to witness your world
I'm reading a book called "The Phantom Tollbooth."
It's a book from my childhood; I think I read it when I was about 12
years old (side note: it's a great children's novel and if you have
kids I suggest you encourage them to read it or read it to them; I
plan on doing so with my future kids [along with the books "Fudge" and
"Superfudge"]) and the theme is that it's important to pay attention to
where you are and what you are doing so that you can enjoy the sights,
sounds, thoughts, and tasks of being alive. After all, each second
goes by only once.
That's not really my point. The point is that to the
end of experiencing what it is to be alive, the protagonist is taught to
witness all that is around him in its most visceral and raw form. And the
point of saying that is to say how differently reality is felt when
you can witness it first hand compared to experiencing it through an
intermediary.
I have a couple of examples. One of my extended family
members was diagnosed with cancer for the third time. To top it off, he
received this diagnosis shortly after his honeymoon. It was serious. It
required surgery which resulted in several complications. At the end of
it all, he had one leg amputated, one lung removed, and significant bodily
trauma. I don't know if he'll ever be able to do anything vigorous for
the rest of his life (he used to be very athletic). Yes, it's sad, but it
didn't affect me very much. And the only explanation I can come up with
is that I've witnessed almost none of this. I saw him at his wedding
looking ruddy, excited, happy, fit, and surrounded by friends. I haven't
seen him once since then, all news comes indirectly and infrequently
through his parents to my parents, and he doesn't take visitors or phone
calls. So when I think of him I think of him as I saw him at his wedding.
Fortunately, from the rare news I've received, he is at home (finally) and
learning to live life with a prosthesis. This is great to hear, as
opposed to being told that there's a chance our family may have a funeral
in the next month.
A similar example involved a friend of mine. He
recently found out that his dad has stage four lymphoma. And even though
he was with his dad when told the diagnosis and has been interacting with
him since, he said it still feels like a dream. His dad is the same as
he's been; healthy, all there, just... dad. As you might expect,
it's hard for my friend to see his father as seriously ill when he has
seen neither symptoms nor treatments relating to the illness.
And what about 9/11/2001, or the recent Tsunami or
hurricane Katrina? I was able to see the images thereof on the TV and
say, "That's bad. Really bad." But I wasn't able to look at the images
and be filled with compassion at the loss of life and difficulties and
suffering to come.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe I have some insensitivity or
desensitization or combination of the two. I wish I had more compassion.
And perhaps one day I will.
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