Becoming Real

“What is real?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

“The Boy’s Uncle made me Real,” he said. “That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.”

_____

Recently I've been obsessing over what makes us all real. What makes our feelings real, what makes our careers real, what makes our love real. Legitimizing my own concerns, what makes me think, what makes me happy, and why?

Are we real because we're told that we are? Is it real because we watch our hair fall and buttons go missing? Do the battle scars make it real? Does the salary make it real? Is it a heartbeat? Are you real because you have a leg or because you can feel it when you're kicked?

I would have to agree with the talking horse when he says that real happens to you, slowly, over time. That birth, while it makes you human, doesn't make you real. It only makes you exist. It has to be something more, something deeper. It couldn't possibly just be the "buzz" in your chest; we weep from pain and happiness, we laugh when we're entertained and uncomfortable, we long for the past and the future.

So I would ask, what makes YOU real?

I'm surrounded by family and friends that I admire, sights, sounds, smells, that make my world real. My brothers make me real, my puppies make me real, falling leaves make me real, cold gin on a hot day makes me real, my friends make me real.

And does it hurt?
You tell me.

If you've ever wept in a bathroom corner, scored a winning goal, sat next to your best friend in a hospital bed, traveled across the globe, held your mothers hand, or kissed someone goodnight, you must be real.

And once you've felt real, you can't ever go back, the horse (again) is right. You can't settle for anything less. Although I'm not as bold to say that I don't mind being hurt for the sake of reality, I can say without hesitation that I much prefer the ability to be real, to feel, and to love, than to forgo emotion and leave this world without a single bruise.

Thank you to all of my friends that came back to Philly to visit. You are part of what makes me whole. Come back soon.