Friday, June 23, 2006

Sneezes and Oopses

Summer has arrived, and every time I step out into strong sunlight, my body is convulsed by sneezing. What does this mean? I have no allergies. My nose doesn’t run. My eyes don’t water. For ten or fifteen seconds, I’m simply possessed by a demon who tickles my nose and rushes through my body with all the joy of a preteen on one of those carnival rides designed to teach us that we are essentially physical objects. I inherited my sneeze from my grandmother — not a succinct “achoo,” but a Krakatau-like sonic event that rattles my neighbors’ windows and makes far off cows and chickens suddenly stand at attention. If someone is nearby, I utter the phrase, “Excuse me.” Perhaps she says, “Bless you,” and I reply, “Thank you.” What’s the meaning of this ritual?

Have you ever watched someone sneeze? In the moment of sneezing, the person is no longer himself. He may have been conversing thoughtfully, but suddenly his personality vanishes. The sneeze is a forced confession: “I am primarily a body,” says the body. The uncanny effect of the sneeze, combined with its association with illness, continues to inspire the superstitious intervention of the “God bless you,” a response you will receive even on a bus or in an elevator from a complete stranger. People traditionally invoked God’s blessing because they feared that the sneeze expelled the soul, which needed therefore to be restored to the body. We continue this tradition, I think, out of the need to reassert the primacy of culture where nature has forced a little gap. “Bless you” means, “I recognize your humanity, even though, for a moment, you were merely a body.”

Human life is a constant struggle to make meaning in a universe governed by chance. Needing predictability, we make laws. We look for patterns to guide us –- in myth, in history, and in science. Sometimes those patterns seem to form an entire fabric of meaning, a reassuringly whole design. We feel at home in our communities, and nature seems to support our endeavors, until suddenly a catastrophe — a hurricane, a tsunami — rips through our happy illusions, reminding us that we dangle above an abyss.

There are smaller holes, too, trivial errors and disturbing half-perceptions, and we constantly work to close and suture them, as though even these minor flaws, if left unattended, might draw us down the great well of unbeing. I slip on wet pavement but catch myself, and I say “oops,” to let you know that I understand what happened and that I remain in control of my body. Saying “oops” means that there’s a part of me that never slips. Or I see a woman spill her coffee, and I offer a quick “oops” for her, as though to excuse her in advance, although I express it only after the fact. We make frequent use of this odd, belated interjection with toddlers, who fall over or bump their ungainly heads on door jambs and tables. “Oops!” we cry—meaning, first of all, “Be careful,” as a kind of wishful warning when warnings are too late; but also, “Don’t cry, it isn’t so bad, a little correctable mistake.” Oops, like a Band-aid on a minor scrape, is about mastery, the motive at the very heart of culture. Oops means, “I know you didn’t mean that. I know that your intentions are meaningful. What just happened there—that wasn’t you.”

It’s touching how dearly we need culture to win against death, language to defeat silence, the mind to triumph over matter. We are caught up in a losing battle, but as long as we don’t acknowledge our certain fate, it can seem as though we are winning. And in a sense, we are. This dream we call life is an illusion we work hard to maintain, applying all our arts, so that it comes very close to sustaining us. We can hardly guess what it would mean to break from it at last. And all the while, of course, we’re slipping from it faster than we can imagine. We’re falling, and yet the land seems to hold us up.

Broadcast by Joe Chaney on June 23, 2006
Community • Customs & Rituals • Health • Permalink • Printer Friendly
Google
WWW Michiana Chronicles

A random selection from more than 300 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:

Joe Chaney -- Sneezes and Oopses / More essays by Joe

Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise

April Lidinsky -- More essays by April

Jonathan Nashel -- More essays by Jonathan

Jeff Nixa -- More essays by Jeff

Ken Smith -- More essays by Ken

Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- More essays by Jeanette