Stupidity
I did something stupid today, or rather I realized that I did something stupid a couple of days ago. Without getting too specific, let's just say it involves not being careful about how I spend my money and how much I have to spend. Now, I'm going to have to admit to my wife the stupid thing I did, and figure out how to make up for it.
But none of that is the worst part. I'm most bothered by how it happened in the first place. I can say honestly and without any pride that I'm not, generally, a stupid person. I understand the importance of keeping track of money and other import possessions. I know how to add and subtract. I have all the intellectual skills I need to keep this and other bonehead mistakes I've made from happening.
Why, then, do they happen? Why do I do it?
Simply explained, I didn't take care. I didn't do what I knew how to do, what I knew I should do, and what would have prevented the mistake. Maybe I was in a hurry to do whatever else I was doing. Maybe it didn't seem important at the time. At some moment, though, I made a choice to act--or not to act--when I knew better.
I've seen these choices with others, people around me at home, at work, driving down the road. We make choices that we know have a decent chance of leading us into grief. Sometimes--often, even--we get lucky and nothing goes wrong. But often enough, we feel the sting of our stupidity and suffer the consequences. I would say it's like falling asleep at the switch, except that we're wide awake when we do it; I know I am.
Or am I? Does having my eyes open and my body moving mean I know what I'm doing? Does it mean I'm *conscious*?
I guess that's really what I'm talking about: consciousness. Awareness. Paying attention to the potential consequences of my choices while I'm in the act of making them rather than looking beyond those consequences to whatever sparkling trinket calls for my attention at the time: whatever new toy I want to buy or new movie I want to watch or tasty bit of food I must have or distraction I have to absorb to prevent me from feeling all those things at any given moment that I don't want to feel.
It could be that the first and most fundamental choice at any given moment is between awareness and distraction. Will I face myself as I am, with whatever unpleasantness that might entail, or will hide by burying my attention elsewhere? Lately for me, this question emerges most in my struggles with writing. I know that when I write I can't hide. I know that putting down words, no matter what I write about, will reveal what's going on inside me. All my fears and shortcomings will come out, either because I put them down or because I avoid them and then see the falseness in what I've written. I also know, and also avoid, what good might come out of me through writing. I know how much it frees me and makes me hopeful. But when I sit down with a blank page, I can't help thinking of the discomfort that it may take to get to that place of possibility. The fear rears up and I choose distraction instead of consciousness; I leave the page blank and find something else to do.
I'm not foolish enough to expect myself to be perfect, but I would like to be better. Instead of being aware, I now have to deal with the hangover from being oblivious. I feel like an idiot and that hurts. But if it wakes me up even a little bit, maybe it won't have been a complete loss. It woke me up enough to write this. Now the task is trying to stay that way.
But none of that is the worst part. I'm most bothered by how it happened in the first place. I can say honestly and without any pride that I'm not, generally, a stupid person. I understand the importance of keeping track of money and other import possessions. I know how to add and subtract. I have all the intellectual skills I need to keep this and other bonehead mistakes I've made from happening.
Why, then, do they happen? Why do I do it?
Simply explained, I didn't take care. I didn't do what I knew how to do, what I knew I should do, and what would have prevented the mistake. Maybe I was in a hurry to do whatever else I was doing. Maybe it didn't seem important at the time. At some moment, though, I made a choice to act--or not to act--when I knew better.
I've seen these choices with others, people around me at home, at work, driving down the road. We make choices that we know have a decent chance of leading us into grief. Sometimes--often, even--we get lucky and nothing goes wrong. But often enough, we feel the sting of our stupidity and suffer the consequences. I would say it's like falling asleep at the switch, except that we're wide awake when we do it; I know I am.
Or am I? Does having my eyes open and my body moving mean I know what I'm doing? Does it mean I'm *conscious*?
I guess that's really what I'm talking about: consciousness. Awareness. Paying attention to the potential consequences of my choices while I'm in the act of making them rather than looking beyond those consequences to whatever sparkling trinket calls for my attention at the time: whatever new toy I want to buy or new movie I want to watch or tasty bit of food I must have or distraction I have to absorb to prevent me from feeling all those things at any given moment that I don't want to feel.
It could be that the first and most fundamental choice at any given moment is between awareness and distraction. Will I face myself as I am, with whatever unpleasantness that might entail, or will hide by burying my attention elsewhere? Lately for me, this question emerges most in my struggles with writing. I know that when I write I can't hide. I know that putting down words, no matter what I write about, will reveal what's going on inside me. All my fears and shortcomings will come out, either because I put them down or because I avoid them and then see the falseness in what I've written. I also know, and also avoid, what good might come out of me through writing. I know how much it frees me and makes me hopeful. But when I sit down with a blank page, I can't help thinking of the discomfort that it may take to get to that place of possibility. The fear rears up and I choose distraction instead of consciousness; I leave the page blank and find something else to do.
I'm not foolish enough to expect myself to be perfect, but I would like to be better. Instead of being aware, I now have to deal with the hangover from being oblivious. I feel like an idiot and that hurts. But if it wakes me up even a little bit, maybe it won't have been a complete loss. It woke me up enough to write this. Now the task is trying to stay that way.
posted by A Pilgrim at 12:30 PM
2 Comments:
waking up hurts, but it is also marvelous in its power and joy.
i love you, friend. mistakes happen, honesty allows them to heal -- this will pass and you will be better for having had to deal with it, whatever it is.
I agree that no mistake is made if one further awakens from uncosciousness. Keep writing Mr. Robinson. The way may reveal itself in the winding words.
Post a Comment
<< Home