Know thyself

There is something that you probably know about me that I struggle to come to terms with all the time. That is, I have a horrible time trying to know myself. I don’t know why the Oracle of Delphi was so blasé when they carved the phrase “know thyself” on the entrance to the temple, because for me, nothing could be harder. I say that you know because I think that our impressions about people are generally correct and while authors like Jane Austin have made a good name for themselves writing about how our impressions are invariably wrong, I have more faith in human intuition.

Know thyself. Know thyself. How the hell do you know yourself? What does it mean? I can stare in a mirror and memorize my features, I can sit in rapt meditation and recall all of the episodic moments of my life and yet, for all of my intimate knowledge of myself, I know myself not.

The most frustrating thing is that I take these personality tests likes Meyers-Briggs and they always end up different. I take one and I am an introvert, another and I am an extrovert. J. and I spent several months going over the results of just such a test with our local pastor. My conclusion? I am very human. Sometimes l like to be around people, and when I am their opinions matter to me, very much. Other times I like to be on my own and in these time when others interject their opinions I feel frustrated even angry at the intrusion. So far, so good.

Sadly I am unaware of these subtle shifts in my own personality. I am frequently frustrated by my own lack of understanding about simple things like what I want. I find mundane tasks like washing the dishes either annoying beyond believe or thoroughly satisfying. The difference being entirely on what time of day I choose to do them.

Talking with my wife this morning she made the then funny comment that she hated checking voicemail. It never occurred to me that voicemail was a thing to be disdained, so I asked her why. She gave me a funny sort of look and said that it had something to do with her past and taking ownership of things. I laughed because for me voicemail is the classic example of how not to take ownership of things. In moment where I want nothing more that to be alone, voicemail is king. I could have entire conversations doing nothing but trading voicemail. It would be like email, but with words. For me it is the ultimate in noncommittal relationships. Leave a voice mail and walk away. For my wife, it is something altogether different. For her, voicemail represents a kind of commitment. Something once listened to has to be given response.

The funny thing is, I think people have their own Ideas about me. They know, long before I do, whether or not I am going to return that voicemail. They have decided, and in deciding I have been defined. For them I am no longer the mystery. I am the fact. For myself the opposite is true. I have no idea, listening to the voicemail if I am an introvert hating to respond, or the extrovert, longing for the chance to be a part of the conversation.

In his monumental painting, Paul Gauguin asks the eternal questions. Where do we come from? Who are we? Where are we going? It is a monumental canvas that seems to beg to be read from right to left. On the right is an image of a young girl and an infant, the representation of birth, a beginning. On the left is an image of an old woman, the representation of death and the end. The story seems to be told, as all stories are, about infancy, life and our eventual end. Except that Gauguin has inverted the order of the story. In the west we read from left to right, and so the story would seem to be told from the end, namely death, to the beginning, which is life.

This morning I was standing, waiting for my daughters when I found myself engaged with the church secretary. I can’t remember the impetus of the conversation, but found myself saying, “I remember clearly my grandmother telling me that, as you got older, the days went by faster. I remember this because at the time I had no idea what she was talking about. But now, now that I am older I see exactly what she means. The days seem to run though my fingers like grains of sand on the beach, and I can no more slow them than I can look at them and wonder.”

There is a Zen story about a sermon of a Buddha in which he simply lifted a flower. Most looked on questioning but one looked with understanding. How do you explain a flower? Imagine you are describing it to a blind person. What would you say. Would you say that it is extroverted? Introverted? What is the meaning of the universe? What is the meaning of you or of I? It is just there. I think that if I were sitting there looking at that flower I would be one of those eyes that question. I would want to know what the Buddha was saying to me. What does he mean by “flower.” Why this flower and not that. What else is there? Why do I not understand?

I look at these questions, like I look at the question of know thyself and I see so much doubt. Who am I? My god. I have been with myself so long and I still don’t know the answer. How stupid is that? I trust the momentary intuition of strangers over the chorus of my own experiences, when really I should just listen to them. I listen to myself talk and I think, “Why don’t I listen to myself?” and then, instead of listening, I forget.

So, that is it. I spend so much time thinking about what it means to be here or there, to be angry or sad, to be busy or lazy, and all the time I am doubting the very things that are telling me why I am here. The truth is I am just here. I am engaged in the activity of being alive. I keep telling myself that I am looking for meaning, that I can know myself, but really what better knowledge is there that the experience of being alive? I find an immense amount of comfort in the idea that being alive is the, THE reason for life, and then, just when I think that I have it, I am distracted by life and it all slips away.