LIFE WITH A CAPITAL "L" Chapter One, Section Three

Lingering in Order to Discover Others - A World of Information

To function well in our crowded world we need to know things about people. But we have little time, thank you, for discovery questions. So what a relief to learn that lingering is unnecessary to the process of collecting pertinent information. Efficiency rescues us. We have labels. Labels reproduce faster than rabbits or house cats, they insinuate content and they clarify such tings as duty, power, authority or lack of, income brackets, skills, limitations, intelligence, talents, or education. They swiftly provide pertinent information. 

"He's the banker." And the hearer nods, "Oh yeah," as if "the banker" is a term laden with common notions. As T.S. Elliot's Prufrock said, "There will be time, there will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet."  Labels allow that split second needed for preparing a proper face. Some occasions require nothing more. But really discovering a person? Ah, that takes some lingering.

When a weekly woman's Bible study I taught grew to number several hundred, I met members through small casual gatherings. During one such occasion, I was caught up in conversation with a delightful young woman who after a few minutes smiled and said, "You remind me of our teacher."

I was dumbstruck. "Ahh," I answered, "I am our teacher."

Now, she was dumbstruck, as was the conversation. She apologized for not recognizing me and hastily explained that she sat at the back of the auditorium during class, "too far away to really see you."

Regardless of my eagerness to continue, or of our similarities, and the previous ease, the conversation ended. A label--The Teacher--did its job. A face met a face but a person did not meet a person.

If we are courageous enough to discover that behind every label is an ordinary "I need food, comfort, encouragement, and a bathroom" sort of person, then intimidation by label ceases. Strangers, coworkers, family members, heroes, neighbors, or friends are people we can discover. Only we must dare a connection. We must stop the habit of hurry in order to show interest, to ask questions, to hear responses, to learn such things as:

     I didn't know you . . . collect baseball cards, rare books, minatures, 

             hairballs or knitted caps . . .

     I didn't know you actually like classical music, or

country music, jazz, blues, opera, rock . . .

  that you ride your bicycle to work,

            that you have such a sense of humor, or three dogs and two cats, or thirty outstanding parking tickets . . .

     Aren't nearly as angry, bold, shy, serious, calm, nervous, opinionated, tolerant as you appear.

     That you hate living here, love snow, miss childhood

             are energized by rain (me too)

buy everything on sale, bake bread, recycle, never miss The Simpons, Nova, or both

     I didn't know you write poetry, speak four languages, love science-fiction, hate to read,

or actually do read Keats, Fante, Updike, Kafka . . .

Fear public gatherings, are lonely

       belong to that organization, 

                     had/have cancer

                               can't drive

write letters to the editor

        are a sports fan, opera fan, run the marathon, paint, sing, build ultra-lites

Are single, divorced, married, widowed, a thinker, feeler, poet, loner, mixer, adventurer, rebel, conformist, extrovert, introvert  . . .

Not every connection is deep, but is at least real.

In To Kill a Mockingbird, twelve-year-old Jem was ordered by his father to spend a series of hours reading to old Mrs. Dubose. She was hateful, vindictive, insulting, and a lady.

"A lady?" asked Jem as his father broke the news of the woman's death. "After all those things she said about you, a lady?"

His father replied, "She was. She had her own views about things, a lot different from mine, maybe . . .Son, I told you that [even] if you hadn't lost your head I'd have made you go read to her. I want you to see something about her--I wanted you to see what real courage is. . . Mrs. Dubose . . .was the bravest person I ever knew."

   Mrs. Dubose was a morphine addict who broke the habit before she died, but Jem did not know that. He only knew she was mean and intolerable. He needed to know better. Only by lingering, asking questions, by listening, observing, interacting, seeking truth and allowing surprise, by moving beyond labels, can we discover others.

   If being real ourselves involves really knowing others (and I believe it does), and really knowing others invovles some lingering but we prefer hurrying along with a collection of labels tucked under our arm, we need to ask why. 

One reason, at least, nearly knocks us over with its clarity: people lack curiosity about things they do not value, and we must admit, there are many things we value above people. Things such as our emotional serenity, our privacy, our opinions, the opinion of us by others, our material security, our own labels, our time, a world of information.

The Problem: Value

A few summers ago I enjoyed a stay on the Hood Canel. I marveled at the occasional passing of a nuclear-powered Trident submarine, but even more, I was thrilled by the expanse of Puget Sound water in front of the house and a large, fresh water pond just behind it. At beach and pond I whiled away quiet hours with hot coffee and binoculars, watching an array of water birds. Day after day I avoided much of the writing work I came to do. 

Then, my friend Diane arrived. She is an Orange County business executive. She is as busy and bright as they come and not always interested in things that knock me over with joy. She and her husband, Tom, retreat to Palm Springs as often as time permits. They hit the latest movie, he golfs, she catches up on advanced computer literacy, reading, and journal writing. Diane hoped in Washington state to escape daily stress, to visit, to read, to take an occasional walk, but especially to avoid anything taxing  . . . like bird-watching.

But my avid commitment to that exercise discomforted her (good). She reveled in the natural setting we shared but felt appropriate guilt (I helped) for neglecting the feathered crowd around us. She acknowledged the "darn" bird book. She adjusted the "stupid" binoculars and took an occasional glimpse. I was proud of her. 

One morning the magic struck, and struck her hard. My city friend's excitment reached me as an eager and energetic whisper, "Barb! Come here, quick!" From the deck of our house, not more than eight feet from the tide's edge, her gaze was fixed on the railing of a neighbor's deck where a large bird was perched. 

Cautiously pointing, Diane whispered, "What kind of bird is that? It's hardly MOVED since I came out here!"

"Ah, Diane," I said carefully. Her enthusiasm was so genuine. "That's a windsock."

"A Wind-sock?" The discovery enchanted her. "Is it rare?" she asked in awe.

"Diane. It's a windsock," I said. "It's made of wood and canvas and turns freely on a post to tell you which way the wind is blowing. You know, a windsock.

I lost control, roaring with laughter. Seeing the truth about her object of interest and waking from magic, Diane said, "Shoot! I was trying so hard to get into all this nature stuff. I really wanted to share your interest. Look what it gets me."

We were no longer being quiet or moving carefully, or even interested in the bird on the neighbor's deck. It only became funnier. We were holding our sides, recovering. Our good humor was alive but our curiosity was not. Reality affects attitudes. 

How on earth, in this demanding, threatening, fearful, over-whelming, exhausting, highly populated, and self-absorbed world, how can we get excited about people? Like windsocks, they continually turn in our space, swinging between foul and fair currents, announcing various perceptions of life. How do we remain curious about them when we have to work with them, worship and shop with them, compete with them; we see them on television, hear them on the radio; we are forced by media to know the world is full of all sorts of them, we wonder about them starving, or terrorizing, rebelling, snooping, or suffering. People worry us. We walk on sidewalks hoping they will not hurt us, rob us, or ask us to help them. We are overworked, overlooked, overruled, overwhelmed, or underrated by them. Even people we call dear crowd our space, make too many deands, and drain our precious reserve of time and energy. Being too aware of too many people belongs to our generation, and the reuslt is too often the death of curiosity and value. People are everywhere we turn, like zucchini in a never ending garden.

SOLUTION--A VILLAGE VIEW  (coming next) 

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