Sunday 11 September 2011
Being Wrong Can Feel Soooo Right
The phrase, "you're right," is something we are taught to seek out; much the same way a pig looks for truffles, or an arsonist looks for matches. It is the Pavlovian response that confirms acceptance. The gold star that signifies excellence. The A+ on our test of self-determination.
We are told a myriad of things as we grow, change, and experience our worlds. All of them seem to pale beneath the burning weight of being wrong or right. These concepts illuminate our strengths and flaws, until we either learn to embrace our failures and the fiery passion that spawned them, or collapse beneath the hefty burden of expectation, that being correct creates.
Our reputations are built on our ability to be consistantly infallible. We envisage a world of our own ambition and desire, hoping not to be proven wrong. We calculate the odds that others will confirm our assumption, and we will truly become what we claim to be. The man who paints is called 'artist'. The scribe is lauded as writer and author. The politican learns to understand corruption.
Being wrong is liberating.
When the drunk is sober we commend him, praising him for what he has not done. When the criminal tarries, and avoids nefarious action, we say that they are on the path to rehabilitation. When the husband takes out the garbage after having failed on many occasions to rise to his duties, the wife is often inspired to encourage and reciprocate.
Our deficiencies, when openly admitted and accepted, spotlight our triumphs with an undeniable intensity. As children we are cooed and coddled for simply pooping or tying our shoes, skills most of us exhibit on a daily basis with scarcely an acknowledgement. The disabled person knows how much consternation these activities create. The handicapped empathize with a million consecutive failings and truly appreciate the rare victory.
Should we ride the short bus to the station of our own incompetence? Should we don the protective helmet of our own idiocy? Should the healthcare worker of our deadbeat decorum be our constant companion?
For every one of us who sets the heights of accomplishment, there must be others who plum the depths of tribulation.
Grab a glass and drink yourself into oblivion. Steal the hearts of a dozen pretty things. Start an unruly gathering and disrupt the expected.
It feels good.
Dabuoy
We are told a myriad of things as we grow, change, and experience our worlds. All of them seem to pale beneath the burning weight of being wrong or right. These concepts illuminate our strengths and flaws, until we either learn to embrace our failures and the fiery passion that spawned them, or collapse beneath the hefty burden of expectation, that being correct creates.
Our reputations are built on our ability to be consistantly infallible. We envisage a world of our own ambition and desire, hoping not to be proven wrong. We calculate the odds that others will confirm our assumption, and we will truly become what we claim to be. The man who paints is called 'artist'. The scribe is lauded as writer and author. The politican learns to understand corruption.
Being wrong is liberating.
When the drunk is sober we commend him, praising him for what he has not done. When the criminal tarries, and avoids nefarious action, we say that they are on the path to rehabilitation. When the husband takes out the garbage after having failed on many occasions to rise to his duties, the wife is often inspired to encourage and reciprocate.
Our deficiencies, when openly admitted and accepted, spotlight our triumphs with an undeniable intensity. As children we are cooed and coddled for simply pooping or tying our shoes, skills most of us exhibit on a daily basis with scarcely an acknowledgement. The disabled person knows how much consternation these activities create. The handicapped empathize with a million consecutive failings and truly appreciate the rare victory.
Should we ride the short bus to the station of our own incompetence? Should we don the protective helmet of our own idiocy? Should the healthcare worker of our deadbeat decorum be our constant companion?
For every one of us who sets the heights of accomplishment, there must be others who plum the depths of tribulation.
Grab a glass and drink yourself into oblivion. Steal the hearts of a dozen pretty things. Start an unruly gathering and disrupt the expected.
It feels good.
Dabuoy
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