There are three sides to every story, and only one is the truth. For better or for worse, we can never really tell the truth, even if we try. We never really even see the truth. Or rarely can we. I suppose that those rare glimpses of truth can be viewed as moments of enlightenment, if you are so inclined to believe that enlightenment can come in glimpses (I happen to be one who is so inclined). But then I wonder if we can ever really know we are experiencing one of those rare moments of enlightenment. Is becoming conscious of our consciousness akin to looking down while walking a tightrope?
But this thought I was having, it didn’t start out as a thought about enlightenment at all. It started out as a thought about the Husband. I was re-reading yesterday’s blog entry, where I talk about his issues with my practicing ashtanga downtown, and it occurred to me that my story is not the only story. Of course, since this is my blog, my story is pretty much all you get. You won’t get the Husband’s, unless I tell it, in which case, it still is my story. But to be fair, I ought to say that I am pretty lucky that I can even go to the places that I go and do the things that I do without worrying about how I am going to pay my rent or afford a visit to the doctor.
When the Husband and I were dating, we would sometimes have philosophical debates about women in the workplace. I was always the one insisting that women can have it all, that having children changes nothing, that only lazy and weak women stop working once they become mothers. These were my more argumentative days. My young ideals were fairly rigid and very unemotional, despite my belief that they were very liberal and highly emotional. Or perhaps, it is just that they were, in fact, liberal and emotional, for me as I was then: a young, highly educated, highly ambitious woman in a still-male-dominated workforce, a woman who was a long time from being anywhere near ready to have children.
Yet another instance of the truth being out there, but being utterly beyond anyone’s grasp. There was a time for me when the “truth” was something different than it is for me now. As it stands for now, the truth is colored by my love for my children, my fears regarding health (yes, there, I said it), my compulsion to stay healthy and balanced (yoga) and my fiscal ability to steer clear of an office job (or any job, really), which is really a function of having picked the right guy and being lucky to have had him pick me. I am talking about the Husband.
Yeah, he busts my chops about how time-consuming my yoga practice is. But if he were writing on this blog (and for all you know, he is), he would say that it’s not about the yoga at all. He would say that it’s about expectations, namely his. Namely his, which are based on my expectations, as transmitted to him. Back in May, when I first set out to practice at a shala, I told the Husband that this was my plan for the summer. It never occurred to me that it would continue. And continue. And as a result, he thought that come the fall, I would still be teaching at New York Yoga, and I would be practicing there, for free. Things changed, but I never really discussed it with him, and if he were writing this blog, he would probably be saying that it’s not that he cares about the money or the time, but rather the fact that I didn’t discuss my plans with him.
There is a part of me, a big part, that would never think to discuss such things with anyone. This big part of me, this forever single career girl, this non-mom, she would simply do what she wanted when she wanted and not have to discuss it with anyone. And she would be unable to even imagine that anyone would be upset about it. To be honest, even with all this rambling thought, I still find it hard to understand why the Husband would care about my discussing my plans with him. But it’s how he feels. And that makes it valid. If not exactly “true”, it is at least valid.