"One must somehow find a way of loving the world without trusting it; somehow one must love the world without being worldly." -G.K. Chesterton.
These words appeared at the beginning of Part Two of Loren Eiseley's book "All The Strange Hours - The Excavation of a Life". How I happened across this book in my usual thrift store forays is beyond me. But it is striking such a powerful chord in me that I have that unsettling suspicion it was waiting for me on that shelf. Let me digress regarding that for a moment.
A restless puzzle tends to kick around in me whenever I uncover something I value. It only seems to manifest when the object physically predates me or closely coincides with my birth. It's something akin to the unknowable mystery of synchronicity. How close did our paths brush? Or was it a 39 year meander until, on catching sight of the spine, I grabbed it and connected. Why? Had it not been the copy with this cover, I might have brushed it off. I've seen other covers since. Reprints. The desperation in the author's face seems softened. But this yellowed copy tripped that little switch within. I swear those are inside me, endlessly fluttering and clicking away. I feel them like the rows of mechanical switches in the darkened back room of the phone company I used to clean with my parents as a child. I'd like to imagine my switchboard making logical, informed decsions day after day. But, good luck. "See that guys face?" Click. "He's a liar and a sneak". Click click. "You can't trust a face like that." Thrum-thrum-thrum-click.
The older I get the connections cannot be traced back. Faces floated above me at the bewildering parties of adults. Masks of weathered skin, both kind and cruel, may have appeared above me just once and then vanished. And yet my hungry childish brain analyzed them effortlessly and wires were connected that cannot be cut. The puffy face of the morbidly obese lunch cafeteria lady in the project where our babysitter lived. Rumours circulated that she made her teenage son aid her in bathing and that between the folds of her voluminous flesh he found mold. I can't shake that image to this day. A silent shudder flows through me everytime a see a similarly circus-sized human scootering through the grocery store isles filling their carts with fat cell fuel.
I'm sure I'm not alone in these unfair predispositions. What unknowable atrocities do people associate with my unusual tall frame, beak-like nose and conspicuous Adam's apple? Maybe this explains the continuous appearance of urine in the elevator and public icebox.
"Clean THIS up, janitor. That's what you get for looking like my uncle Gary. I don't trust you. I hated him. I. Hated. Him."
I can understand it. But it's no good to live that way. Not for any of us. Chesterton was right. Trusting nonchalantly is not wise. But loving everyone is. It overrides the switches in your head and most importantly it helps you forgive them. Even when they're peeing on you.
