Maya requests a documentary about misunderstood sharks.
When I search for one on sharks, she corrects my error.
No, I want to learn about the misunderstanding.
And just like that,
I feel as if the whole universe is hitched to this question:
In what ways have we misunderstood and been misunderstood?
Therapy is one years-long conversation on what
my little girl soul
misunderstood about her own power
to prevent suffering.
She then taught my body this misunderstanding.
I have written hundreds of pages about grand misunderstandings,
about wealth and “we” and worthiness.
Every fight I’ve ever had with a partner is, in a sense,
our mutual misunderstanding of one another,
how we can experience the same five minutes eons apart.
I’ve misunderstood everyone I love most.
And so many people I’ve never met.
I’ve misunderstood
the autoimmune system
the spacing of seeds
the rotation of the planet.
But this is not just a sad story.
The pleasure to be found from pursuing understanding is erotic.
To realize that I have misunderstood is a pinprick of light for me,
a reason to keep living,
throwing the curtains wide open,
even if it hurts my night eyes,
because there is a thing to pursue now.
Clarity is my small god
my alarm clock
my anti-depressant.
Or is this the same little girl delusion—
that anything, at all, could be truly understood?
Is misunderstanding
of sharks
of mothers
of physics
part of what makes us human?
Collectively, we misunderstand so much about what keeps us safe.
(See: Jaws)
Individually, we understand so little
even about ourselves.
Like we are each a shark,
swimming around believing the hype about our own ferocity
rather than admitting the universal pain of not being truly known.
On misunderstanding