“What is truth?” Pilate
asked Jesus. And Jesus answered him not.
One of the poems in Walt Whitman's "Leaves of
Grass" is called, "Song of Myself." That poem caught my attention the first time
I read it, and I have contemplated its meaning many times since. Singing the
song of yourself has a thrilling and dangerous appeal, like skinny-dipping or
hitchhiking across the country with only twenty bucks in your pocket.
Many times I have wanted to sing the song of
myself, but I’ve never been willing to take the time or pay the price.
What would it take to sing the song of
yourself? What would it cost you?
First, you would have to know yourself. And
that is quite a thing to consider. You would have to take a long, careful look
into what is deep and hidden within you. What is lurking around the corners of
your mind? What memories and obsessions haunt you? What causes your glands to
seize? What gets your blood moving so that your veins and arteries swell and
push to the surface of your skin? What comes from your gut? What do your
instincts say? Who or what speaks to you at night when the raw cuts of your home
movies are shown on the screen of your mind?
Knowing yourself takes a long time, but even if
you take that journey and arrive knowing yourself as well as a person can, you
still might not sing the song of yourself. What would stop you?
Cowardly fears and righteous obligations.
Because…
Singing the song of yourself means telling the
truth, and the truth has a way of severing ties to people and places and things.
The words are spoken and a gleaming scalpel flashes. Living cords are sliced
away. There are howls of pain and then silence.
Because…
Singing the song of yourself is like removing
your clothes and standing naked before the world. Clothes do not make a person;
they make the image of that person. Underneath the clothing lies the
vulnerability of flesh. This is my true body. This is all I was given and all I
will take with me. There will be no more hiding.
Because…
Singing the song of yourself creates a flash of
white-hot fire in the kiln of your life. Everything that is not you is burned
away. You lose it all, all the stuff you have accumulated over the years that
follows you from house to house, wailing like a wraith. It would be gone
forever. Burned away.
Because…
You might lose your community. Few
relationships can withstand the song of yourself. People don’t want to hear your
song. They don’t want to hear their own songs. They want to sing little love
ditties filled with undefined words all the days of their lives.
So if you dare sing the song of yourself, be
aware that you might be standing alone at the end of it. Maybe there is one
person in the world who can bear the flames and will sing his or her song beside
you. This is the person you've longed for and can't get enough of. The person
whose voice you would recognize in a thousand voices. The one who draws you out
and brings you forth. Perhaps you will find that person.
But probably not. You will probably be alone at
the end of your song. The last refrain will echo back slowly, and there will be
silence and solitude.
“So what would be so great about singing the song of
yourself?” you ask me.
I’ll tell you. Singing the song of yourself
would be the closest you could come to real truth. Descartes knew this. He knew
that the only truth you can know and sing is the truth of your own existence.
And maybe truth is the Siren whose song has charmed and tempted you all of your
life. No one knows how you have longed for her, wanted her, pined for her,
sought her in the hard places.
When I began Real Live Preacher back in 2002, I
had an insane dream of singing the song of myself. I couldn’t do it then, even
though I was anonymous. What held me back was your opinion of me. Within days my
blog had already formed the crust of a persona, a crust that has thickened over
the years.
And persona is death to the song of yourself.
Every time I sit to write, I flirt with the
melody of the song of myself. I can feel the song. I can sometimes imagine the
words I would lay down on paper, were I to sing it. I also count the cost.
Singing the song of myself would hurt people, and that would hurt me. Truth is
brutal. The cost too high, and it is getting higher every day.
So I push the edge a bit. I pull a few things
out of my gut that are risky and lay them down with language that, ironically,
gets its beauty more from what I left inside than from what I put on the paper.
But I tell you this ferociously and with bared
teeth. The song of myself echoes in my ears every day. I’m in love with the idea
of that song, though I have never even hummed it to myself.
Because I would like to write the truth about
one human being. And I’m the only human I will ever truly know.
rlp
