The Little Man
They are the tiresome ones, the ones who rely so totally on the effluence from their own grey matter that the thoughts and opinions of others are tossed aside with nothing more than a sneer. Perhaps you’ve heard them on the radio. Lord knows they populate TV - tittering at love, snickering at faith. With no more than passing consideration, they will tell you your plan has no merit. They shake their heads in the face of your enthusiasm and gleefully advise you to quit. They doggedly stick to the path of their choosing, despite whom they may trample upon as they go. They are the cynics, and I pray to steer clear of their camp. But as ashamed as I am to say it, one of their number - a spry little man with a jaundiced eye - resides in the shadows at the back of my head and occasionally demands to be heard.
And I don’t know quite what to do about him.
And I don’t know quite what to do about him.
Leaving a restaurant several years ago I ran into an old colleague, someone I hadn’t seen in ages. We talked for awhile, catching up on each other’s lives as best as was possible in the middle of the street. Suddenly, her eyes brightened and she began to share with me a new investment opportunity that she was obviously over the moon about. I listened, patiently, but all the while that little man in my head, the one I mightily try to refrain from calling a cynic, was muttering away, - rolling his eyes and snapping his fingers to make certain I registered his opinion. As loathe as I am to admit it, I found myself thinking precisely the same thoughts as he. Politely turning down her offer to “get in on the ground floor” of this new venture, I got into my car to go home, wondering how much money she was destined to lose and feeling slightly sad about being so certain this scheme was destined to fail. And fail it did, which made me feel no better.
I consider myself someone who believes in true love just as much as its twin, happily ever after. But when a friend wants me to be joyous over his new “soulmate” relationship with someone he “met” online only ten days before, I find I turn a bit cold. Try as I might, I cannot always manage to silence the little man in my head. Because of him,
I knew Tom and Katie were destined for doom.
I knew John Edwards was lying.
I knew the “mission” was not “accomplished” no matter how big the banner was.
New religions, self-help books, television psychologists, Donald Trump. The little man in the back of my head pitches a fit over them all. And this being an election year, he seems to be having more conniptions than ever.
Believe me, I’m not happy about the wretched little chap. I often glance around at all those happy souls who traipse through life without questions, believing what they’re told, accepting without hesitation - never suspicious, never challenging - and I feel a bit envious. How clear their skies must be. How deep their sleep. But lately I’ve been wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, I have misjudged the wee fellow. After all, to his credit, he has never once sneered at my belief that compassion could change the world.
He has always stayed silent even though he knows I am utterly convinced there is so much more around me that what my eyes can see.
He grants me my trust in the restorative power of Beauty.
He allows me my faith.
So could it be I am not in as much danger as I think from this creature?
Should I perhaps rename him... Discernment?
I’m still working that out.
