To Know and Be Known

That is the question

In my spiritual journey, I’ve put together a sort of rough map of human growth and development.

It’s just a sketch at this point but so far, it looks something like this:

From what I can tell, when it comes to creating a sense of self, we start out as just a tiny information intake machine. We hardly have a self.

As time goes by, we start putting pieces together to form parts. We might incorporate certain identities. Some are given to us, told to us: “This is you. You are this.”

Some we decide to adopt. Others, we aren’t so sure about. We might try some on for a while only to discard them later. Some we take on and keep against what we want, or might actually be true, resulting in exhausting play-acting, performance. And other parts to us start exhibiting naturally, parts that no one planned for. As we get older, we are shown by others what parts of us to display and which ones to hide. Which ones are ok, and which ones are not.

As we get older still, and if we consciously care about developing a strong, cohesive sense of self, we start noticing the fragmentation. We notice that we’re not the same version depending on our surroundings. Maybe we have a school self, a church self, a work self, a family self, and a private self—maybe even a very private self, a self that mostly exists locked up in a very dark, difficult-to-access corner that over time, might become calcified, possibly impenetrable.

But maybe we feel that we’d like to integrate a little bit. To show up as a sold self no matter the circumstances. This is where it gets tricky. Because we must do the difficult, super scary work of owning ALL our parts. Identifying them, naming them, and accepting them. This means dragging them to the surface and examining them with an observant, curious eye.

Many people do not desire this. They are happy in their fragmentation. They have worked hard for it. Sometimes they might have buried and hidden away parts of themselves for so long, they are not even aware they are there.

And sometimes it is just too hard, much too painful to bring them to light. We feel it is too risky, and not worth it.

Some people decide who they are at some point and then say, “That’s it. That’s me. This is my identity.” They may be fine with this, or they may be sad about it, resigned. They see a self and think it is forever. They believe and even defend the reasons that led to the fragmentation in the first place. People like this will say bummer things like, “I can’t change. This is just the way I am.”

Or, they push a pin into one small part of themselves, declaring it to be the whole identity. That this part is the only one of value. This person might not have a lot of interests, opinions, hobbies, or deep relationships. And they generally present one-dimensionally. Talking to people like this will feel like trying to get through and constantly hitting a dead-end no matter how many methods or routes attempted. This deep fragmentation will be detectable by someone who is truly trying to get at them. They will notice the chasm in parts. It will feel like there is something missing. It will be especially noticeable when, after many interactions, the relationship dynamic or perception of the person remains the same. They are met with a wizard reinforcing the message that they shall not pass.

Try not to judge these people; they are in turmoil, and they are scared, just trying to survive. Combine those two things and you get a strong feeling of being stuck. Trapped. Bound. Or just in denial. Which might not be that different.

So, with this pain and fear and high stakes risk, we stay as we are, possibly altering our separate parts as we go, but careful to maintain their separateness, giving very specific dictates on what can be seen when, how, where, and by whom.

This might be fine, who am I to say. All in the name of safety. But, from my cartographic observations, here’s what it can lead to:

Say someone says something that gets too close to one of your hidden away parts. It feels like a threat. It sets off alerts. Sirens are blaring. We want to defuse the threat, to shut it down. So we do. We close off. We let the person know in some way that they have gone too far and we must exit. Emotionally, maybe physically. This can look like abruptly changing the subject, making a joke, or fighting it with our dukes up. Just like you would with any threat: Distract it! Divert it! Destroy it.

And what our finite tolerance does is prevent us from knowing more about that person, with all their so-called scary parts. But they’re scary because we have not faced our own parts. It is unknown territory, maybe hostile. And if we can’t face our own, we surely can’t stand to be with someone else’s.

And then we continue on, keeping things hidden and continue to present our fragmented, well-curated partial self that we’ve decided (or was taught to us, once upon a time) is allowed, and thus permit only certain fragmented parts of others. We communicate to them, “I want this and this but not that, please. Thx.”

Which means we have limitations on how well we can know others, ourselves, and how knowable we allow ourselves to be. We give some parts to other people, but not all of them. We are partially known. Maybe 75% known. Maybe half. Maybe just a small percentage of 15%. I’ll let you know 15% of me. I will tell myself it’s all of me but it’s not, because I have to work very hard at hiding the other 85% and a lot of my energy is spent doing that.

We might get tired. We might feel dissatisfied in our relationships. Things that once worked no longer feel that way. If we let 75% of ourselves be known, others might not be satisfied with that, or they’re just too curious about that 25% that is kept hidden, maybe because they have a hunch that 25% holds a lot of answers. We get curious. We dig a little. We want to know. We become detectives.

So we start to look at ourselves with a magnifying glass and maybe a chisel. We angle a lamp toward the very dark and dusty recesses, steeling ourselves for the hideous monster sure to be lurking as we brace to unearth.

But instead of screaming—”Aaahhh!”—when we see it, if we were to coax it out and say “Hey, buddy, come on out, you’re safe here” we will see that when the monsters come out, they’re not hideous. We very carefully transplant shame with compassion. It feels surgical. When we give ourselves permission to love them and see them as a neglected part of us that deserves better, the power held by the story we told ourselves about them loses its hold.

By freeing it, we free ourselves, because those parts are ourselves. Chains are loosed, wounds can be healed, and then we can incorporate them into our being in a way that allows them to be there. It is ok. We don’t eliminate them. They’re not just gone. We accept them now, right along with the other parts that we were ok to present. The “bad” and “good” parts get new labels. Now we just see them all as parts. This is a process that takes much time, renaming, and repeated effort. Slowly we become more whole.

But if we want to be a more integrated self, we have to stand our ground. The fusing of parts creates a new, fragile self. We are a building with scaffolding. Things can threaten to collapse. We must hold on. This is very hard. We have to identify past patterns and actively reject them. To say, “No, I don’t want to do that anymore.” Hardest thing ever.

Doing it even if it feels normal to keep doing the same old thing. Even if it feels right. Because it feels so much better to stay in familiar terrain, or skin. A structure that once felt reasonably sound but, we are realizing more and more, may be starting to crumble. So we might have setbacks. We’ve kept these parts in a particular place for so long, sometimes it just feels better to let them go back into the dark. “This part has been working ok here. Why disturb it?” Others, too, may have this reaction to your change. “I miss this old version of you. I want it to be how it was.”

Stay strong.

Setbacks will happen, though. That is ok. The parts need more coaxing, more gentleness, and more patience. It takes time to ease things out. This is why it is a slow process.

When we get to know all of our parts, we can share them more easily with others. We become more knowable, because we willingly let them out. When others share their parts, they don’t feel like threats anymore. Because what is being threatened? That the bad things will come to light? Guess what, they’re already there, I brought them out myself, and they’re not so bad. Talking about those things is not a threat to me anymore. Now I can sit with you and your parts. It might be hard, but I can do it, because I’m stronger now, by becoming more solid.

Many things can act as a catalyst for the further development of ourselves. Living with others humans is helpful. One good way to see your parts better is to have kids. When you raise them and give them information, helping them form a self, and then sit back and wait for them to tell you, you start seeing things. And as you see them, they become like a reflection, small little mirrors running around. You can choose to look and say to yourself, “huh.”

OR, you can get scared and view them as an extension of yourself, and use them as props to hold up your self-perception you work so hard to maintain. So—if they exhibit those same scary parts, you react to them just as as if it was you, by shutting them down in some way or running away because the threat is very near very often. You want to reject that threat. The kids will feel it, and they will adapt accordingly.

This reminds me of a quote I recently read. It’s a brain-twister, so you may need to read it twice and then give it a think:

“I am not who you think I am. You are who you think I am.”

If, instead, you choose to look at the mirrors these people hold, you can learn a lot. You will start to feel things that are true. And it will feel really uncomfortable, maybe quite painful. Another quote from somewhere:

“The truth will set you free.
It will make you miserable at first, but it will set you free.”

What is being set free? The parts that have been trapped for so long. Remember, those parts are you. So then you = free. Free to fuse together and become more integrated into a new self. A solid self.

Once upon a time, Sean (husband), and Julian (son) and I were playing a game. It was a silly fast-paced game where you had to do certain challenges within a length of time. You had to go fast. Rapid fire, quick responses. Not much time to think. Julian was given the quick challenge to “impersonate the person to your left,” which was me.

Immediately he started going off, using a mimicking voice, “Oh what is my life? I have no purpose! I’ll never do anything meaningful!”

WHAA—Sean and I were totally caught off guard and died with laughter, because even with my surprise, I could not deny the truth of that impersonation. Though unsettled, I was very humbled to see how he saw me and it was hilarious. Julian knew he’d trodden on dangerous ground. I’m proud he felt bold enough. He was spot on and it gave me good pause.

We think we know ourselves. We think we know our kids. But if we were to ask them, what do you think they’d say? Would you ever dare ask? Would they feel free or safe to speak honestly? If you can tolerate that kind of honesty, I recommend asking. But that’s a big “if.”

We parents think we know eeeverything about our kids. And it’s true, we know a lot. After all, we were there giving those little information machines their very first bits of intake. I mean, I used to be able to trace this kid’s entire vocabulary to the specific text from whence it came! “This word comes from this book and he got that word from that book…” I knew the origin of his words. Watched him form language and practice the words for the first time. I read him all the books I ever loved as a young child and an older one. It’s true, every book I could think of and find, for as long as he let me.

But I’ve learned I cannot hold him to my view of him. As a toddler, or a teen. That is not true knowing.

One way I express a desire to know him better is by reading his favorite books, just like I read him mine. By now, his vocabulary has expanded, has gone beyond the books I read to him in the days of yore. So now I’m reading his.

One of them was The Fault in Our Stars, about a terminally ill teenager. At one point she tells of Otto Frank, father of Anne Frank and sole survivor of the family during the Holocaust. He found her diary later and learned who she really was. What she really thought, what she really felt, which led him to wisely conclude,

“Most parents don't really know their children.”

And then he published and promoted this new discovery, this new knowledge of who his daughter was based on the telling of her own words.

Another time, the three of us were sitting together reading conversation cards out of a box (because we hit some awkward silence? False-never. Silence: never). Julian drew out a card that read, “give each person in the room a single word to describe them.” Pointing at me, then Sean, then himself, he quickly said,

”Rebel, Intelligent, Nerd.”

Ha! It was like a free association game and i found it quite revealing. Rebel, eh? Interesting. And, that checks out. I love his awareness, of others and of self, and I admire the honesty and, let’s face it, the accuracy.

I have a tendency to make friends play weird probing games as well. For example, once when we were out to dinner, I proposed we play a game called “First Impressions,” (it didn’t have that name then but it does now) where we share our first impressions of each other. This is another good game to play on a journey of self-knowledge. But it is risky. To really play it, I have to want honesty. And if I want you to be honest, I have to be ok with what you say.

For example, one friend said one of the first times we hung out, I brought some post-it notes with topics to talk about at her house. Ha ha! What? I had forgotten but it is true, it happened, and it’s so weird. But she has always accepted the weird parts of me, and never even called them weird. Bless her.

Yet another game I’ve made people play is “How Have I Grown?” (I’m a blast at dinner gatherings)

Another version: ”How Do You See Me” Risky? Yes. But also can be fruitful.

That mirror is not easy though.

It is a fact that any 80’s child will have been impacted by the film Neverending Story. I could conduct a survey right now and 100% of the participants will mark “yes” to that question. No survey necessary.

In the [neverending] story, Atreyu the warrior has to go through all these difficult challenges to complete his quest and save Fantasia. At the very end the kookie wise old couple know what lies ahead for him, prepare him the best they can, and send him on his way. But they don’t have much hope for him because no one has ever gotten through before. The little old scientist man thankfully narrates for us as he watches him through his telescope. The first challenge is getting past the sphinxes who stand at either side of the road. If they sense fear or self-doubt, they will shoot lasers at the entrant and fry him. Atreyu sees the charred remains of endeavorers around him and barely makes it through.

Then we get to the second task and it was always such a mystery to me. Because the old man starts freaking out saying, “this one is a million times harder!” and from what my child-self could tell, all he did was walk up to a dark, cloudy mirror, see his reflection, and the next thing we knew, he had made it. What’s the big deal?

But, having since gone through my own initial “Door of the Mirror” as it’s called in the movie, I now understand why it is the most difficult challenge to face.

As the old scientist man says, this part is where “kind people discover that they are cruel and the brave become cowards. Confronted with your true self, most of the people run away screaming.” 80’s movies got so real with us tiny children.

That’s what lies at the center of our fear of examining our parts— that we will discover that the things we believed all this time are not true after all, or the things we feared will be confirmed, and that if others see it, they’ll agree.

Something to consider as we weigh out our options on our own quest.

Atreyu was very brave and seemed intent on conquering whatever he needed to (much was relying on him). He did have a few setbacks or impediments like the Swamps of Sadness and too many annoying riddles to solve (I would find that very frustrating) but he stayed the course.

But maybe we identify more with Neo from the Matrix, who’s given the option to take a red pill, which will show him the truth, or a blue pill, allowing him to live in ignorance. What did he lose by choosing knowledge? What was the sacrifice? Comfortable illusion?

Weird Barbie offers Stereotypical Barbie the option to choose between a Birkenstock, allowing her to enter the real world with unknown messiness and flaws and scary things but which holds potential for growth and truth, or a high-heel pump, so she can stay in Barbieland where everything is regular and nice and familiar and shallow and repetitive and stunted.

From what I can tell on my roughly sketched-out map, our journey is the same. Do we want to know more? About ourselves? About others? Or keep things as they are, in a partitioned, familiar, yet unexamined stasis.

I can see compelling reasons for both. But if we don’t choose the Birkenstock, (the only option, according to wise Weird Barbie) I might be inclined to echo her words:

I’m bummed. You’re a bummer; that’s a bummer.

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Note: All of this stunningly beautiful artwork was created by the brilliant Sean Morello, who understands my soul such that he can make exactly what I want in an illustration before i even do.