Really Ideal vs. Ideally Real

I am an anthropologist by training.  Among other things.  I'm fascinated by people -- individuals and groups -- what they do, how, and why.  There were incredibly helpful lessons I learned when I learned to study people.  One I'm thinking of today is the difference between real and ideal.  We, as humans, are so hellbent -- for no good reason -- on projecting our ideals, when the reals just seem to sneak up on us and bite us.  You know what I'm talking about...really, you do.  But if you're struggling, I'll give you an example:  Taxes.  I tell myself every year that I'm doing them early.  Every year, I believe it.  And every year (it's the very end of March now and I haven't started them), I'm surprised -- sincerely surprised -- when I find them undone come mid-April.  That's the difference between my real and ideal.  


Perhaps, procrastination isn't your issue.  Maybe ideally, you believe you exercise five times a week -- as recommended -- but in actuality it's once, maybe twice.  Maybe you classify yourself as honest, but you fail to clock out for lunch every once in a while, essentially stealing some money from your boss on occasion.  I'm not even going to get into the deception we employ with ourselves in relationships at this point.  Just know that relationships are prime breeding ground for the divide between what we believe about ourselves and how we really behave.  We have a difficult time telling the truth about ourselves, assessing ourselves accurately.   


So here's the post I want to write, my ideal:


A few days ago I went for a run.  I ran one of my usual loops, but ran it backwards.  It includes a tiny bit of trail running up a hill that I know and love.  The rain and warm weather have been kind to my area and the wild grasses are as tall as I am.  I love running through the grass, not really being able to see where my feet will land, feeling the wisps of feathery edges as they pass my face and legs.  


But I ran it backwards.  I couldn't quite find where the trail started.  It seemed to start and then stop.  I slowed my pace.  Doubled back.  Tried again.  Found some more trail.  Dead end.  Doubled back.  It seemed like I needed to be over a few yards, like I could see the outline of a trail on the horizon of tall grass, so I headed that way.  Only when I got there, that wasn't the trail either.  So I abandoned my efforts at finding a trail altogether and just blazed straight up the hill.  Through the thistles.  Ouch.  But I wouldn't stop.  Burrs in my shoes.  Scratches on my legs.  And I kept running.  To the top, to one of my favorite views.  It was soggy out and by the time I reached the summit, my shoes were heavy, my shorts were soaked and my legs were sufficiently poked and prickled with red marks.


It was a great run.  Exactly what I needed.  

So yesterday, I ran the loop again, but the usual way this time.  And as I ran, I wrote in my head.  I analyzed my previous run.  I marveled at how by merely reversing my usual course -- running the exact same route I always do, but backwards -- I could completely lose the trail, lose my way.  And I realized how vital perspective is to any situation.  Shift it 180 degrees and the entire terrain becomes foreign even though it's the same exact terrain as every other day.


How often conflict between two people takes this form -- same event or time or space, two perspectives, decidedly different -- opposing -- and boom, conflict.  


Thinking about the trail, the value of shifting perspectives, the challenges of re-viewing a situation from another angle, another's sight, another vantage point...well, in the moment it was profound.  The bumps and bruises I received while on that previous run seemed like the cost of being willing to try something new, accept a different way, forge a new path in a familiar landscape.  Those bodily scars seem a small price to pay for being alive and responsive and stepping outside the norm.    


And here's what I need to write, the real:


And so I traveled along yesterday, enjoying my way, the usual loop...the miles I've tread so often.  Up the hills, down the hills, up more hills, to my familiar trail, to my view of forever -- the place where I can see the intersection of my past and future.  And. I. Got. Lost.  


The grass had grown more.  The paths -- even when I knew they were just there -- weren't there.  I couldn't even see over the spot where I stood to see where I should be.  And the thistles.  Again.  And the pokes and the prickles and the scratches.  Ouch.  


And most ouchy, the loss of my theory.  Because it's not just when I'm trying something new, seeing something from a different perspective, venturing outside the norm -- it's not just then that life is challenging.  I can lose my way even when I'm on certain ground.  Bodily scars can happen even when I'm walking down the path I've walked down countless times before.  


Let me repeat, bodily scars can happen even when I'm walking down the path I've walked down countless times before.  


There are no guarantees.  The usual landscape of my life can become unrecognizable in a minute.  I can shift.  I can change.  I can see differently.  People can leave.  People can stay.  Nothing can be different and nothing can be the same.  I can be lost in a sea of familiarity.


How true this has been in my life of late.  I have the scars to prove it.  How frightened and fragile it can make me feel in my humanness.


And as I continued on my path back home, I noticed as the divide between my ideal and my real grew wider and wider.  Until it disappeared.