There is a fable attributed to Aesop, the philosopher and storyteller who lived in ancient Greece around the 6th century BCE. He taught that each of us carries two bags: one in front, filled with the faults of others, and one behind, filled with our own faults. As a result, we are quick to notice and judge the errors of others, while remaining blind to our own.
It’s a sobering concept, since — whether we admit it or not, we care what other people think of us. Their perceptions are beyond our control.
To this ancient “two-bag” theory, we can add another disconcerting truth: no matter how well we think we know someone — even those closest to us — can we ever truly know another person? Who someone is on the inside — their motivations, fears, hopes, dreams, the experience of living in their body and mind — remains unknowable.
Several years ago, on an ordinary day, I was talking to my daughter when I was struck by a sudden realization — although I had grown her in my body and had witnessed most of the events of her life, I didn’t really know her. Since that day, I’ve become increasingly aware that, just like in Aesop’s fables, we carry a bag of assumptions about the people we think we know, while behind us — out of sight — is the package containing the truth of who the other person really is. Maybe the longer we know someone, the closer the proximity, the more calcified are our habitual way of perceiving them.
I have a lived experience illustrating this.
Many years ago — what now feels like hundreds — before there were cell phones, some businesses saved money by installing a pay phone, enabling the telephone to pay for itself. At the time, I had just taken over directing The Dancing Theater, which was located on the second floor of Handmade and More. On the morning the phone was installed, I received a call telling me the number. As far as I knew, no one had this information but me. The only possibility for that phone to ring was if it happened by accident — a wrong number. I was upstairs, dancing around all by myself, when the pay phone rang.
I said, “Hello. I think you have the wrong number.”
Next, I heard a deeply resonant male voice — a sound I immediately found attractive.
“Who is this?” the voice said.
“This is a pay business phone,” I answered.
“So who are you, and what business is it that I inadvertently called?”
“This is a dance studio,” I answered.
“Wow, what kind of dancing?” he asked.
We began a conversation. I was instantly enamored with the voice — deep, resonant and masculine.
After a few minutes, the stranger asked if I was married.
For a brief moment, I considered flirting back with a coy, evasive answer. After all, after 25 years of marriage, it felt like a rare chance for some harmless fun — or so I told myself.
Then he asked my name, where my dance studio was located, and if I’d like to meet him for lunch.
“I can’t, I’m married,” I replied.
To which he said, “He’s lucky to have such a loyal wife.”
I realized I had let the conversation go too far. I hung up the phone.
I guess by now you have an inkling where this story is going.
Later that day, when I got home, there he was — as expected — my husband.
Before the magical moment that would shift my perceptions, we sat down to dinner. Health food. Organic, as was our habit.
“How was your day?” I asked, exactly like I always did.
He set his fork down on the stir-fry, looked directly into my eyes — a rare occurrence in the middle of dinner — and said,
“So, how was your phone call?”
My first thought was: How did he get the number?
The next: Thank God I hung up when I did.
The phone company had made two calls that morning — one to the pay phone, and one to our home line.
Then came the unsettling realization: I hadn’t truly heard my husband’s voice in decades. With repetition and routine, the way I listened had become predictable, worn thin by time.
I had been carrying a heavy bag of assumptions — believing I knew everything there was to know about the person I spent minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, month after month, year after year living with.
What practice and quality of attention and presence might finally allow me to see him each day in present time? I often try to ponder the words to our wedding song, We’ve Only Just Begun by the Carpenters:
“Let’s take a lifetime to say, I knew you well,
For only time will tell us so,
And love may grow, for all we know.”
— Excerpted from Susan Slotnick’s unpublished book in progress Everyday Magic.
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