June 15, 2024
Dear Smythe,
Merriam-Webster defines the word “inscrutable” as the following:
not readily investigated, interpreted, or understood : MYSTERIOUS
Mysterious!
At coffee with two friends yesterday, we discussed the quality of inscrutability. My friend Patrick described his son as charismatic yet inscrutable, and he admired that he could be so likeable to others and still reveal so little of himself. I bemoaned my utter lack of this quality, my compulsion to be not just forthright but forthcoming about the workings of my inner world. Patrick replied to say, rather kindly, that this might be a form of inscrutability in itself.
This put to mind something I heard the journalist Sathnam Sanghera say in a podcast – that there is no one more private than a memoirist, because they select what they share about themselves with the world and choose what they keep private.
Which then reminded me of a first date I went on just before I moved to Dublin. I mentioned that I was a fairly private person regarding my inner world, and he replied, “No you’re not. You post so much on your Instagram stories!” As though what I posted on social media was a direct reflection of my life, my emotions, and anything else that could really matter to me. I was surprised at how offended I was by his reply, but perhaps this was not so surprising. It might be a fairly natural response to being reduced to one’s Instagram output. (I don’t think it needs saying that I didn’t see him again.)
Though there is a draw to it, I don’t hope to be mysterious, Smythe. But when I write to you of my thoughts and emotions, I must leave out more than I tell. I wonder what picture you’d form if I tried to tell you every fleeting worry, existential angst, moment of mirth. I wonder if some degree of inscrutability is in fact an inevitability.
For Smythe, what would you think if I told you that in the last weeks, I have received news about my physical health that alters the course of my life forever?
Or that I have sunk to such mental lows these last few months that it is only now I can begin to admit I did not know if I would climb out.
That through this time I learned who real friends are – and who they are not.
That I am near the end of my sessions with Pieta, and the thought of going out into the world without that weekly bolster makes me feel violently naked.
That when I thought things could not get worse, I finally got a job that I cannot wait to start.
That I won a scholarship to take a course at a writing center, and I am thrilled to have the intellectual stimulation and support for my work.
That I am homesick.
That I am lonely.
That I am very loved.
That I am lucky.
That I am scared.
Tell me, Smythe. Would you form a picture from everything I had told you? Or would you wonder what I had not?
Love,
Marguerite
Keep on being the multi-faceted you, even if many are kept below the surface. Good to hear you are.feeling better about yourself, though. 🥰🥰🥰