The Perception of Nice

I tell myself (and whomever decides to listen) that I don’t have a religion. I prefer not to label my concept of the universe and that which I don’t know. But I believe in things. I believe in the reality that I don’t know everything, that I will never know everything, that each day is a chance to lift a veil to understand more as it muddies the picture with even more complication. I believe in vagary. But for the here and now, the present, the details over which I can mold a decided course… I believe in nice.

I’ve said it before. I want to be nice. Maybe I am a lady who doth protest too much because I feel I need to articulate this so often. But… every once in a while I want to protest. That it isn’t just something I do to pretend, to get something dishonestly. It’s something I do because I feel so resolutely, so viscerally that it isn’t worth it to live any other way.

I suppose my skin is a little sensitive after cocooning away for fifteen months. So when I put myself into conversations about things I’m not as willing to roll with the punches after having only my own thoughts to answer to for most of my time. But, there have been a number of social events and a number of shared messages over the Christmas holiday. Conversations about life, about recent history, about my book, about my words, about my ideas.

I majored in literature. So I get the fact that we don’t always read something at face value. We are trained to read between the lines (and write between them, too). As readers, we look to the life of the author to see what inspired her to write and create the worlds that enchant us. As a means of analysis… but as a chance to make them real. I mean… how delighted was I to learn that Charlotte Bronte really was a governess for a cheeky master for whom she had affection? He didn’t lock up his wife in the attic… but someone else did… so it’s pretty fascinating to see how Charlotte merged the background of her life to write Jane Eyre. But she isn’t Jane. And Rochester is a figment of her imagination. I will never know the motivation of her emotions when she started writing them down to paper.

But the fact is, it isn’t the author’s life experiences that shape our perception. It’s our own. When I read a book, I imagine houses in which I have lived or spent my time. I see people I have seen. I imagine the world I know filtered through the words of the story. 

I know this. And yet… it still stings when I hear other people perceive the motivation of my thoughts. Most of the time I am amused because… really? You see me that way? Huh. Good to know. But when someone takes my determination for nice and decides it is subversive or something that is less than kind… well, that just sucks.

So maybe this is overkill, a need to state something that should be determined by the truth of my actions. Or maybe it is on me to make those actions prove the truth of my words. But for the record, people, I really do believe in being nice. Genuine, heartfelt nice. Why? Because… yes, I am selfish. I’m hoping that someday karma will offer me a good turn of what I do unto others. That’s the Golden Rule, right? And that’s… well… that’s my religion.