When You Wish Upon a Eunuch

 

I've totally skimped out on writing lately. I've written some things for the holidays, an esssay submission, a few bits and pieces of The Novel That Won't Work, but I haven't posted anything aside from an occasional Facebook status about the weather or Who Is Stupid In My World.

Everyone has the occasional funk, no? Life gets full of back-to-school, laundry folding, ragweed allergies and looking longingly at one's passport. Things like reading the newspaper to see who is running for office kind of falls to the side. One day passes, and then another. Soon you realize that you haven't said or done anything that smacks of individuality.

I've always struggled with the idea of individuals versus the family unit. First of all, I don't like the word 'unit' in and of itself. It sounds like 'eunuch', and this makes me think of Mel Brooks' History of the World Part 1 and I feel funny and then I giggle.

A family unit is made of whatever bits and pieces are in your family, all smushed together to form a squishy molded blob of unitness. It generally refers to your current family situation, be it family of origin, domestic partnership of bliss, or modern piecemealed singles living in harmony. My family unit (eunuch! euuunuch!) currently includes the following: Moi, mon spouse, and our three daughters. At times we have included a grandparent or cousin or dog (though that was short-lived as he continued to run away and one day we didn't bother to remedy the situation).

A family unit (are you thinking of eunuchs? they carry little fans if you need help with the visual) is important. We are things together that we aren't separately, and we exist together interdependently. This is why a parent or sibling will say in total honesty that they cannot imagine life without ____. We remember what life was like before X was born, but we didn't know we were missing a big piece of our unit. Unit. Unit. It is actually getting worse as I go on. I see a gaping hole underneath the little fan. It looks like the big scary eyeball in the Lord of The Rings movies.

Living in partnership with others is essential to good character development. Very few people are called to live a life of seclusion, and we could posit that those who do still participate in relationship with community. Their role is that of an un-role, which admittedly is as easy to describe as a black hole. Most of us are the social butterflies that require flitting in and out of meadows, stopping here and there to enjoy a still private moment.

How does one uphold the necessary structures of a family unit while maintaining the freedom to exercise individuality? For more centuries than not, individuality was not celebrated or encouraged. Sometimes it was scorned, as the needs of one man versus that of the village were to be ignored. Strength and survival came through unit-y and to live outside this haven was to accept defeat and death.

However, even through those times we are dazzled and inspired by the lives of those who claimed their life as something outside of a unit, outside of time, outside and apart from understanding. Life in spite of the safety of the family, or church, or village unit.

My go-to guy for inspiration is Galileo. I wrote on him a few years ago, marveling at his dedication to his discoveries despite what it cost his personal life. He was pained that the Church didn't recognize him as a faithful son anymore, and he had no wish to leave that family unit. Yet, he knew that he belonged to a time outside of time and was to practice his knowledge in the belief that some things are greater than family, greater than self. Unity in the whole of humanity, if you will.

I'm no Galileo. Many days I wish I could be like him, having a Real Ernest Truth and Purpose that Shines Forth through the Dark Bowels of History! Instead I'm forced to contemplate if my Purpose is to hold up that achingly heavy infrastructure that allows my family unit to continue in peace, to find their own Purpose. 

I've often wondered about the nameless faces throughout history. I see the sweaty faces of plump women, working over their pots of laundry and swatting at flies. I wonder if they felt frustrated when their kids didn't pick up their cloaks. Did they wash the dishes, all the while imagining their life on an alternate path? Did they daydream? I fancy I can see their aspirations to write or act or paint or sell, carried on wisps of tallow smoke to greet me here in my modern home.

Is individuality a luxury of the present, or an age-old delimma? Is it, like solitude, something that few are supposed to flirt with? Perhaps it is just for those special, tortured, select, wonderful, tragic few. Would I want to join their ranks?

Some days, undoubtedly so. I feel tortured and tragic enough as it is without having any importance or sparkle. Why not just pull a Galileo and say something extraordinary, like the Earth might indeed be billions of years old? Why be content to say something extraordinary to my family unit, like tonight's dinner might indeed be the worst thing I've ever made?

In most things, the answer lies somewhere in the middle. Embrace who you are, but know that who you are is part of Who You Are as a wife, as a mother, as a friend. In theory I get it, I know that I can act in both aspects and find happiness some of the time, and at least comfort in responsibility during the rest.

But in my heart, I'm always wrangling with the void, and usually while I'm making dinner. My black casseroles are a sign of my individuality.

Perhaps I'll start a revolution of family unit-individuals. They hyphenate just like me to show that everyone has another side.

Even eunuchs.