I have always liked romantic comedies as they do some things within the imagination that the real world cannot — give multiple perspectives. You see the story of love play out from two different versions of the same story and the struggles that ensue from not knowing. But as the audience we get to know, and that feels complete.
Life doesn’t feel the same way. I feel as though I can only be within a single story, and the whole world operates this way. A billion story arcs; singular in perspective, and yet more complex than the cosmos. Or so it feels. We grow up believing our story arc is somehow unique, but the reality is that it is not. It is mine, but it is not unique in the sense that it stands out with greater value than another. The greatest fear and pain is this realization, but this realization delivers life’s greatest beauty: If my story feels valuable to me, then every person’s story has this same intrinsic value. A value, a right given by God that no one has the right to bury.
But we do. We bury it all the time.
I look out the window of my car and there is homeless man sitting at the edge of the freeway exit with a sign. He is, for all of life’s marketable values, worthless… and yet, he has a story. I find myself wondering what it is; what is it that got him to this place? Is it a cautionary tale that begs the question of my own demise and failure? Is it failure at all? Or better yet, is it just failure out loud and not masked by a manipulation or skill? If so, then perhaps it is less of a failure than the masks I wear, for what is my success but my story being bought by others. No one cares to question if it is fiction or non-fiction.
As the cars roll by this homeless man, so do those in my life roll by me… for they do not know me — like actually know me. They know the story I share and they know the story they are willing to believe, and that story is that I am better, in their eyes, than this homeless man. But am I? Certainly not. I am different. I am my story, but I am not better. And this is the bittersweet nature of our nature. The paradox of everything that is good is also that which destroys. The sun both helps us to see, but it also burns our eyes if we look directly. Money can deliver so many external things, but it can also destroy us inside. Love can make us feel alive, and it is also the greatest grief as it teeters on existence and non-existence at all times.
So, we turn inside. We turn to empowerment. We turn to individualism. But these too are all masks and manipulations of our own stories so we do not have to answer to that great longing in life, which is connection, community, family… relationship. The other is toxic, a narcissist, a monster… and if we are the victim then we cannot be toxic, narcissistic, or monstrous. We sit here. We live here. We find the peace of judgment, so long as that judgment doesn’t turn its gaze toward ourselves. And if it does, how dare judgment make this claim?! Does it not know the pain I have endured?! And what of the pain that turned the other to toxicity, or narcissism, or toward monstrosity? What of their pain? No, we mustn’t actually practice empathy because that sort of empathy is dangerous. We must run, and dissolve, and divorce, and opine, and judge, and hold accountable, and break connection for the danger outweighs the good.
So, we step on the gas pedal and make our turn as we pass the homeless man. And as we pass him and his sign we let him go. We dissolve that internal conscience calling us toward something connected; a belief that his story is as valuable as mine, and a resolve that says humanity is something everyone deserves — the homeless man, the toxic one, the narcissist, and the monster. For I find it hard to believe that, perhaps, if humanity had been shared then the toxic, the narcissist, the monster would have neglected choosing that path for their worth and the value of their story being heard and their pain being seen would win the day.
Perhaps not, and that is the problem with all of us. Even if we get what we want we can still feel empty and broken. Even Adam and Eve amidst the connection of God himself, they chose to want more.
In the end the answer must be what I choose to be for myself. That I choose to narrate my own story for it might be the only thing I can control in this life. It is not that I would have chosen to not eat the apple as I fail often, but that I might be sorry for doing so. Perhaps the greatest plot line in each of our stories is not success and greatness, but the ability to repair. This, I think, is love. This, I think, is connection.
To find the humility that our own story is not the single arc of the world’s narrative and endure through that pain to find the beauty of all the stories out there and work to understand their complexities… and instead of trying to make sense of the complications, rather respond with an ear to hear, a kiss, a hug, a safe place for others to find rest.
Healing is not so much the resolution through reason, but the safety of connection. And if connection doesn’t work we must connect again. We cannot give up. This is true for those around us, and as much so for the homeless man at the edge of the freeway exit.