On Not Being Special
We are still awaiting an offer on our Chicago home to finance phase two and three of the villa project in Puerto Viejo. We have enough savings to start the first phase of construction, and it’s an exciting time, but it’s also wrought with anxiety. Everything stops dead in its tracks if we don’t sell the Chicago property.
There is nothing in my skill set that can immediately make the project situation move more quickly. I cannot pour concrete, and I can’t make cute earrings out of sea shells to sell at the sea shore. I have a lot of time on my hands, though, and that’s a good thing if you like to reflect; I’m a full-length-platinum-framed-pyrolytic mirror, so…
When I reflect I want it to be with good intention and purpose; I want it to be consistent with the life I’ve chosen here in Costa Rica. Moving wasn’t just about changing my environment; it was about changing my perspective. One of the things I want to work on most is what it means to ‘be special.’
Specially
I can recall very little about my childhood clearly, but I know this: as long as I can remember I wanted to be special. After reading enough biographies of people whom I thought special, this seems common enough among people, like me, who were one of many kids in an average family. Everything in my life reflected that I was ordinary. I lived in a just-fine home and went to an okay school and had a normal amount of friends. I was cute and chubby, which was fine too.
There were no self-help books marketed to kids in 1980, but if there were, I wouldn't have read them. I didn't want to put any work into making myself special. I wanted people to simply recognize that I was inherently great. I also didn't want any religious-inspired recognition. Jesus loves me? He loves everyone! Try again. The options available to an average Puerto Rican girl in an average Chicago neighborhood who wanted to be special were limited, but not nil. I had no interest in perusing them though, even when encouraged by my parents. Piano, guitar, academics? Forget about it. Fitness? Kill me.
Getting Special
There was no definitive moment in which I made a conscious decision to be Bizet’s second-rate Carmen or a female Don Juan. And although I certainly was no one’s ideal beauty, I was able to pull it off- just enough. Seduction isn’t about beauty for the most part; it’s about dedication, and I was dedicated. I would become someone’s biggest fan, listening to them with genuine interest for hours on end. I’d learn about whatever they fancied, and I’d fancy it too. I would even develop compelling counter-arguments to their belief systems for spicy debates. I didn’t do this as part of an evil plot. I just wanted to become a perfect match. Being someone’s everything felt special.
No one is anyone’s everything for very long at all.
I looked to be special in other ways as I got older. I tried with my career. I was recommended for a job with the Chicago Police Department as an investigator, and I got it. I don’t have an absolute idea of what would have made me a ‘special’ investigator, although there was a Special Investigations Team to which I was never assigned. My investigative career was not going to be my claim to greatness.
It wasn’t long before I was back to depending on relationships to feel good. I spent the great majority of my inglorious career working in education -SPECIAL Education which upon Freudian reflection is truly hysterical. This isn’t to say the work wasn’t important, or that I didn’t apply myself. I did, as did everyone else with whom I worked. I worked hard at my job. I liked it, but I was, you know, nothing special.
Unspecial Me
My husband doesn't think I’m special. I found this amusing at first, then challenging, then infuriating. He isn't the most academic thinker on the planet and neither am I. I have, however, been exposed to a fair amount of refereed psychology and sociology journals. I enjoy inquiry, especially when I’m the subject, so I began to wonder how a woman who yearned more than anything to be special ended up with someone who thinks she isn't.
As far as I can tell my husband likes me a lot. I feel loved and we have a fun life. We care about the same things: politics, charity, stray dogs etc. When we hit hard times we get pretty creative together. We’re partners in a myriad of ways, and we even chose to move to paradise together.
When I ask him what about me makes me special he has no answer that’s relevant to me specifically. It’s not my eyes, my impressive knowledge of 70's sit-com theme songs, or my degrees in: anthropology, counseling, social welfare policy, languages and educational administration (yes, really). When pressed, he’ll say, “We get along, have fun, find adventure…” I used to punch back with, “But you could be doing those things with anyone!”
Him: “I’m doing them with you.”
I've been exposed widely, if shallowly, to philosophy, religion and literature over the years (my degrees are in applied studies, remember). I didn't know a lot about any one thought tradition, but I knew enough to see what they had in common. Yes, they wanted humans to play nice on the planet, mostly. What was the universal thought on specialness, though?
In Buddhism, New Age thought, Christianity, and Atheistic Humanism, every human is as special as the next. In these traditions, extraordinary people are never emphasized, really. Their practice is. Practice that we (each and every one of us) can follow. Everyone can be special, so no one is at all. Or everyone is.
It’s a Good Thing
I don’t think I’m particularly unique in having believed for so many years that a certain select few are special. I think a lot of us operate that way. It’s not true, of course. The best basketball player on the planet will be replaced; the prettiest girl will get old; the smartest person’s synapses will falter. All these things will happen unless you die before they happen, in which case- you win! I’m kidding.
My special can’t be in a talent, in pretty, in smarts.
For me being special has to start residing in my practice as a: mother, friend, wife, colleague, and community member. Being special has to be tied to practice of meditation, prayer, or study. Being special has to be about practicing love, not falling into it.
There is still a part of me that wants to be recognized. I want you to like this post and the pictures I took. If you do it will make me smile, and if you don’t it won’t define me. But if these words can more closely connect me to the people I know, and, at all, to those I don’t know; if these words can be part of my practice of love, well then I’ll take it.
‘Cuz, that’s pretty damn special.
