Shifting Perspective

The hum of hot water running through the radiators is familiar in the quiet of the early morning. When the new boiler was installed ten years ago, I was startled for weeks by this same sound every time the heat came on. Now I only hear it occasionally and find it a comforting. Cold outside, warm inside. All systems working well.

This morning (and every morning) the clock on my desk joins the ordinary symphony as rhythm section. Being battery operated, its treble ticking seems fully unnecessary, but it long ago became an indispensable member of the orchestra. The voice of an old friend, I would never choose it, but now rely its unnoticed auditory presence to know I am home in my familiar life.

One of my dear friends used to apologize for talking too much and often asserted with great delight that she was trying to learn to be more like me and talk less. I used to be afraid she would succeed, but then I realized her light-hearted assertions of imminent change were simply part of her effervescent presence and there was no need to worry.

Many of us think we should be someone else, be quieter or louder, taller or shorter. But in the end we don’t have much choice. Of course we could all do with some cleaning up around the edges—but I’ve come to believe that we’re pretty much stuck with being who we are. At some point, or at many points, we must learn to give up on our critical dream of who we think we should be and begin in earnest to work with what we’ve got.

David Ignatow’s wonderful poem Self Employed illustrates one such moment of grudging self-acceptance, when he relents from his decision to fire himself.

I stand and listen, head bowed,
to my inner complaint.
Persons passing by think
I am searching for a lost coin.
You’re fired, I yell inside
after an especially bad episode.
I’m letting you go without notice
or terminal pay. You just lost
another chance to make good.
But then I watch myself standing at the exit,
depressed and about to leave,
and wave myself back in wearily,
for who else could I get in my place
to do the job in dark, airless conditions?

The poem is a lovely evocation of our internal divisions—the critical one who is almost always judging our performance or our essence as being insufficient, and the one who is judged—the one standing at the exit, / depressed and about to leave. But what if the beleaguered inner self just walked out the door? What if they said ‘No more!’ and exited up the stairs to the street?

Greeted by the bracing winter air and the full cacophony of life itself, I would be invigorated. All directions being equal, my feet might decide to head north. I would swing my arms and take great strides in the most unsophisticated way. Grinning with freedom, other city-folk might think me unhinged, but I would take that as a compliment.

Walking north, breathing deeply of the crisp winter air, I have no destination. All I see and hear brings great delight. What I’ll do isn’t clear to me, but for now there is only walking—great strides of freedom enliven me and make me wonder why it took so many years.

Having escaped once more, I smile as I listen to the ticking clock on my desk. Looking around at the familiar piles of books and my perpetually unkempt office, I notice it’s actually my internal supervisor who has been fired. I am where I was before, but now noticing and appreciating rather than complaining. I suppose the supervisor will wheedle his way back into employment soon enough, but for now, I’ll enjoy these new working conditions.