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Level of Grace
I’m the sort of person who has plenty of long-time acquaintances, but very few close friends. The few friends I have, I generally keep close for long periods of time—if not for a lifetime. For instance, I met many of my closest friends over a decade ago; when I was introduced (as it were) to Syntax, Discourse, and Paintbrush by Fiore, I still didn’t know how to tie my shoes or cross a street by myself. And while I know that this is rare, it always surprises me—just a little—that so many people don’t have the same sorts of bonds. I’ve gotten so used to Syntax or Balanae remembering things about my early childhood that I’ve long forgotten (”we were twice your age when we met; of course we remember!”) that I’ve come to think of it as normal.
Of course, this sort of long history has its advantages and creates its own brand of shorthand. For the group I’ve come to refer to as ”the Eurocrew”—several men and women I keep in touch with only through phone and email thanks to that useless ocean between us, our long history means that it’s second-nature to be able to read between the lines. I learned years ago how to spot a telling timestamp or a worrying change of inflection, and how to differentiate between a stray ellipsis and a psychologically telling one. But, if I’ve learned to decipher these things, they have too; besides the friend who was by my side of every day between K-12, there is no one on this planet who knows me better than those eight.
I wouldn’t have things any other way, but it’s still surprising how easily they can nail me—box me in, use my own words and logic against me—with the simplest evasion. Birnenblüte did it just last night, and my head is still reeling at how much insight she had into what I’ve been feeling—what I didn’t realize I was feeling—in a matter of seconds. Especially since she also did it in so concisely; it took me more than two paragraphs to get to this point, it took her sixteen words:
”You feel guilty about being so grumpy around Thanksgiving. But you haven’t had any closure, either.”
That, ladies and gentlemen, is a textbook example of how to sink a battleship—from 3800 miles away—with a single, elegant blow. Checkmate.
Aside: For those who are unaware, this Thursday is the American holiday of Thanksgiving. The story in a nutshell basically, is that the first colonists gathered to give thanks for surviving all sorts of hardships, and now we celebrate—by indulging in excess and football (no, no, the American kind)—one day every year in remembrance. The actual history is more complicated, of course, but there are abbreviated versions available online.
Sigh. A post on the eve of a celebration centered around gratitude is hardly the place to explain all these things, but the last ten days—and the entire month of October before that—have been exceptionally difficult for me. I’ve had to stand by while people I love have been hurt and suffered pain and—despite all my many gifts and blessings—I find it incredibly hard to face the concept of giving thanks with any sort of authentic integrity. I know I should, really should, but in the end… What can I say? I have yet to master that level of grace, and even if I am decried as immature or selfish as a result, I am too honest with myself to fake it.
There is nothing worse than labeling platitudes as emotional honesty. Especially tomorrow.
To all those planning on celebrating the holiday, I offer my best wishes. This has always been the holiday I’ve loved the most, and I hope you find the joy in your day that I’ve always found in mine. This year, perhaps more than any other, that seems exceptionally important.
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