The Truth of My Life (&Yours)

Squibs & Blurbs

by Jerry Zimmerman

TEANECK New Jersey—(Weekly Hubris)—6/27/11—When the word “truth” comes up in casual conversation, more often than not, a wit in the crowd will pipe up, “You can’t handle the truth!”

As every red-blooded American knows, this comes from the movie “A Few Good Men,” with Jack Nicholson delivering the memorable line. What he was referring to may be a bit lost in the fog of old-movie-memory, and the circumstances of the story hardly matter anymore—it’s the force of his pronouncement and the myriad associations it brings up that really seem to keep this phrase alive for so many of us.

The truth seems to be an elusive Absolute, harder to pin down than we would like to admit. And, even more surprisingly, many of the most obvious truths of our lives are quite difficult to delineate, harder to speak out loud, and sometimes, impossible to live with.

I’ve been seriously musing about and unexpectedly wrestling with what I consider the truths in my life since, more than 2 ½ years ago, my wife Rhona passed away after a long fight with ovarian cancer.

Talk about a Truth with a capital T, talk about a fact that cannot be denied—there it was. You could deny, hide, beg, cry, yell, fight. You could use every trick in the book, and then some, to convince yourself that this couldn’t be, it just couldn’t . . . yet, it was. It was the truth.

Now, years after the initial shocks and after-shocks, the sense of something being so real, so tangible, so impossible to deny, still resonates in my daily life.

When the truth appears, especially those truths about myself that I’m not so pleased to see, I am much more welcoming. I know not only the futility of denying and manipulating these facts, but I actually have begun to want to know any and all the truths that I can; the more I see and the clearer I see them, the better.

Why this seeming change of heart? What is so different in me after passing through the fiery gates of enormous grief and eviscerating sadness?

The difference is a big shift in consciousness, precipitated by the gift of a famous poem written by the miraculous 13^th-century Sufi mystic-poet Rumi. This poem was e-mailed to me by my then-new friend, Sally, who had lost her husband several years earlier and had been steadily working her way back to firmer ground on which to live.

The poem was “The Guesthouse.” This is a very famous poem; yet I had never heard of it. Sally sent it to me as a doctor would send a prescription or a priest would send a prayer.

“The Guest House”

by Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

It worked wonders.

This was a brand new idea in my life, and I was raw enough and unsettled enough to allow it in.

Imagine! Welcoming all the truths of your life, sadness as well as happiness, grief as well as joy. Suddenly, there was no fighting off the “wrong” guests that showed up, no trying to contort my brain into a shape that could sidle past these unwanted intruders to greet only the visitors I wanted to see.

I was free to be with them all. But, don’t get me wrong; my sadness was as sad as ever, the hole in my life was just as enormous, my crying was just as wracking as always.

What was new was my acceptance of what was, and this acknowledgement freed up all the energies I had been wasting, trying to change what couldn’t be changed!

This new lesson, this new relationship to my own life and all of its good and bad truths, has continued with me. Just not being so damn reactive to all that comes down the pike has given me extra moments to gather myself, over and over again, and those moments have given my life a steadier base than before.

Who knew Jack Nicholson could be so perceptive?

Who knew a Persian mystic from 800 years ago could whisper so eloquently into my ear?

I guess Sally knew.

Thank God.