Existential Crises of Age and Understanding

Good Morning!!

Ace and I have been up for a while. However, we haven't accomplished much more than cuddling and a walk. As I start to write and watch some of my "sources" for my upcoming final projects (ie: the t.v. show Dexter), I have been reflecting on my little man's birthday, age (as a concept), and understanding.

Ace turned five this week. The lovely boy celebrated in style with a doggie cake, music videos, friends, and champagne. Well...Ace at least had a piece of the doggie cake. The rest of us took care of the remaining party accouterment.

Around the same time, actually while I was buying champagne for the party, a young cashier asked me if I was old enough to be buying alcohol. I'm 24. I wasn't offended, especially because he went to lengths to tell me how beautiful I am and that he hopes to see my "pretty face again soon," but it gave me pause. The next day, someone was talking about how he was turning 25 soon. I said, "Yeah! Me too...well, soon enough." He looked at me and said, "I would never have guessed." I didn't quite know what to think. He went on to explain that I looked like I was maybe 22 or 23. But, what did that even mean?

As my four legged soulmate gets markedly older, graying on his chin and lips, I somehow seem to be appearing younger. To me, this is a vicious reminder that if all goes the way of it "should," I will continue on in my "youth" after my dear boy fades into old age. I spent a lot of my summer reveling in the wonder of being a twenty something alongside Ace. Both full of energy, exploring a new city together, I could feel the youth pulsing through my veins. I could see it in the way he looked so alive running down the street on our daily run.

Months later, I am sitting here in my bedroom with my lovely boy, pondering the finite nature of our individual existences and our collective relationship. My own insecurities about being understood are drawn into the searing light of this constant existential reality. What does it even mean to be so afraid of being misunderstood when in reality understanding may be impossible? Why do these questions matter when my whole frame of reference (living) could be gone in an instant? And, surely, one day it will be. 

I struggle so hard to express myself clearly to others. The more I seek to explain with words, the less it seems to work. I am often afraid that people will misconstrue my actions and think me stupid, needy, or inept. That sort of pressure is impossible to live under. The more that I read and study here, the more I realize that misunderstanding is probably an existential reality. We are caught in discourses that determine us and bind us, even as we experience individual phenomena that defy or question these discourses. Somehow, though, even these words that I write miss the point. So what is the point? 

The point is that language is useless when it comes to really expressing the essence or the experience of a person. Philosophers and poets spend their lives throwing themselves against this notion, generally only to learn to appreciate the places words cannot touch. So, maybe my own frustrations with being misunderstood are actually a realization of my existential limitations. Maybe the greatest thing I fear is that to not be understood is to not be alive. Let's just tilt our heads a little to the left and look at that again. Maybe the thing we should fear most is not to be misunderstood. Maybe misunderstanding is the real seed of understanding. Maybe by accepting that no one will really ever get me I can accept that I can be "not gotten." And that mercy, that love, that whatever, is more important than being understood. Instead of wanting to know the "truth" of one another, we are seeking to experience the existence of one another. Instead of understanding one another, we look to touch one another in some honest way. Now that is an existential crisis I can live with.