Irony

The moment I clicked on the post button last night--the moment my screen faded from my control and the wheel spun my words into a fixed space in time--I immediately wanted to change them. I wanted to pry open the page and reorganize it. I wanted to scribble "show, don't tell" beside my burst of pontification regarding the abundance of opportunities we all have to learn. I wanted to regain control of something I let go.

Instead, I read the entry to my husband, who responded with silence.

"You don't like it," I mumbled under my breath as a surge of regret spread across my gut like ink on a wet napkin.

"I'm just processing," he assured me. Then he asked to revisit the words with his eyes rather than relying merely on his ears.

"Who is the 'we'?" he asked, eyes scrunched in a moment of close pondering.

"The U.S., our society, all of us," I responded, somewhat uncertain where he was going.

"Everyone but you, right? Because you are the one doing the thinking, and engaging and searching. You are the one who is able to arrive at these conclusions, so by using 'we' you are, in some way, separating yourself from it."

I squirmed in my seat; my palms perspired. The computer sat a few inches from me. The "edit" pen at the bottom of the screen taunted me. I wanted to click it. I wanted to fix the ambiguity. I suddenly feared that my efforts would offend a whole host of people who might presume that I am an arrogant know-it-all who has set out to write in an effort to push my complete understanding of the world.

"In the first paragraph, I say I 'hope' to be able to listen, engage, search,' so my intention was to include myself in the collective 'we.' I certainly didn't mean to separate myself from my own examination," I tried to explain as I scoured my language over and over imagining all of the people out there who could possibly be offended by the fact that I elevated myself above them.

"But then you go on to share that you have everything figured out. You're strength is showing your point. When you tell people your conclusions about life, it creates a distance that isn't there when you explain what ever happened to you that made you realize whatever you realized," he offered, trying to push me.

I gazed back at the computer screen. He was right. Darn it. He was so right and there was nothing I could do to fix it. I wanted so badly to reach forward, grab my computer and pluck out my conclusions so I could replace them with a story about where they originated.

"But I had twenty minutes," I offered desperately. "Granted I took 25 minutes because I got up to get my headphones, but I had so little time to think of an idea, write about that idea and somehow make my point with that idea. I agree that it would have been better if I would have started with a story, but I started out writing to figure out what I had to say."

"I'm not trying to criticize you. Your writing is great. I'm just trying to give you feedback so you can keep it in mind for future entries."

"I want to take it down," I whispered as I considered the effect of what I tossed into the world, into eyes I may never meet. "I don't want to offend anyone. I was just trying to spread the message that we all need to slow down and accept failure. We can be so consumed with rushing and perfection that we stop learning and seeing and trying."

"I'm not going to let you take it down. I'm not going to let you quit this. Listen to your own advice," he said, reaching for my hand.

I shook, thinking about not returning to my words. It pained me to get the feedback he gave me, and not be able to use it to improve what I wrote. But then I realized that is what I do with my students. I give them feedback on papers they probably won't fix. I give them as much of my brain as my husband gave me of his, and I do it because I want them to be better next time. I want them to learn; I want them to grow. My husband wants the same for me.

It was so hard to close my computer last night, but I woke up today bursting with empathy. We can't always revise, we can't always re-live, we can't always redo. Sometimes, we just have to reflect, and then close our computer and go on.