I recall a video game, Tetrisphere, which was a variation of Tetris. In the game the player confronted a sphere covered by three-dimensional shapes. The game provided the player with a series of objects similar in shape to those covering the sphere. When you matched a piece with one on the outermost layer of the sphere, it would disappear and reveal a small portion of a level nearer the sphere’s core. The object was to eliminate enough pieces to open the core and release a friendly little robot.
One challenging aspect of the game is the sphere grows with time, making it more difficult for the player to reach the core before time runs out.
From the beginning, Tetrisphere struck me as a powerful metaphor for life. We are continually given experiences of life in the form of challenges, joys, suffering, love and confusion. Each piece of life—a different size, shape and color—is an invitation to fit it into our knowing, or unknowing. When we live these experiences with authenticity and vulnerability, the wisdom we gain tears away a small piece of who we may have thought we were to expose a slightly deeper level of our true selves. The goal of life, perhaps, is to tear away enough of the layers to release into the world the essence of who we are.
If, on the other hand, we allow the experiences of life, especially those that are painful and difficult, to add to the layers that separate us from the core of who we are, it becomes more difficult to discover who we were meant to be.
A call came from a young man who, in that moment, knew little of his self-worth. He had made a decision some months earlier that had extremely unpleasant consequences for loved ones in his life. Because of the pain he had caused, he felt himself a horrible, selfish person—new layers making it more difficult to see himself for who he truly is.
We know that even “poor” decisions are usually made in the best way we know how at the moment of choice. I asked, early in the conversation, if that was true for him. “No!” he insisted. “I knew better…I should never have made that choice.” He told me his heart felt dirty, sullen and hidden.
In the midst of the call, I began to wonder silently why we find it so difficult to offer ourselves the generosity and understanding we offer others. As our relationship developed I began to grasp the overpowering anxiety pervading his life at the time of his fateful decision. It was so strong it clouded his view of life and pointed him to the decision he eventually made. When I asked him about his panic and apprehension, he reluctantly admitted he did, indeed, feel a loss of control over his life. So I asked, if he were to show himself the kindness he would show another, would he be willing to admit that he was indeed a good and kind person, who, in a moment of confusion, made a choice he now rejected. There was a moment of silence after which he said quietly, “Maybe so.” He paused for a moment longer, and then he asked, “Do you think the pain I am feeling is my heart trying to find its way back into the world?”
Even as I write these words, tears well up. I could do nothing in the moments that followed but be in awe of the profundity of his insight. It was one more of life’s experience pointing him to the magnificence of who he is behind the layers of who he is not.
2 thoughts on “The Layers of Who We Are Not”
I was thinking about you and wondering what/how you are doing. I love this piece.and I love to see your writing again which I have missed over the years since your Entre Nous newsletter.I can see that you have felt a calling to return to your love of writing and the more reflective and introspective side of your writing.
I thought of you on another count. I am starting back into my family history writing and my Great-grandmother Sarah Prince’s older brother was an MD who worked near you at a Sanitorium/hospital around the beginning of the twentieth century. So I wanted to do more research into that.
Your writing inspires me to deepen into my own writing and also my sculptural art work with found objects. There is something about the history of old objects that in a way evokes our own deeper history. Thank you for writing!
Warm wishes, Judy
Judy, I am so sorry it took me nearly a month to see your kind and generous words. Someday i truly hope to spend time with you and Michael once again.