The Zahir

I’m currently reading The Zahir by Paulo Coelho.  I love his books.  I loved The Alchemist, empathized with Veronika, cried by the River Piedra and loved Eleven Minutes more.  I read his books more thoroughly than I do any other.  I literally go through each page very slowly so I can devour his thoughts, fathom the depths of the book’s message, and if possible, relate it to myself. 

This part made me think:

“Marie, let’s suppose that two firemen go into a forest to put out a small fire.  Afterward, when they emerge and go over to a stream, the face of one is all smeared with black, while the other man’s face is completely clean.  My question is this: Which of the two will wash his face?”

“That’s a silly question.  The one with the dirty face, of course.”

“No, the one with the dirty face will look at the other man and assume that he looks like him.  And, vice versa, the man with the clean face will see his colleague covered in grime and say to himself: I must be dirty too.  I’d better have a wash.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying that, during the time I spent in the hospital, I came to realize that I was always looking for myself in the women I loved.  I looked at their lovely, clean faces and saw myself reflected in them.  They, on the other hand, looked at me and saw the dirt on my face and, however intelligent or self-confident they were, they ended up seeing themselves reflected in me and thinking that they were worse than they were.  Please, don’t let that happen to you.”

I would like to have added: that’s what happened to Esther, and I’ve only just realized it, remembering now how the look in her eyes changed.  I’d always absorbed her life and her energy, and that made me feel happy and confident, able to go forward.  She, on the other hand, had looked at me and felt ugly, diminished, because, as the years passed, my career – the career that she had done so much to make a reality – had relegated our relationship to second place.

If I was to see her again, my face needed to be as clean as hers.  Before I could find her, I must first find myself. 

To my friends who are religiously following the story of my life, they know how I’ve had several failed relationships enduring the most painful of heartaches, crying oceans of tears and forever blaming myself for the end of it all.  After all, I am the common factor for all those defunct love teams, am I not? 

I’ve long accepted that I can never sustain a relationship because I don’t know how to handle one.  Right in the middle of each affair, something goes wrong. I lose my security, my vivacity, then somehow, I lose myself. 

But is it really me who has the problem? Am I the fireman with the dirty face or with the clean one?  Or am I just choosing the wrong guys who suck up all my positive energy and run away with my luck? 

If so, do I still have hope? If I indeed eventually find myself, would I still have that luck and regain the energy I used to have?  Or would it all have drained out? 

I know I have to find myself…again.  I did it before and I lost it again.  I fear that if I’d find it, I’d lose it all over again.  Where do I start?  Does it ever end? 

Endless questions with all the possible answers…

Yes, I am lost.  Admitting to it is probably the starting point I’ve long been searching for. 

At one point, maybe I was the one with the dirty face.  At another, I own the clean face looking into my partner’s tarnished one.  Either way, I lost myself and have to search high and low for it.  Maybe he lost himself too.  At the right time, maybe we’ll both find our faces clean at the same time and be the perfect reflection of each other, during which time, we’ll both find fulfillment and peace…whoever he is…