The benefits of invisibility

Peek-a-boo, I see you. My dad would grab me from behind the chair and I would giggle hilariously. It felt good to be seen.

I grew up, of course. My dad is no longer with us and, if he were, we probably would not be playing hide-n-seek.

We want to be seen, and one of the hardships of growing older is that so often the stereotype of “old person” plus the values of our youth culture can cause us to become invisible. At least we’re often tempted to feel that no one sees us anymore.

I’m currently reading a book entitled, How To Disappear: Notes on Invisibility in a Time of Transparency (2019). The author, Akiko Busch, presents the challenge of our culture that inordinately values visibility. She writes, “Visibility has become the common currency of our time, and the twin circumstances of social media and the surveillance economy have redefined the way we live…. It has become routine to assume that the rewards of life are public and that our lives can be measured by how we are seen rather than what we do.” People on the margins of society—due to ethnicity, poverty, age, gender, and other factors—can experience a sense of erasure under this set of values. Invisibility.

But Busch goes on to elaborate on the positive counter-cultural values of invisibility. In the introduction, she describes a time she entered a forest, found a suitable tree, climbed it, then quietly and deliberately tried to make herself invisible in order to observe the wildlife. It took time and patience, but she saw things she would never have seen under any other conditions. Of that experience she writes, “I am reminded of the grace of reticence, the power of discretion, and the possibility of being utterly private and autonomous yet deeply aware of and receptive to the world.” This experience becomes an extended metaphor for the benefits of invisibility in life outside the forest.

On the value of intentional invisibility, Busch says, “A reduced sense of visibility does not necessarily constrain experience. Associated with greater empathy and compassion, invisibility directs us toward a more humanitarian view of the larger world. This diminished status can, in fact, sustain and inform—rather than limit—our lives. Going unrecognized can, paradoxically, help us recognize our place in the larger scheme of things.”

Retiring from our profession, recognition, or even the central place we held in our family provides the opportunity to cultivate the inner life. As Busch believes, embracing invisibility can mature us into greater empathy, compassion, and wisdom. It reminds me of C.S. Lewis’ description of heaven in The Last Battle as a place that is much larger and splendid on the inside than it is on the outside.

I see another, not nearly as grand, benefit of invisibility. It’s related to Busch’s experience in the forest, hiding in the tree. And that is—my invisibility greatly enhances my vocation of being a spy.

One of the things I love about living in this retirement community is discovering my neighbors as the interesting, experienced, and funny people they really are. Since I’m better at listening than I am at talking, I’m able to overhear many fascinating conversations. Here’s a sample of some overheard comments: “What I hate about aging is my jiggling arms. I try to buy things that hide it, but my clothes don’t work that way.” “If I bought all the insurance I should buy, I’d have to live under a bridge.” “What I hate about this walker is that it destroys my dream of skipping down the halls. I used to skip a lot.”

Sitting in the auditorium, waiting for some event to begin, I overheard the gentleman behind me ask this riddle of his friend: Question—"What sound does an aging sea lion make?” Answer—“AARP! AARP!” If I hadn’t been hiding up in my tree, I wouldn’t have heard that riddle.

A recognition of the benefits of invisibility doesn’t negate the very human need both to see and to be seen. I think these are part of our being created in the image of God.

I don’t want to over-emphasize the invisibility of older people. While there is truth to this experience, it’s not the only thing going on. We are all visible to some people—family members (although not always) or close friends—even as we’re friendly to many others, people who could become close friends as we come to know (see) them better. Maybe we should be content with that small circle of people who see us, which is of great value.

And there is One who sees us to the core of who we are. And cares about us.

I love that strange Bible story about Hagar, the Egyptian slave girl. Hagar was the epitome of an invisible person. A foreigner, a slave, and a female. She served as servant to Sarai, Abram’s wife. Sarai, being barren, gave Hagar to Abram as a concubine. Did Abram even know her name? He used her in order to produce an heir. When Hagar foolishly bragged about her pregnancy, an infuriated Sarai abused her to the point she ran away into the desert.

There in desert, Hagar experienced complete isolation, a brutal kind of invisibility. But there was One who saw her. An angel of the Lord found her, conversed with her, promised her survival and many descendants, then sent her back home. Once again alone, Hagar prayed, “You are the God who sees me.” She then said, “I have now seen the One who sees me” (Genesis 16).

Psalm 33 says, “The eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him, on those whose hope is in his unfailing love….”

It may seem like we older folks are invisible to many, but that’s not the whole story.

There is One who sees us.