The shattering sound of the crash had people
craning their necks. Had the overladen waitress flawlessly balanced the tray no
one would have applauded her. We go about being perfect with nary a notice. But
at our collisions, at our mistakes, at our upsets, we easily draw attention. To
her credit, the waitress did not swear. To her colleagues’ credit, several
appeared quickly on the scene, and voiced concern for her, and offered help.
Disconcerted, she appeared flustered, but not self-deprecatingly so. And close
as I was, I thought to get up from my table to help, but realized the
ineffectiveness of my position. Yet as alert as I’d like to think myself, I did
not see my partner react to the splashed orange juice on the back of her own
leg, nor did I note the fresh stain on our server’s apron, let alone the bit of
pulp on his wrist. Only later, in my partner’s writing of the incident, did
such detail come to my attention. How much else did I miss?
We each are fixated in moments, and our senses
apprehend but a smidgen of the whole. We retain the stains, the sounds, the
images, and even the feelings, perhaps, but the fullness of the moment, the
accuracy, the whole of it escapes us, clearly. How many glasses broke? How much
juice spilled? What was the colour of her hair? How many came to her aid? Was
the floor mopped, afterwards? How much detail of it, after all, signifies?
Writing can be like that. We cram details into
it sufficient to get our story across, but must leave out the whole. We can
only particularize. Like comprehension itself. Very few of us can recall an
entire page of writing, let alone the precise phrasing of an exact sentence,
unless we give it much focus, or mental intentionality. No, we glean. We
gather. We coagulate from the flow and make concrete, at best, our collective
impression. Individually. And then, when some other reader draws any kind of
editorial comment through a word, a phrase, an observation, we might be
dissuaded from the power of our own vernacular. We can feel impoverished in the
wake of someone else’s seemingly superior insight. We can feel insecure about
the balance we strike between the hefting of words onto the platter of the
page, and the tipping of them so far off-centre that they might come crashing
to earth so as to embarrass oneself for having delivered an offering of ‘personal’
images to another in the first place. We can be our own worst enemy.
No amount of observing others will have one
balancing the tray of life. One must needs carry it oneself. And indeed,
learning from others will assist with the displacement of the proportions of
our actions. But not to carry our talent until we are recognized as a
professional would be never to get there, in the first place. One needs best
play the guitar with the decision to allow mistakes. One must throw the ball at
the hoop with persevering intentionality. One must write, and write some more,
until the words hone sentences into double-edged swords that slice though
simile and metaphor and symbolism so keenly that oneself be satisfied. Therein
lies the crux! Self-appraisal. Self-worth. Self-evaluation. Yet humility always
to learn more. But if always waiting for another's appraisal, our progress may
be very slow. We play, we do, we evolve all the while we grow at the immediate
limits of our capacity, naturally. And it’s best to enjoy the very process,
indeed.
That waitress will perhaps not attempt to
balance quite so much next time. She will have learned. And so too, as we delve
into our own lives, we might best participate with what we have, from where
we’ve taken it, rather than o’erreach ourselves. And we shall keep doing so
with all the certainty that attends our age and stage, one hopes, or what else
is living for?
There are but six major conflicts in all of
literature: Man versus man; nature; the supernatural; society; technology; and
himself. Amidst all of these, a crises of confidence is the Achilles heel to
bring down the most stalwart amongst us. A jury of peers will each render a
different opinion if asked to review one’s art, one’s performance; one’s game;
one’s writing, no matter how praising they may
collectively be. But to be able to continue to practice one’s art,
despite what anyone else may say, now that’s the true measure of overcoming all
that which has gone before. And that’s why, no doubt, that waitress will still
be found, carrying yet another tray.
Perhaps
among the most difficult of lessons is to give without expectation. We expect
the other to like the gift, to show appreciation, and at least to express
gratitude, somehow. We expect, in our very gesture of giving, to feel pleasure.
All the uncertainty of, “I hope you like it!”; or that of, “You can use the
gift receipt to exchange it, if you want,” ... all that aside, we do feel good
about giving. It is very difficult, at best, not to be acknowledged.
At
best?
20
years ago, a grade 12 student, Penelope, alone in the corridors while classes
droned on, and not seeing me, turned down a hallway. From the T junction, I noted
her veer to some discarded wrapping. Stooping and picking it up, she retreated
toward the rubbish receptacle, saw me, and blushed. “I have a hall-pass,” she
offered.
I
smiled. “Penelope, was that garbage yours?”
“Well...
no.”
“Then
why pick it up?”
“Oh.
I think it good to help the janitors out,” she offered, blushing again.
“I’m
putting your name in for commendation, Penelope. I wish all students would
follow your lead and help out around here.”
“My
name? Oh no, please don’t do that. “I’ve no desire to get any credit.”
I
balked. “But how else to serve as an example to others?”
She
demurred. “Well, what about saying you saw someone help out, and hope we all
might help out, and leave it at that.”
I
beamed. “Done!”
Thing
is, that single gesture still resonates, and very many hundreds of students
have been told about Penelope, (and now you too.) And no, Penelope was indeed
not her name. (And no, the argument does not hold that if we all did it a
janitor would be out of a job, ha!)
We
do things for each other, one hopes, by contributing to the health of the
whole. We are polite, considerate, compassionate, caring, and responsible. Not
to expect any reward is a most difficult lesson, indeed. Gifts or no gifts. After
all, I want to be liked, loved, and appreciated. It’s natural.
But
to continue contributing, silently, unobtrusively, and not to expect anyone
even to find out, or necessarily to notice, now that’s the thing of
enlightenment. We stoop to pick up other people’s garbage, if not our own, and
we dispose of it without looking up to see who is watching. We do it for
stranded earthworms. We do it for the helpless. We do it because it is ‘the
next right thing.’ Over and over. Or am I hereby waiting for you to respond?
Hm?
I wish I’d been taught more intensely about
integrity. But whichever way the lessons of honesty and intention were
delivered, they still have not settled. Attitude and insight may be up to me, (New
Years’ resolutions aside,) but betraying promises, cloaking truth in lies, or
protecting the self from the judgement and the reprobations of others,
continues. Then again, even Churchill is purported to have said, “Truth needs
to be concealed in fabrications, if Truth is to be kept safe.”
Yet what about the small truths of our lives?
What about the promises we make that we perpetually break? That cookie jar of
our promises can get emptied more quickly than we intended. Surely intentions
need consistency of action if we are to inculcate integrity? The promises we
make need be valuable. After all, is deception not, at its core, guiltily
enervating, disassembling? (Yes, then there are those invigorated by evil, or
intentional harm.)
“Did you touch your present?” she asked the
five-year-old, her eyes hard and threatening.
“No Mammy, I didn’t,” he lied, feeling at once
desperately afraid.
Her voice as sharp as a spear point, the adult
challenged, “Then why is the corner torn a bit, and the present not exactly as
I put it? Don’t you listen? I told you not to touch the presents!”
He blanched. Involuntarily, his eyes darted over
to the Christmas tree. He shook his head. “It must’ve been the cat,” he
suggested. “It likes to go under the tree.”
She snatched forward and tugged at his ear. “Tell
me the truth now!”
Great fear overwhelmed him. He knew he was in
for a painful hiding if he told the truth, so he persisted: “I didn’t. I
promise. I did not!”
She let go of him. Then, striding toward the
presents and plucking his up, she ripped it open. She thrust forward the shiny
new pencil case, and growled angrily, “Well, that’s the last you’ll see of
this, you little liar! No presents for you, this Christmas. That’ll teach you!”
And the thing is, he never saw the pencil case
again.
Yes, little lies come from our need to protect
our actions. Fibs alter reality, and serve, ultimately, to undermine our
sensibility of what integrity is actually about. The ability to be true to the
self requires constant vigilance; the ability to be true to others requires
constant evaluation. (What use is truth if you’re being tortured in order to
reveal where your friends are hidden? What use is truth if you know, down deep,
you’ll never be forgiven, or trusted, or believed, or loved?)
Integrity gets inculcated in us, lesson by
lesson, over the length of our lifetime. We learn to be discreet, careful,
thoughtful, caring, compassionate, conscious of our choices, considerate of our
actions, and to nurture our intentions. Yes, we make promises that we break.
Yet in so doing, one hopes, we feed off guilt and its negativity in an
integrative spiral of enlightenment toward yet more solidity of being. Our
integrity is the gathering of the fragments of our actions, habits, thoughts,
and preferences into a package that is indeed full of the present. It is a
present guided by the yesterdays of the lessons of our life, and it also is a
present imbued with the potential of what is yet to be. Our own integrity might
appear wrapped up for others, but at least we know what is inside.
Yes, New Year’s resolutions aside, we are best
off, daily, to be inculcating our own, inner, (and preferably) inviolable
integrity. No fears about it. Right?
