into any silent, self-congratulatory ceremony.
Am I able to ever know if and how I have changed?
A former college classmate called me yesterday to say hello. Despite the years that have passed since we last saw each other, I remember him as if he is unchanged: personable, insightful, relaxed, accepting. Our conversation reinforced that memory. He is as kind and inquisitive as ever; we continued a friendship as if it had never paused – which, despite the absence of formal communication, it perhaps did not. There was, however, a slight perturbation in the field of time, a nuance of acknowledgement that we both were undoubtedly different, at least in some small ways, from what we remembered of each other.
“Have you ever gone to reunions?” he asked.
I have not. In truth, I have sometimes found the concept of traveling long distances to regather with people from points A, B, and C in my life journey a daunting prospect. My excuses have always been real: family, work, and schedule priorities. Inside, however, I’ve worried that somehow I wouldn’t measure up, that reconvening with my past might remind me of how little I have really traveled as a person. Would I be exposed as still similar to that hesitant young man of forty years ago? Would I be snagged by the quicksand of comparison, the tendency to judge my own decades against the so-called career successes and personal triumphs of others? I feel different to my twenty-two year-old historical persona. But is that difference meaningful, is it substantive, or is it instead another example of the persistent selfishness of my spirit, the desire to be better, the egocentric fear that somehow my efforts to improve have been misplaced or, worse yet, unsuccessful?
“I went to an event last year,” my friend laughed. “It was fun! And you know what I learned: there are a lot of good people in our class. I talked to some classmates I hadn’t seen in years, or didn’t really know back then, and it was really nice to learn what good, decent people they were, they still are.”
Good. Decent. What a nice way to frame our life voyage! I cannot change things like my ears, my youthful (and perhaps persistent) insecurity, and the silly concerns of career, curriculum vitae, and measured contribution to the common cause. When time’s looking glass is held into view, I may be different, I may be same, I may be recognizable in some ways, I may need refocusing in others. Have I simply been a good person, a decent fellow traveler?
That question is never mine to answer. It may be yours. It may be the Creator’s. It may even be beside the point. For the point may be nothing more refined that this: my ears are to hear, not to see. The better I can listen, the more I can learn. And the more I can learn, well, the easier I can accept all parts of who I am, who you are, and who we might be together.