There was this article I read that I can’t fully recall (which says something about its mental potency, but, still…). The story had this really well developed branding that said, “THIS is the truth.” but after I read it, I felt nothing. I got nothing of substance from it.
The other day, someone sent me this truly fucking inspirational post of Jim Carrey speaking at a business management graduation and I listened to his amazing words and watched with curiosity. The cap and gown he wore were just another character. I couldn’t help but think, “I wonder how much they paid him for this speech.” because inspiration is rarely without cost.
And if we’re being honest, honesty is the new black…pushing ourselves to be more honest than our neighbor. Holding each other accountable to some ideal, genuine article.
It’s exhausting. Because sometimes I don’t give a shit about your honesty or mine. I only care about how we treat each other…even if we have to lie to do each other justice.
I’m much more into justice lately.
There is something that happens in our small rotation of Earth. You can watch the adults weave in and out of each other until we create a web so thick that we are all stuck. In our perceptions of each other and even worse, ourselves. We peel ourselves away just long enough to sleep and start again.
Who am I today? We search for the ocean in the seashell. Can you hear it?
At some point, the search becomes more important than the actual truth.
With us spending so much time trying to convince each other that we’re special and unique instead of just being special and unique.
I wear cowboy boots because I love the way my calves look and not because my boots have anything to say.
And when I fail my children it’s not because my step-father was an angry drunk…or because I don’t know my mother’s address. It’s because I might just be…really, totally human.
Impatient and irrational and imperfect.
And if we’re being honest, I don’t care that much about my imperfection. Or yours.
My kids ate chicken nuggets and boxed macaroni and cheese tonight.
I drank half of a mediocre bottle of cabarnet sauvignon.
I’ve had 2 accidents in a car with a back-up camera created specifically to prevent car accidents.
These are facts and maybe not honesty. Honesty looks more like wondering if I should have had that third glass of wine and then the next day, sucking in my stomach before I step on a scale. And then wondering if I’ll die alone in a nursing home while I shampoo my hair.
Will my kids fight over our furniture? And will they hang a picture of me in their guest room? Will I be a shitty grandmother even though I really want to be the grandmother who plays board games and bakes cookies? Will old age and reading glasses transform me into my Grandma?
If we’re being honest…probably not.
But, the stories we tell each other help.
And that’s why we tell them.
Tomorrow I may even make a roasted chicken. And I probably won’t even have a glass of wine at all. And the eye cream I bought will work.
And if I’m being honest…the hope of honesty feels just as good as the actual thing.
The best kind of drug.