Yesterday I met two friends at a coffee shop. I woke up late, so I was a bit late for our meeting and brought some food with me. During the course of our conversation, my friends both commented on my salt shaker from home. One asked where I bought my banana chips and sun butter and how expensive they were and wanted to try some. I was surprised that physical reality was filtering into our exchange (which was mostly abstract topics: emotions, life circumstances, God at work). I'd subconsciously expected the food to be outside the realm of discussion. When it wasn't, it reminded me that when I brought myself to the table, I was bringing more than a mind. I brought a body carrying a bag of snacks.* Maybe I'd forgotten because when I'm speaking, I look at my friend's face and I don't see me anywhere.
I'm surprised when I influence others because I am my influence, and from the inside looking out I don't see how it comes across. I am my biases, so I forget to factor my biases into my analyses. The overintellectual part of my mind forgets to be rooted in reality. Maybe I have a gnostic urge to rise "above," as though there's anything inherently preferable about the immaterial. But I can't disown my body; it's me. My mind can't be present in a room my body's not. Even Skype requires eyes and/or ears. Without my brain's actual gray matter, I couldn't carry the electricity that forms the intangible thoughts I prefer to identify with. It's kind of a mystery that I am not just a happy ghost, nor merely bone and meat, but inseparably all of the above and more.
For better or for worse, with people the medium is part of the message. On a simple level like, "if your relationships are garbage I'm not going to take advice from you," but also in a deeper and less logical sense. I've always wanted my personal information kept private and away from my opinions or stances. Maybe I get it from my somewhat paranoid father. Something that kept me from blogging for years was the understanding that people would know I had written it. I wished the work could stand or fall on its own merit, leaving me out of it entirely. Yet whenever I visited someone else's blog, one of my first clicks was the "about me" page. Maybe because I like hearing peoples' stories. It's unsatisfying to not know who you're talking to, or listening to. Like talking to a robot, which is completely different than talking to an actual person, even if the words used are similar.
Why did I want to keep myself private? I guess I wanted to avoid being prejudged. I know I can't control how others see me (much as I've always wished I could), but it seemed it would help if I could at least speak for myself before assumptions had been formed. I wished my intent to come across, like anyone would. Yet a person's intentions and inner self are always filtered through the material world, and something is usually lost in translation. Just as an artist's vision may be compromised on its path into the world, my intentions don't always translate into action. I'm prone to mistakes and even when I do my best, there's weather and accidents and other people to affect outcomes. There's something so vulnerable about putting yourself out there to be evaluated by others, perhaps dismissed before you even have a chance to prove yourself. But we all have to do it. A person can't opt out of being misunderstood. There's no healthy or reasonable way to hide yourself well enough. The good news is that you can learn to cut slack for misunderstandings, both yours and others. It's called grace, and so far it's much better than going into eternal hiding.
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*Isn't that what we're all looking for in a friend or significant other? ;)
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