I remember in my late teens feeling that other people’s efforts to be lighthearted were silly. I tended to be sad, even grim….I did many lively things as a girl in the village of Glendale, Ohio—coasting on my bike down Gunny Hill, dancing and singing with my friends to rock ‘n’ roll music, turning cartwheels on our front lawn, running with Chippy, our dog. But by my mid-teens I was already losing my sense of fun. I preferred novels that were tragic. I avoided reading Dickens because I’d gotten the impression he was a humorist.
In Aesthetic Realism consultations, which I began to have at age 27, I learned a way of seeing the world that is beautifully serious, and that enabled me to be increasingly proud of how I saw people, including men….
My consultants asked me, for instance:
Consultants: Would you say there is a disposition in you, even as you have to do with people, to be removed and just by yourself?”
Nancy Huntting: Yes.
Consultants: So even when you devote yourself to a person, the other self is working?
This surprised me, but I began to see it was true. When I told my consultants that my father, Donald Huntting’s, manner was more “reserved” than my mother’s, and when she got very angry he just didn’t respond, one thing they asked was: “Did your father tease your mother?”
Consultants: And have you teased the world? Do you think you are too good for the world?
Yes, I did. As I reconsidered that opinion, a certain heaviness and lethargy ended. Through studying Aesthetic Realism I saw something thrilling: both I, and the men I’d had to do with, were trying to put reality’s opposites together. Being energetic didn’t have to knock a person out, seriousness was not depression! Energy and repose, lightness and heaviness were meant to be in a beautiful relation as they are in music, or a good sentence in a novel. more