Stepping out of my home early Tuesday morning, I stepped into a strange world. Nature wore a mask of fog. Not me, mask free. Well, unless you believe I am a man of false faces.
We outfit ourselves with disguises. One mask fits atop another. Some use different camouflage depending on the set of friends nearby.
For the dress conscious, clothing plays its part in the costume, hiding that which we don’t want revealed. Rather like an actor’s stage makeup or Halloween for the kiddies.
The coverups take many forms. First, there are the ideas we don’t share. Next come the beliefs we don’t believe, but repeat to get-along.
Feelings and weaknesses are on display without trickery, the ones of which we are aware and those too crushing to accept.
Sometimes the concealing tarp drapes over our opinions, while secrecy extends to our plans. For example, the-intention to rob a bank.
Our face covers save us from relationship troubles, too. Remember four-months-ago when you recognized someone at a distance, a character you wished to avoid? Now you can cross to the other side of the street without hesitation or worry.
Time and circumstance have transformed the meaning of our action, changed it from a dis to distancing.
Alcohol has long been a tool like a self-protective armor plate. “Take a drink, you needn’t think,” says the bottle. “Dispense with your memories and feelings. I am your magic potion. I’ll erase your internal maelstrom – for a little while.”
Denial pursues this end, too, shrouding all our mirrors so we can’t recognize who we are, what we do. Others admit themselves to themselves but rationalize the necessity of being so.
Remember Salome? The girlish teen was Herod’s step-daughter, the child of his wife in the age of Jesus. The regent wanted the erotic young woman to dance. She did so with seven veils at the start and none at the finish.
The temptress then accepted payment for her star-turn: the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter, the better to kiss a decapitated man. The watchful Herod found the latter so disturbing he had her killed.
Removing veils can be a risky business.
Back to the present, our century encourages coverups via computer technology.
Are you uncomfortable on the phone? Want to dump someone? Turn away and send a text.
Are you bursting with unexpressed electoral anger or racism? A fake name and an itchy Twitter finger will fire the ballot bullet.
How about flirting or infidelity? The online world offers a digital dodge and a new name to hide behind.
A therapist is challenged by those patients who have never been unmasked. The sun never reaches their pale faces.
Take one mask off and you’d find another, masks on masks, layers piled up. The wearers have never seen themselves. The person underneath is a mystery.
And yet there is hope. Here is an example, a fellow I’d treated for some time.
Q: What price do you pay for the psychological protective equipment you employ?
The gentle soul lowered his head. His shoulders trembled as he wept.
A: Everything I want in life, friendship and love. I act like I’m a spy, in the shadows, on duty 24/7.
The door to recovery thus opened.
Like Tuesday’s lifting fog, a new day in my client’s life took a peek at possibility. The more we depend on masks, the less we own the joy of recognition and acceptance by another.
He discovered his disguises hid the best of him.
My advice? The next time you remove a cloth mask from your face, ask yourself this: Am I still wearing a mask?
Until then, donate what you can to a food bank.
The top image is Paul Hartland Carnival. Composition with Two Masks, 1934, by Lazlo Moholy-Nagy. Next comes Mask, 1919, by Marcel Janco. Finally, Lady Taking Off a Mask, 1906, by Konstantin Somov.