The Importance of Being Earnest

Sometimes I find that I don't blog, not because I have nothing to say, but because I have too much and can't seem to narrow it down. Today is such a day, but I'm choosing to blog instead of just letting all this good stuff wander away from me.

Since it's actually 3:30 in the morning right now, I should really say that yesterday is the topic of my entry today.

Why am I awake at 3:30? I just don't know. Other than a niggling cough, probably from my sinuses, I don't know why I can't find sleep right now.

So, for the past hour, I've been wandering around the house, trying to figure out what to do. I don't feel like reading. I don't usually raid the refrigerator at night. I definitely don't want to clean. I sat for a while and looked at the stars and thought about Bo's upcoming birthday (he'll be 39 on Monday) and wondered about what he might like to do. Dinner out? Dinner with friends? Dinner at home with the family? A movie? Roller skating? There's a ballroom dance on Saturday. We've never been ballroom dancing. Maybe that?

My thoughts drifted to the events of yesterday, and I started thinking about all of the interesting things that have been happening in my life that I haven't blogged about, simply because they don't fit into a neat little theme. Within the past two months, I've found myself on the path to some of the best friendships I've ever had, met some of the kindest, friendliest people I've ever met, and found that certain things in my life that have been up-in-the-air have been falling into place. But I haven't blogged about them. I only wish I could tell you why.

I think part of it is The Importance of Being Earnest.

If you're not familiar with the play written by Oscar Wilde in the late 1800s, I'll tell you a bit about it.

See, Jack was given charge of a young woman, Cecely, and it was up to him to be her responsible caretaker. Unfortunately, all work and no play made Jack feel like a dull boy. In order to have a bit of fun without spoiling his reputation and negatively influencing his young charge, he adopted and alter-ego--Ernest.

While Jack was in the country, he was Jack. But while Jack was in the city, he was Ernest.

This was all well-and good until he was found out by his city friend, Algernon.

Algernon. I may mention that I have always suspected you of being a confirmed and secret Bunburyist; and I am quite sure of it now.

Jack. Bunburyist? What on earth do you mean by a Bunburyist?

Algernon. I’ll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression as soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you are Ernest in town and Jack in the country...Now produce your explanation, and pray make it improbable. [Sits on sofa.]

Jack. My dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation at all. In fact it’s perfectly ordinary. Old Mr. Thomas Cardew, who adopted me when I was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his grand-daughter, Miss Cecily Cardew. Cecily, who addresses me as her uncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate, lives at my place in the country under the charge of her admirable governess, Miss Prism.

Algernon. Where is that place in the country, by the way?

Jack. That is nothing to you, dear boy. You are not going to be invited... I may tell you candidly that the place is not in Shropshire.

Algernon. I suspected that, my dear fellow! I have Bunburyed all over Shropshire on two separate occasions. Now, go on. Why are you Ernest in town and Jack in the country?

Jack. My dear Algy, I don’t know whether you will be able to understand my real motives. You are hardly serious enough. When one is placed in the position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all subjects. It’s one’s duty to do so. And as a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much to either one’s health or one’s happiness, in order to get up to town I have always pretended to have a younger brother of the name of Ernest, who lives in the Albany, and gets into the most dreadful scrapes. That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure and simple.

Algernon. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility!

Jack. That wouldn’t be at all a bad thing.

Algernon. Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don’t try it. You should leave that to people who haven’t been at a University. They do it so well in the daily papers. What you really are is a Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. You are one of the most advanced Bunburyists I know.

Jack. What on earth do you mean?

Algernon. You have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest, in order that you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. I have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order that I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose. Bunbury is perfectly invaluable. If it wasn’t for Bunbury’s extraordinary bad health, for instance, I wouldn’t be able to dine with you at Willis’s to-night, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a week.

What Jack found, which is what most people find who develop an alter-ego, is that, eventually, the two converge. The world becomes smaller. It becomes impossible to keep the lives separate. All of his comings and goings are brought to light after his city friend, Algernon, discovers "Ernest's" address in the country via evesdropping and decides to pay his friend Jack a visit as that scoundrel, Ernest.

I guess you could say that this blog is my Algernon, the thing that ties all of my Jacks and Ernests together.

It's not that I'm trying to hide anything from anyone. Not intentionally, anyway. But what I find more and more is that I, like most other people, compartmentalize myself according to who I'm with at the time--partly for the reason that I have certain things in common with some people and other certain things in common with others. If I'm with my Christian friends and acquaintances, I feel free to discuss Christian things, like the spiritual meaning of The Chronicles of Narnia and my history of listening to Christian music and the good things that the Lord has done for me, but not to discuss worldly things. When I'm with my non-Christian friends, I feel free to discuss the latest Harry Potter book, or the latest independent film I saw. Of course, there are also the rare friends with whom I can discuss all of these things--these are my Christian friends who share my love of books, movies and music as well as my love of God. Being with these friends is, indeed, refreshing.

This happens in other social circles as well. Family vs friends. Friends vs neighbors. Homeschooling friends vs non-homeschooling friends. Unschooling friends vs school-at-home friends. Environmentally-conscious friends vs non. Pro-life friends (and here, I mean pro-life across the board) vs non. Readers and autodidacts vs non. Folk music lovers vs non. And it goes on and on and on and on. I'm someone more unique with each person I talk to.

But here, thanks to my electronic Algernon, all of these converge. While I would likely not talk to my Unitarian friend about my personal convictions about Biblical translations, neither would I discuss my complex convictions about movie ratings with a non-believer. While I don't feel that a school-at-homer would understand my relaxed approach to family learning and seizing learning opportunities instead of slaving to rigid schedules and textbooks, neither do I feel that a radical unschooler would "get" my insistence on daily handwriting, copywork and piano practice and my feelings about importance of learning self-discipline. Some of these conversational choices come from simply discussing common interests, some from not wanting to offend, and some from the attempt to avoid judgement and rejection.

Here, the world becomes increasingly small. The city me meets the country me. Or, should I say, those in the city meet the country me and and those in the country meet the city me. Jack and Ernest and Lady Bracknell and Algernon and Cecely and Gwendolen are all in the same room. At the same time. And, initially, it makes Jack quite uncomfortable.

One benefit that I've had in blogging over the past three years is that I have had a certain level of anonimity. I've been able, through using pseudonyms and being selective about who I share my blog with, to allow myself to write fairly freely about some of the goings on of my life. But as my world has become smaller, more and more real-life friends learn about my blog. Either I meet someone via my blog who happens to live near-by and becomes a good friend (hi, San!) or someone who lives nearby discovers my blog through other social activities (hi, Irene!), or someone who knows me and loves me wants to share with others what I've been writing (hi, husband!), or I feel compelled to tell someone I know about my blog. I have to admit, I don't do this often. For me, it really reveals who I am, and exposes me to judgement, criticism, and rejection. To consciously allow that is very, very difficult for me.

Tonight--or, last night, I should say, now that it's approaching 4:30--we had a visitor to our home.

Pastor Larry, the pastor of the church we've been attending for the past month, came to join our family for tea. It has been a very, very, very long time since I've had my pastor in my home. I believe the last time that happened was when Bo and I were married in our tiny house over 16 years ago. While Pastor Larry spoke with us, asking us about our family history, our move from Big City to Big Country, something very interesting happened. My dear husband mentioned to Pastor Larry that I am a writer. It turns out that Larry is a writer as well. And, in light of that, my husband felt compelled to share with Larry, upon his asking if I have ever been published, that, indeed, I'm published daily--here, on my blog.

I have to admit that I was very, very hesitant to share my blog address with Larry. Not because I doubt your integrity, Larry. But because it's just another occurence of Jack meeting Ernest. Of worlds converging. And it comes at a most interesting time in my blogging life. Just this week, I had decided to stop being so worried about being judged by others...

...and just *write*.

You see, I know for a fact that there are people in my life who have judged me harshly and maybe even unfairly and often inaccurately by what they've read on my blog. I know because they've told me outright. And when they haven't told me outright, others have told me for them (be careful who you gossip to--your words don't fall upon deaf ears). There have been people who have been very unkind about the words I've written here, either publicly or behind my back, and I have to admit that those responses have hurt me. Discussion, I can handle. Disagreements, I can handle. Blanket judgements and disdain, being demeaned and rejected--that's hard for me. No, even more than that. It tears me apart. It haunts me. I have a very hard time recovering from those kinds of careless actions.

So I've been cautious about who I share this blog with. More and more, it's like baring my soul.

After Pastor Larry left, Bo asked me how I felt about him sharing my blog.

"It scares me," I admitted.

"Why does it scare you?"

"Because I'm afraid of being judged..."

"Your writing, or yourself?"

"My self," I answered.

Bo thought for a moment, and then he said, "Well, I thought about that, and I thought about your blog, and there is nothing you've written that is inappropriate. There is nothing on your blog that I would be ashamed to have someone read. And besides, don't you think it's good to just start with the ending?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I suppose it is."

But it's hard for me, because I hold out such hope for my relationships, and I've been hurt so many times. I've been called cheeky, and manipulative, and ridiculed for "telling my troubles to the world." I've been accused of living in a dream world, not facing reality, thinking myself superior, not seeing my own faults. I've been condemned for being proud of my children, worrying about my children, overprotecting my children. I've been accused of being houseproud, obsessive-compulsive, hyper-sensitive, a self-important upstart. I've been told that I'm too bold, that my husband should "tighten his reign" on me, that I share my convictions too freely.

And so I'm leery. I'm afraid. I don't want to come under fire anymore.

But I simply can't. stop. writing.

And, really, I don't want to. That's what the two-week blogging hiatus was all about. Trying to discover if I really wanted to write. And I do.

To be completely honest with you and, more importantly, with myself, the people who have made the above judgements on me really have nothing to do with my life now--most of them spouted their opinions and have, for the most part, disappeared. They don't know me day-to-day, don't have a relationship with me. How could they? They're the kind of people who vomit their opinions and judgements upon others and then walk away, wiping their shoes before they go, wondering why they still carry that stench with them as they move on to destroy the next human spirit. I know that these people are unhappy with themselves, unsettled, maybe even jealous. At the very least, they're quick to pass judgement and don't really care to be understanding, don't really take the time to find common ground, haven't made a commitment to find out who I really am. I'm sure I'm not the only one they've hurt.

But to be completely fair, too, how could they find out who I really am? I don't even know who I really am! That's part of the reason I write--this blog or anything else; as a means of self-discovery.

And that's a fun subplot of The Importance of Being Earnest. In the course of wooing his true love, Gwendolen, Ernest/Jack is questioned by the young lady's mother in order that she may verify his worthiness of the young lady.

Lady Bracknell. Are your parents living?

Jack. I have lost both my parents.

Lady Bracknell. To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy?

Jack. I am afraid I really don’t know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me... I don’t actually know who I am by birth. I was... well, I was found.

Lady Bracknell. Found!

Jack. The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.

Lady Bracknell. Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?

Jack. [Gravely.] In a hand-bag.

Lady Bracknell. A hand-bag?
Jack. [Very seriously.] Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag - a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it - an ordinary hand-bag in fact.

From there, Lady Bracknell shows the proper indignance at such a thing and expresses the utmost curiosity in Jack's unusual beginnings.

Lady Bracknell. In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?

Jack. In the cloak-room at Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for his own.

Lady Bracknell. The cloak-room at Victoria Station?

Jack. Yes. The Brighton line.

Lady Bracknell. The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion - has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now-but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in good society.

Jack. May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen’s happiness.

Lady Bracknell. I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite over.

Jack. Well, I don’t see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.

Lady Bracknell. Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter - a girl brought up with the utmost care - to marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!

And so, Jack/Ernest, inspired and motivated by his love for the fair Gwendolen, goes on a search to discover who he truly is. In the end, after all of his searching and confusion and pain, he uncovers the truth. He is, and has always been, just as he has said, Ernest.

And, ultimately, that is my goal. Not to go Brunburying about the countryside in search of trouble and attempting to avoid scrapes, but to help to uncover who God would have me be. In this journey of self-discovery, in my writing and through the organizing of thoughts into semi-coherent essays, while I wish that I could avoid judgement, I know that such a wish is unrealistic. Therefore, in my writing, as in my life, I strive for a higher goal.

I hope to always find the vital importance of being earnest.