Pomegranates and Paradoxes

“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety. Other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies. . . .”

—from Antony and Cleopatra

When we were courting, easing into engagement, my now-husband called me “99,” after the svelte, dark-haired Agent 99 on the 60s TV show “Get Smart.” (Remember that one?) He said that I represented 99 percent of the things he had always wanted in a woman. (Ever practical, he didn’t call me "100" to leave a little room for whatever tiny little thing about me didn’t quite make his list. No one’s perfect, he affirmed. Of course I agreed.)

Back then, I thought the nomenclature clever and fun and romantic and I loved to sign little notes to him with my new, numeric nickname. But after a while (I don’t remember when, but I’d guess it was sometime after the dreamy beach wedding and well into the getting-to- know-the-REAL-you phase) it occurred to me that 99 was a little…limiting.

“I’m not 99,” I told him. “I’m 99 times 99. I’m infinite.” So was he, I conceded. So are we all.

I rebel against the slightest sense that I might be expected to stay within the confines of someone’s expectations (even my own). I knew enough about myself to understand that I am, if nothing else, a mass of contradictions, a packet of perfect paradox. There is no box that some part of me won’t seep out of. I've done things that surprised even me and learned from the experience that, with me, anything is possible. I am a woman of “infinite variety.” So are you. We all are.

It’s terribly inconvenient. So much easier—for you and everyone around you—to settle on a definition of yourself and just stick to that. Frees your mind to think about other things. But we grow and change. We're sure of one thing today and certain of something else tomorrow. We break and hit bottom; we recover, we realize, we rise up. Shift happens.

The definition of “human” includes innate complexity. And if we are to know and embrace our own personhood—and that of the people we love—then we might as well be prepared to delve into the convoluted intricacy that makes us different from one another. If we value our own personhood—and want it to be accepted—we will demand that delve. If we crave the sweet, complicated intimacy that comes from fully and truly knowing another, we’ll be willing dig in. It’s a juicy journey, but well worth it.

Think of it like eating a pomegranate. Outside: alluringly rosy, surprisingly tough; inside: full of crunch and pith and juice. You have to deal with the seeds and the stain in order to sip the bittersweet nectar. An apple is an easier, sweeter fruit to eat, but the pomegranate has 99 times the goods.

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My infinite sister Danielle LaPorte’s recent post inspired this one. Check out her new site whitehottruth.com for more self-inspiration.