Truths and Deceptions (3)

But in the morning I woke up and couldn’t stop thinking about what he had said. I lay in bed for a while, and then got up and went into the kitchen where J. was making coffee. “I know what I wish I could say to him,” I told him.

“What do you want to say?” he asked, looking out the window at the snowy back yard and the empty bird feeder.

“I want to say I’m really disturbed about what he said about deceiving people because he had taught them to think. I want to tell him that even though he feels so diminished now, it’s still what people see in him, it’s what makes them respect and admire him, even if they can’t express it …that even in the retirement home he is symbolic of something that is crucially important to us as human beings…that… that he’s a person who has a light inside him…” I broke off, tears suddenly streaming down my face. I looked at my husband helplessly, shrugged my shoulders and sighed, “I’m such an idiot,” and went around the corner to the bathroom in search of tissues. When I came back he handed me a mug of coffee and said, “You’re not an idiot. I think that might be good to tell him.”

“I don’t know,” I said lamely. “I’m not so sure, now that I’ve said it out loud. He’ll only listen to what he wants to listen to, and he’ll go on thinking what he wants. You know that. And how can you tell what he really thinks, deep down?”

“You’re certainly right about that,” he said, and we both started our work for the day. But during the morning the voice in my head continued:

“Look at the people you’ve always admired –  your beloved Greeks, like Socrates over here. The Arab poets. Moses and Jesus and Mohammad – yes, I know you think Mohammad was a scoundrel, but you still admire him. Gandhi. And lots of others. Thinkers. People who have tried to transcend the dross and senselessness and greed of the world and say something about what it is to be human, not avoiding the fact that we’re all caught in this same trap of our mortality, but facing that and finding the nobility and the possibilities within it. It’s what the Iliad is all about. Are you going to tell me you think all these people should have jumped off a cliff instead of trying to write the words down? A few people end up being great leaders or writers or philosophers and have a huge influence, and some of us have less influence, but it’s all still part of the same thing, the same search, and the same continuum from generation to generation. You discover these minds when you’re young, and they turn something on inside you, and you find out that you want to keep on discovering what they knew, and to sift through the wealth of human thinking toward truth, except that you find out what you thought was a destination is actually a journey, a way of life -- and then you want to share this way of being in the world with other people because you see how it makes life creative, it even makes life more fun, in spite of all the suffering that life brings to all of us… Look… wouldn’t you agree that there are two great positive forces in the world – love, and creativity? Love is something many people discover, you don’t have to be intelligent or educated to understand love and find meaning in it. But you…you’re also creative. You’re a very creative thinker. You have humor, you look at things from odd angles, you experiment, you go out on a limb, you aren’t afraid to go against the prevailing wisdom or to poke fun at the powers-that-be or even take them on quite forcefully when that’s necessary. You’ve been willing to be a thorn in the flesh, an iconoclast. Some people haven’t liked that, although they may have grudgingly respected it. But most people have always found it attractive and intriguing, whether they’ve been your students or parishioners or even the people who live here who don’t really know you in that context. You dismiss people as being “simple”, which means “boring,” because it’s difficult to have an intellectual conversation with them, they haven’t read the same books, they don’t know about the world, they don’t think about politics in the same ways, and so on. But look what you say – “they’ve all become terribly kind to me” “they want to sit with me at meals” “they want to hug me” “ they seem to like me but I don’t know why.” The reason is that they like you, and they sense something is different about you, and it makes them respect you and look up to you. You have a light in you that refuses to go out. I know it’s awful for you not to be able to work anymore, or write or read, and there’s no one to talk to and it’s lonely and boring. But you still have an influence on people – people like me, people here. And you can be in a miserable, disagreeable mood, and very unpleasant, because your body is giving out, and you’re being a complete pain in the ass to everyone around you, but there is still something remarkable about you that comes directly from the fact that you think. So please don’t tell me you’ve been deceiving people all your life and leading them into a fucking abyss!

Well. Maybe there will be the right opportunity, I told myself, and maybe not. Maybe he had simply needed to say what he did to someone, and see if he got a reaction; maybe it was the dark side of his pride speaking; maybe he had just been depressed; maybe he’d forgotten about it – but I doubted that. What I thought was that there were two interpretations of his life playing in his head, and that as death came closer, he was examining everything, and conducting the argument himself. At that particular moment he’d wanted a witness, or a confessor, and perhaps another opinion, perhaps not -- his ultimate judgment wasn’t going to depend on what I said. He was too smart for that, and too cagey to tell the whole truth. Even though cracks had appeared in old patterns and postures, I was pretty sure I’d never know what he really believed, about this or a lot of other things.

So, was a further dialog for him, or for me? Hard to tell. I figured I’d just have to wait and trust myself.

(This is the third of four parts, and is the latest in a many-year-long series of posts about my father-in-law, collected under the title "The Fig and the Orchid"; please click on that name under Pages, in the sidebar at left, for the whole series.)

Comments

[leslee]

And look at all of us that he's reached through you, too. He's shed his light widely and indelibly, whatever he thinks now.

[marja-leena]

This conversation in your head is pretty powerful. Even if you never do say it to him, it's here as a great recognition of what he means to you and everyone who knows hime. What an honour you have bestowed on your father-in-law; he is blessed.

[Kaycie]

Beth, I have tears just rolling down my face. You obviously love and respect him so much. How hard it must be to watch him struggle with the way he spent his life. I hope you get the chance to have that conversation in your head. It sounds like he needs to hear it.

I wonder what he'd think if he knew how much he is still teaching others through your blog?

[Jean]

Wow, Beth. Yes. Oh yes.

[rr]

I don't want to be banal but what he's saying sounds like depressed ideation. I find his argument extremely familiar. So he might not be able to hear your affirmation when you make it. However that doesn't mean it shouldn't be said - for both of you.

[Jean]

I think you're right, rr. Being so old and frail, options constantly narrowing, must often be depressing. I guess it's important to accept that the end of life is hard and can be depressing. As I said there, Beth, what moved me most about an earlier section of this account is that you didn't rush in and try to offer facile comfort, to him or to yourself.

[zuleme]

These posts show me what a good writer you are. I look forward to them.

[Martine]

Your last 3 posts have made me think a lot: about my own father, who had that "why bother" attitude but without the light you describe, and about how I would react myself if I were in J's dad's situation (I recognize the grumpiness...)

You wrote: "At that particular moment he’d wanted a witness, or a confessor, and perhaps another opinion, perhaps not -- his ultimate judgment wasn’t going to depend on what I said."

His rational judgment no, probably not.

But he knows you, he knows how you feel about these kinds of issues, and if he's presenting them to you, it could be just so that he could hear your arguments again, for the reassurance they provide (even though his nature brings him to resist it), and for the love and care he must be feeling coming from you, after you bother arguing with him one more time.

Overly rational people often think that the power is in the details of the argument. But it's often when they are busy dealing with words and ideas that the power of the emotion behind the words hits them. I should know. ;-)

[Peter]

I'm with Jean. After a weekend of pain and indignity, with the possibility of dying a reality rather than an abstract forecast, a man might be forgiven for saying bitter things.

I think that at one point or another, all my late kin said things about themselves or others that upset their families. It took me a while to decide that they reflected a truth, but not a whole truth, about their thinking.

I never knew the right thing to say when someone went off like that; I'm not good at extemporaneous eloquence. But hours later, I'd think just as you are thinking -- "look at all you've given us, look at what you've accomplished. Be proud, and know that we love you."

Your father-in-law is an extraordinary man, but he's lucky to have extraordinary descendants. (You know, you're becoming his Plato ...)

[Dave]

It's natural for intellectuals to react against intellectualism, especially here in the U.S. From the Quakers to the Zennists, it seems we've always had these super-cerebral types who wrestled with the seductive power of words and learning. Just a few minutes before I read this post of yours last night, I read the latest from Real Live Preacher, seemingly written with the Hillary Clinton's diatribes in mind: Because There is Doing and There is Talking.

[beth]

Thanks a lot, Marja-Leena, Leslee. Thanks, Jean. Yes - I'm glad I didn't say all that to him, actually, but also glad I thought it out clearly.

RR: I think you're probably right. And it's unlikely that I'll pursue it unless he brings it up again and seems to be asking for input, which he was the other night, I just wasn't really ready to give it in a very helpful way, and he was too depressed to hear it. I recounted the dialogue in my head because I thought it added something to the story -- about my own needs and thought patterns, mostly. It's all rather sad, but funny too, everyone being so much themselves.

Dave: What a terrific piece from RLP - true and close to the bone for many of us. Thanks.

Thanks, Kaycie. He was still raging tonight on the phone, but admitted it was just because he's very frustrated and angry. I'm glad he's not rolling over and passively accepting his fate; it gives me hope that I can be feisty when facing adversity too.

Zuleme, that's awfully nice of you to say. Thanks.

Hi Martine - thanks so much for writing that comment. It touched me. And I think you're right about him, and in that insight about words and emotion. I suppose these experiences are there to teach us, as painful as they can be. He's pretty funny though, even if it's black humor.

Peter, thanks. If I hear him say he owes a cock to Aesclepius, I'll start really worrying.

[Judith]

I believe that his out loud ruminations parallel the inner dialogue which many of us have as we grow old and face death, whether we are seriously sick or not. What if old people in small groups, with family or friends were allowed to share what is really rattling around inside without fear of being patronized or labeled or pushing others away?