Robert Louis Stevenson writes "the cruellest lies are often told in silence."
I became keen on a Tassie guy who interviewed me for a position in the university during the late 1990s. Although he is an atheist, I found him to be friendly, accommodating, warm and gentle person. Naturally, one (including myself) would not find it hard to like him.
Even if he was back to Tasmania, I had many times called him because my boss every now and then told me to call Tasmania whenever I had queries about some stuff in the laboratory. In these calls, I became acquainted with him to know that he was going through a divorce from his first childless marriage and that he had a house in the wilderness,-a huge one, which he was renovating himself. He invited me to come and visit Tasmania and promised to show me around having already bought for himself a Volvo car after I had made the impression I was not keen on sailing with him.
At the same time I was getting to know him, I was also becoming acquainted with other staff in the lab, well enough to believe that he had also invited one of the girls in the lab, too at one stage to go with him to visit. I must have asked him about this but got no answer. His eyes, his body language, were in no way indicators for me to see through his 'blind' window.
Should I consider his silence the same as telling a lie? I would be inclined to, but then he is also a human being like I am. I thought maybe he realised that by revealing to me this secret in his 'hidden' window, would be like an invitational threat to our developing friendship. Or maybe like I do, he also wants privacy in certain areas of his life. Or else, it must be too early in Johari terms, to enlarge the open window.
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I went to Tasmania one year after he had invited me to come. I enjoyed the visit, the 45 minute drive away from Hobart to his house and the beautiful rose he picked from his garden to welcome me. I also enjoyed the drive up to Mt Wellington, as well as the Italian food. It could have been perfect if he had bought me the local ice cream for dessert, but he didn't. I kept this craving in my 'hidden' window, so he did not have any idea and hence did nothing to meet this sweet icy cold craving in that chilly autumn evening.
I spent the one day of my visit in a group tour to the Huon Valley with people the majority of who were members of the silver grey brigade and the other days with Seventh Day Adventist (SDA) woman and her family--not to mention that instead of attending his birthday celebration, I attended instead the birthday celebration of a friend of this SDA woman. I must have concerns staying over at his house.
Whilst he picked me up from the airport and welcomed me with the business handshake, he did not see me off, but got early to the airport to entrust to the airport deskman my pair of eyeglasses I left in his car. Yes, I took them off being anxious of being blown away by the big winds on the summit of Wellington mountain while we were there. Ah, I could not afford to lose my multifocals and transistion lenses--not ever again! after someone stole my bag with the previous pricey ones in it while I was in Parramatta library.
The airport guy was laughing in his eyes, I smiled and thanked him. In Johari terms, the únknown' window of this friendship, is not for him to look through and needless to say would remain unknown to him.
It was my choice to hide it from him as insignificant as he is in this episode in my life--all he knew was I must have left my eyeglasses and my friend gave them to him.
At least, I could still see Hobart when the plane take off.
