Sometimes in the course of conversation, I or a friend will say something about the blessings of ignorance. These conversations are usually about politics or conflicts in the world, maybe about human frailties or failures. Sometimes we’re talking about our own barely-there awareness. Sometimes we’re just talking about nothing. Inevitably, one or both of us will say that ignorance truly is bliss.
I know people who live their lives like a well-known ostrich myth: they bury their heads in the sand. They avoid dealing with life, with tribulation, with reality. And though they paint a smiley face on every danged day, they are the most challenged people I know. Health, money, relationships, business – you name it. I’ve watched so many friends struggle more than the rest of us seem to, if only because they don’t acknowledge their problems honestly.
We all face trials in life. And dear Lord, I know a few people who are traversing so much life, you’d think they were going through Dante’s 9 circles of hell. But I’ll tell you something, they are at least facing their lives. They are struggling beyond belief, but they don’t deny it or pretend otherwise.
But I digress. I meant to write about how I often wish I could don rose-colored glasses and view the world – and my life – through a lens of ignorance. How some days find me wanting to pretend the world is okay, if only so I can smile for a while. And feel like smiling. But I can’t fake it. No matter how I might try, I just can’t lie to myself.
I grew up in a house of cards, a series of houses really. When we lived on Westchester Drive in Barnesville, GA, the house had what might be called a formal living room. We didn’t use it, however, and it sat empty. Well, almost empty. In the middle of the room’s floor, there was a huge pile of old clothes and trash. It smelled awful, as the cat would occasionally get in the room and treat the pile like a litter-box. The house’s front door opened from that room, but because of the pile, we never used that door. Instead, we came and went from the carport door. If friends came over – which rarely happened – the living room was closed off. I don’t know how the pile came to be, and I don’t know why it was never cleaned up. For the most part, my parents pretended the entire room didn’t exist. As for us kids, we always wanted to go in there. I don’t know why, but that big pile of waste was intriguing. But we were no dummies – we knew better than to talk about it. Not in public, nor in private. Turned out we were being trained and taught to bury our heads in the sand. I was 10 years old.
Why am I going down this lane of memory today? Maybe it’s because I’ve been doing laundry, tidying up around the hotel. Maybe it’s because I’m processing feelings about people who’ve dealt with me dishonestly. Maybe it’s because of nothing. Nothing at all.
Whatever the reason, I am left to deal with my reality. To face my life as honestly, as earnestly as I am able. But I’ve gotta tell ya, if I had a pair of rose-colored glasses, I’d probably use them for a while. But only for a while. And then I’d be right back where I am: in the real world. Facing my life while standing on my own two feet. Trying to keep an open mind. Trying to grow and evolve as a human being. All the while, listening, listening… just in case there’s a knock at the front door. A door I gladly open into my clean living room.