And, I fail….
Often, I fall short of my best self; disappoint my positive self-perception. I don’t need to be reminded. It’s fair to say I am my own worst critic. I’ve spent much of this past week in communion with my flaws, in reaction to a comment about my competitive tennis piece.
Perhaps you’ll indulge me.
A comment from a reader called Pot and Kettle initially made me smile. People who know me, know I have a soft spot for idioms. How clever of a reader of mine to one up me with one? As I read, it became obvious the commenter was a familiar someone. In cleverly crafted prose, there was the suggestion that in my recent blog I had hoisted myself on my own petard; an idiom marvelously imagined by William Shakespeare.
I was quick to understand that They were the kettle, and I, the pot. It was an accusation that despite my public persona, I am a hurtful person.
Suddenly, the reading of comments lost their pleasure and self-doubt grabbed my heart. The Catholic girl in me chafed with guilt at the suggestion that I might be a hypocrite, a phony.
So here’s my first confession: I recoil at criticism. In writers’ groups, on the tennis court, in the face of my seventeen-year-old daughter, criticism raises in me, first guilt, then instantaneous defense. I might have become an attorney, so adept am I at swatting away its initial blows.
But here’s the other truth: part of my mercurial personality comes with the guarantee that once the hot white spotlight of criticism fades, I am likely to ruminate in it, dig and pull at it incessantly to understand its source. I can say with surety that more often than not criticism settles into a place where I give it serious study. It is my nature to reflect on the good and bad in me and here is the not so grand:
I can be, in no particular order, judgmental, sarcastic, opinionated, and sometimes clever at cost to others. Let’s add that I might enjoy some gossip and sometimes that swagger I love morphs into an unearned feeling of superiority.
I am guilty in all those things. I have wonderful people in my life who have none of those flaws, save the gossip. It is my experience that few of us are immune to that temptation.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? All of us walk around in this human skin which makes being our best selves, all the time, uniquely challenging.
However, there is nothing I write that is exaggerated or spun outside my truth. I write from my soul and I do not employ poetic license or seek to make my mark in creative nonfiction. As a writer, one might call me a personal essayist. I am not imaginative enough for fiction. The facts within my stories have credence because, to paraphrase the stunning Broadway musical Hamilton, “I was in the room where it happened.”
I do not seek to hurt. Even in the weakness of my soul, or when anger inhabits my heart, I never take aim at someone’s Achilles. If you see yourself in my musings and the reflection doesn’t flatter, well then, it’s likely you behaved badly. It’s also likely that I sought to diffuse, or make amends sometime after the dust had settled.
You will not see Pot and Kettle’s comment on this page. I suspect the source, but cannot verify. The commenter posted anonymously using a hijacked email address.
Here’s another truth: if I have something to say to you, I will say it with my ‘owned’ voice. People pretty much know where they stand with me. Want to poke at me, challenge my veracity? I’m open to discussion and pretty easy to find.
If you have something to say, own it. And for goodness sakes, my blog is not required reading for anyone.
A final thought: Anonymity is the righteous domain of good deed doers and philanthropists. It’s best left to them.