MUSINGS

Whenever anyone uses the word "normal" in my presence, I feign a whole body shudder. I say I feign a shudder because I am not really experiencing disdain. The truth of the matter is that I am intrigued by the concept of normality.

I have discovered that many others are also fascinated by the thin red line that separates normal from abnormal. In at least this one regard, even I am (shudder) normal.

I have read many writings that deal with this distinction. I love the anecdotal accounts and informal surveys that puzzle over how the normal majority brush our teeth, use our toilet paper, bite our toenails, wiggle our ears, organize our wallets, lie, malinger, skip meals, weigh ourselves, sweat, fart, deal with unwanted phone calls, keep a gun, finish books, read horoscopes, have one night stands, sleep with a stuffed animal, or save rubber-bands. The list of possible themes of behavior observation in order to ascertain the typical is really endless.

While these idiographic wonderings are fun, my serious interest is piqued most by analysis of the Gaussian bell curve. Playing with a quincunx board materializes the concept. To make one, simply hammer nails into a board, one nail on the first line, two on the second, three on the third, and so on continuing this pattern. Then drop a marble onto the top nail, and watch it fall through the nail matrix into a row of bins placed below the last row of pins. The more marbles you drop, the clearer the pattern becomes. More marbles fall into the center bins, creating a normal (shudder) distribution.

In fact, the marbles fall into the bins in predictable percentages. Let's say there are eight bins along the bottom. Then about 68 percent of the marbles will fall in the two center bins; about 27 percent into the bins next to the center bins on both sides; about 4 percent in the next two outer bins on each side; and the remaining few in the outermost bins on each side. The shape is the bell curve, the normal (shudder) distribution.

To reach the bin on the far left, the marble must fall to the left of every nail. The far right and far left bins have only one path of entry. There are many paths the marble can take to get into the middle bins.

The way I look at it, I best understand the middle bins, the (shudder) normal, by examining the outliers, those who fall into the outermost bins. As I look at the heavily populated middle bins, the questions seem to evanesce. Everything seems given, obvious, clear. Nothing stands out for observation. "Everybody has always done it this way." That seems justification enough. The small voices that doubt the universally supposed presence of the emperor's new clothes seem to come from observing the outer bins, or from those in the outer bins themselves. From the outer bins there is enough distance to gain perspective on the questions that disappear in the heavily populated normal (shudder) middle. What simply passes as not requiring explanation in the normal (shudder) zone can be elucidated by the very being of the outliers.

And so the middle bins are eternally fascinated: Why do some people voluntarily amputate their limbs? Or cut holes in their skulls (trepanation)? Or starve themselves to death? Why do people hang themselves up on hooks piercing their skin? What can I discover about my theory of mind, my realization that others have hidden internal thoughts like my own, from people on the autistic spectrum who do not spontaneously know this? Or what do the Lance Armstrongs, the Van Goghs, the Mother Teresas tell us about our own possibilities?

Therese Martin, the French Christian mystic saint of the late 19th century, tells the story in her autobiography of an older sister who came to Therese and another younger sister. She had a treasure basket full of ribbons and fabrics to make baubles. This older sister felt that she was too old for such play. So she offered the booty to these two younger siblings. Therese's sister reached in tentatively and selected a colorful ball of wool.

Therese looked into the basket for a moment, grabbed the whole basket, and triumphantly announced, "I choose all." No one thought to argue with that. It seemed so right.

I, too, choose all. I recognize that there is no human experience that is alien to me. All outliers live in me as I peer deeply into the treasure of myself. And it is often in peering into the most unlikely outlier places that I find myself and others most clearly. I realize the collapse of national boundaries and of limited personal identity. Inside and outside distinctions disintegrate. It is like seeing a series of bottles under the sea, each filled with the sea. Each little sea inside each little bottle seems so distinct, so separate. Yet when I dive beneath and break the bottles, the sea is again one. We discover that the earlier edges are arbitrary.

There have been long ago bottles of dinosaurs, and bottles of the ancient kingdoms, and bottles of outliers now and middle "normals" to come. As I choose all, all is one in me. And all this has been, is now, and will be is in the sea of this pirate. And as you swallow my outlandish, outliar words all this piracy is in you, too.

Indeed, the norm is all. And the all is totally normal and highly improbable.

— Rx is the FloridaW eekly muse w ho hopes t o inspir e pr ofound mu tiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx ma y be wearing a pir ate cloak of in visibility, but emanating fr om within this shado w is hope that readers will feel free to respond. Who kno ws: You ma y e ven inspir e the muse. Make contact if you dare.