Please don't burst my bubbles

Perhaps everything is not how it is (or was), but how it is remembered.

If you have visited my blog before, you may find that I comment on "perception" quite often. I am fascinated (perhaps obsessed) with how differently we all view the world, our situation and the situations of others. I become distressed over political differences, frustrated over the division of business risk assessments, and often hurt by the wide schism of artistic interpretation.

I use the word "hurt" to describe artistic differences because I believe art is a reflection of soul. And I use the concept of "art" quite broadly - not just painting and literature and performance - but any creative endeavor. I am hurt by intolerance and the lack of acceptance that people view things differently.

How we perceive, how we remember, an event, a person, a thing, a vision, shapes our very being. I am a collection of memories: some are the learned doctrines to live in our society; some are the feelings that have been shared with me; some are the feelings I felt; some are the feelings and memories that I have repressed.

All of these experiences and memories sometimes gives us a skewed reality. Think of the frustration of police detectives as they try to gather accounts from numerous witnesses to a crime. Everyone sees something different. All are correct; and all are wrong. The collective descriptions produce a puzzle for the solving.

Now, consider a family gathering of many years ago. If you round up the usual suspects to recollect the event you will find yourself wondering if anyone was at the same place at the same time. The memory is personal. The memory is a function of your learned perception and likes or dislikes - optimist? pessimist? realist?

I remember the beautiful Christmas tree. I remember that Uncle Harry got incredibly drunk. I remember that I got a cashmere sweater. I remember that we had sauerbraten. I remember that I had a migraine headache. I remember that Susie had on the most beautiful red shoes. I remember that it was the night that Dad got ill and died a month later. All true. Some "trite" memories; some "profound" - all subjective.

There are so many seemingly insignificant events in our lives that stay with us; sometimes haunting us. I remember one time being ever so rude to a woman at a social agency. I was there for a job interview; she was there for help. I made it clear to her that I was not seeking social assistance. I was twenty. I still see her face. I wish I could go back and apologize. She probably doesn't remember. I hope not.

I have a painting in my home that has become "a joke" among some of my "friends". They find some humor in teasing me about the abstract. They don't seem to understand that it is not as much as what I see in the painting that gives me joy, it is also what I remember about the evening I purchased it. I was at one of my favorite galleries in town. I was sipping on a great cabernet savingnon. I was with the man I loved (at the time). I knew the artist. It was raining out. I was in a melancholy mood. The mist in the painting spoke to me. It took me out of the melancholy and helped me to see the joy of the evening. I bought the painting. Whenever I look at the painting I remember coming out of the mist. Perhaps that is not how it was, but it is how I remember it.

We all create our little bubbles of joy; in some cases depression. But, these bubbles are ours. These bubbles are our memories, feelings, thoughts. The bubbles launch into our surroundings and float about our heads. They eventually dissipate on their own. That is how it is meant to be.

Please don't burst my bubbles; let them soar as they were meant to be.