September 4, 2016
For a random combination of reasons, I recently found myself sleeping on the other side of the bed.
It was one of those hot nights, and sleep slipped further away with every toss and turn. As I lay there, no more than a metre left of my usual spot, I discovered that our bedroom suddenly felt like a stranger. The shadows fell and reflected into different patterns, and the shapes of furniture in the dark felt unfamiliar and strange.
As a kid, I used to get kicks from turning upside down and finding a room that I didn’t recognise. I loved to freak myself out with the sense that I was in a totally new place. Hanging backwards over my bed or the sofa, I entertained myself for hours by seeking out that feeling of unfamiliarity.
There is no doubt that I’ve lost that overwhelming desire for the new and unfamiliar as I’ve grown up. Sure, going on holiday or exploring a new place is exciting, and I’m prepared for things to be a little different. But in the day-to-day monotony of life my default now is to seek out what I know; the familiar, the safe, the unchanging. And I realised that this probably spills over into how I think about and relate to others. Into a reluctance to step into another persons shoes. Into my tendency to resist looking at situations from another point of view, or to acknowledge that there might even be another point of view. Maybe my childhood imagination is gradually fading, or maybe I’m just too scared of what I’ll have to change as a result. Or it could be that I’m just getting more stubborn.
As I lay there watching the unfamiliar shadows, I was struck by the fact that it was possible for two people to be looking at the exact same view and yet be seeing completely different things, for it to evoke very different emotions. My husband has a painting that he got for his 18th birthday, which has become a slight medium-sized source of tension. When I look at it, I see garish colours and a style that doesn’t appeal to me, whereas when he looks at it he says he sees a calming scene that he enjoys looking at. It’s taken months of arguing about where the picture should go in our house (my vote was for ‘nowhere’), for me to realise that it might be legitimate that he can get the same pleasure from that picture as I do when I look at one of my favourite pictures. And that consequently he might look at my favourites and see something ‘boring’.
I never used to find it so hard, or so exhausting. It used to feel natural to throw myself into imagining life from other peoples perspective; what might they be feeling, what they might be thinking, how they might react to something. It was exciting, and I was enthralled for hours trying desperately to figure out and understand people.
I wonder if, as I’ve grown up, I’ve forgotten that the way we see life is so subjective. That not everyone thinks and feels the way I do. And that if someone is disagreeing with me, it might not necessarily be because they are purposely getting in my way. They might genuinely have a different insight, or a way of thinking or approaching something that I haven’t thought of. Something that can enrich my own approach.
Could it be that regaining some of that childlike interest and intrigue in others is an essential part of growing up?