The Problem With Stating the Obvious

Sometimes what we actually want and what we communicate are two very different things. We state the obvious, and it gets lost somewhere in translation because it is too big to be explained with one sentence.

I am thinking about three awkward encounters I have had in my life. They hinge around the same topic of a passion of mine – writing.

I can remember that difficult transitional age of leaving junior high and becoming a freshman. I was at a teacher’s picnic, one my family was invited to because my dad was on the school board at the time. I had heard a lot about a high school teacher named Mr. Frederick, affectionately referred to as “Fred.” With the wobbly confidence that only a freshman can know and understand, I walked up to his circle of teacher friends, extended my hand and said, “My name is Mandy. I love English.”

To this day I remember the fury of emotions inside me, the excitement of connecting with a kindred spirit, the anticipation of entering into his magical classes, the hope of a connection to a person with a similar passion. That was what I was wanting. What I was communicating? – “I like what you like, so will you like me? Please?!”

Mr. Frederick gave a sort of half-grin. I could tell he was unsure how to respond. He didn’t have to though because a teacher who sat beside him said, “Hey, can I see your keys?” I still cringe at the thought of my naivety and the embarrassing event that followed. Though I could laugh about it with these two teachers now, at the time I wanted nothing more than to sprint away into the sunset, to never stop running until I had found another land where passion was not confused with low self-esteem. But truth be known, I was horribly pathetic at the time, hardly able to hold up my own head for fear I might offend someone or say the wrong thing. This was just a nail in my already well-established coffin. It was an agreement that I was in fact a person I did not want to be and the creative passions that I felt the need to express were better off buried and left unannounced. An agreement that I would have to spend years breaking myself free from.

The teacher grabbed my keys and from his sitting position in his lawn chair, threw them as far down the hill as he could manage. I heard them land with a far-off clinking thump, totally out of sight. I looked at “Fred” one last time before turning red and trotting down the hill to retrieve my keys in humiliation. He was shaking his head, still smiling his half-grin.The circle of teachers were laughing.

Other times have followed. Times that I have wanted to connect to someone with a similar passion, but instead communicating that I needed them to validate me. I can remember two interactions in particular, both with authors, both to whom I spouted off, “I would like to write a book.” I can remember the deadpan stares. I can remember vowing to myself that if I did ever manage to write a book and someone ever came to me with their own enthusiasm for writing, that I would encourage them and value them and cheer them on. I vowed I would never just stare in a tall, looming manner, my eyes blinking with disinterest and annoyance and territorial protection. It was as if my declaration to these authors was an attempt to stake claim to a creative territory in which I was not welcome.

I will be the first to admit that in all three situations it is quiet possible that my own shaky knees of a poor self-concept read far more into the responses of the other people then actually existed. But I can also tell you that in my heart my motives were pure. What I really desired was just to connect with a fellow artist, to have someone say “I get you,” to have someone say, “Your desires, they are legit and they belong.” I wanted to connect to artistic community where I was encouraged and valued and welcome. Instead I fear I communicated neediness, selfishness and emptiness.

I have learned since then to guard my passions and dreams like jewels, to not throw them exuberantly before just anyone. I have learned that building authentic relationships with an artistic community takes time and a season of proving yourself by just being yourself. Sometimes what we long to communicate can’t be squeezed into a hurried sentence, it must be weaved into our actions and must pour out in a long, fluid rhythm over a lifetime. Some people will have the patience to stick around long enough to hear it, but not everyone. We cannot make friends with everyone.

Tagged as: artist, self-help