When someone asks, “How are you?” I’m conflicted. I don’t say that, but I am.
I usually reply with some version of “Well enough, all things considered,” but I would rather tell the truth — if I think the other person can handle the truth.
I prefer the “varnished truth,” as the Irish like to say, because the cold, hard truth isn’t the whole truth either. It’s difficult to tell “the whole truth and nothing but the truth” because we are imperfect beings in an imperfect world, and truth is nuanced and complicated, even though the simpler the truth, the more it “rings true.” Professional liars like Donald Trump take advantage of this when they package their falsehoods, so you have to be careful because truth is notoriously “slippery.”
People have a hard time coming to terms with truth. Some think it’s only the truth if it’s as dark as a Eugene O’Neill play. Others promise that the truth will “set us free,” but sometimes it devastates before liberating us.
Often we’re counseled to tell “our truth,” which, though sincere, is highly idiosyncratic, and not everyone’s truth is useful. “Approximately true” is about as close as many of us get to “the whole truth.”
But all of that is far afield from “How are you?” a question that sets off various voices in my head, which I have to contend with. I’m hesitant to say I “battle” them because they all have some claim to “truth.”
One voice says, “My life is inadequate.” Another says, “My life is perfectly adequate,” which is to say “good enough,” damning with faint praise.
Another voice says, “My life could be better,” and sometimes “a lot better.”
Yet another says, “You are lucky to have a life,” and sometimes “such a wonderful life.”
Perhaps you’re familiar with voices like these.
Since the Restoration of King Donald, when someone asks, “How are you?” I usually answer, “Surprisingly well, given the circumstances.” Everyone these days knows what “the circumstances” means.
But there’s a lot I’m not saying. It’s a mix of glad and sad. Here’s what I really want to say:
“I am doing my best, though my best is frequently not good enough. I know that life is inherently good, regardless of circumstances, and my presence in it is no small miracle. I take it for granted much less than I used to. I try to praise the good more than criticize the not-so-good, though the balance is sometimes off.
“I can’t complain really. I won the lottery — when, where and to whom I was born. This nook and cranny in the planet is blessed with natural beauty, which mostly eclipses life’s uglier side, the man-made part. I’m lucky to live in the place where I grew up, which I half-chose and half-surrendered to. The geography of my youth is planted thick with dandelion-fluff memories that wave to me like friendly ghosts as I pass. Last week it was the courtyard at Ascension School where May crownings were held in my childhood. My memories include moments when all was right with the world, and every time I took an important step forward or started a new chapter, the sun shined unnaturally bright. But I also remember the times I struggled. How can I not be thankful for the suffering through, which brought me to this moment?
“Whenever I feel my life is insufficient, I take a long walk through this landscape and am filled with wonder that I have a life, the trillion-to-one shot of being born at all.
“I live in a community that (for all its imperfections) is, and was, peopled with those who have taught me what it means to be human, in the fullest sense of that word.
“I’m making slow progress on living a fuller life. Sometimes I feel discouraged, but mostly I’m enjoying the journey despite the hard times that inevitably accompany it. I remain a connoisseur of sunny days, but I’m working on giving the cloudy days their due. I’m thankful for all the help provided by caring people in my life and I’m trying to be that for others, especially, but not limited to, those I care deeply about as they pursue their own journeys — or at least not getting in their way.
“I’m fretful about the future, relatively at peace with the past, and determined to give the present the attention it deserves. I’m learning to accept that this is my inadequate/good enough/wonderful life, but I’m tired of playing it safe.
“If I had it to do over again, I would try to do better. So I’ll just have to do better from here on out.”
I will never say all that, of course, if you ask me how I am, so you don’t need to cross the street when you see me coming.
But it’s the truth, approximately.
And lightly varnished.