gozzterLeave a Comment on Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.

It is what it is: a simplistic and hackneyed example of resignation, and accepting unchangeable, often negative, situations. The phrase is often attributed to J.E. Lawrence, a journalist for The Nebraska State Journal in 1949. Actually, God used a similarly evasive variation on that same expression a few years earlier as reported by Moses in the Biblical journal Exodus 3:14 (‘I am what I am’); I don’t know very much about either of their credentials, though.

I would, however, like to point out that things seldom had to happen as they did; otherwise, the word ‘counterfactual’ would never have been invented, and the contents of an opened Pandora’s jar (not box) would not have been able to spread like rain throughout the world -or have I got that the wrong way round…?

Whatever, for some people, I suppose, thinking about how things could have been, but weren’t is distressing; I didn’t have to get indigestion for eating that extra tart for dessert -I could have had a cookie instead, but didn’t; I could have remembered where I left my umbrella on the bus, but because I didn’t, the elderly lady in the seat beside me likely had an acute attack of conscience for not reminding me before I got off at my stop. The guilt may have changed her life, whereas I merely got wet. Counterfactuals get confused sometimes I think…

Anyway, things like that might loom large in life if you actually think about them. Would it be difficult for me if I had to count backward from 1372 by 7’s while brushing my teeth? You bet it would, but until now I’d never even wondered if I could… I mean what-if’s are everywhere if you are that kind of person.

When I was young and my future was still ahead of me, rather than a pale shadow trailing behind me as it is now, I suppose I more or less swam in counterfactuals: they are all that are on offer when you are trying to plan your courses for the freshman year at university. My parents -okay, my mother– made sure that university was not a disposable choice for me however. Since they were paying my university fees for me as long as I continued to live at home with them, it ruled out my next quietly uttered thought: “Well, as sort of a counterfactual, I may want to go on a Grand Tour of Europe like young people used to take as a cultural rite of passage in the old days!” My acoustically competent father, clearly embarrassed, promptly excused himself to leave for work.

Even though I’d whispered it in jest, I’d purposely italicized the name to make it sound like a worthy counterfactual, but although my mother had not only never heard of the Grand Tour, she seemed to have no idea what a counterfactual was either. Clearly, unlike me, she was likely not an avid consumer of the Reader’s Digests that lay scattered around the house in those days.

She seemed adamant that I could go touring but only after I’d finished university. She actually stamped her foot to emphasize what I was expected to do with their money.

Actually, I had always wanted to go to university, though; it was just that I hadn’t made up my mind what courses to take if I eventually wanted to become a Journalist -or, hidden in the depths of my then still functioning neurons, a Philosopher.

Suddenly, a lightbulb went off behind my by then floor-staring eyes: a Journalist could do the Grand Tour; they could get assigned to cover some riot in France, or perhaps a strike in England; I mentioned this to her.

Her eyes immediately rolled and her lips pursed. “A Journalist!!!?” she hissed. Triple exclamation marks? I had never heard her resort to them, let alone followed by a solitary and obviously lonely question mark. I mean, my mother had been a high school English and Grammar teacher before my brother and I came along. “Your brother tried journalism, remember?”

I remembered, but I couldn’t see her point.

“And he quit, remember?” Her eyes were flaming daggers, trying to burrow their way into my cheeks.

“That was because he got married and his wife thought he could do better than being a reporter…” I had to resort to ellipses to counteract the pressure of her eyes.

I suppose that worked, because she began to move her head. “See what I mean?” her voice had softened.

It was time to unveil my other preference, so I shrugged as if giving in to the odd movement of her head. “Well, my fallback position is Philosophy…” -the defensive ellipses again.

Now her eyes really began to harden, and crawled upwards from my cheeks to my eyes. In a change of tact, she mounted a fake shrug and blinked. “In a small town library somewhere in Northern Saskatchewan…?”

I blinked at that. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“A degree in Philosophy -even a PhD- would condemn you to look for work as a librarian somewhere in a faraway place where they may not even capitalize the word -maybe a small town in the North where they can’t seem to keep a full time employee.” She paused for a deep theatrical breath. “Is that what you want, G?”

“I’m just trying to think what courses would keep my options open. I thought maybe a B.A. with majors in English Lit, and Philosophy, and I was even thinking of a minor in Religious Studies… or maybe Psychology…” I realized I’d already confessed too much…

She just kept shaking her head -although more quickly. “You need to take Biology, and maybe Latin… You did really well in Latin in High School, remember?”

I just stared at her for a moment. “And why would I want to do that? Do you want to fund me for a future in Entomology, or Horticulture, or… I don’t know, maybe Ornithology, or something?”

“No, not at all: Medicine…” Her faced softened. “You’ve always wanted to be doctor.”

My eyes widened for a moment. “That’s another 4 or 5 years after my undergrad degree.” I took a short breath, I was so surprised.

But my mother just smiled.

“But… But suppose I can’t get into Medical School even after both those courses?”

“Let’s cross that bridge when it happens, G. Let’s face it,” she added with a wink, “That’s just a counterfactual…”

She was full of surprises, that woman…

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