Month: April 2013

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Outlook

“How the hell do you stay so optimistic?”

When a comment like that hits you from out of left field, it takes a few minutes to get your bearings.

“Damn, I didn’t realize I was.”

I’ve always pictured myself as having a somewhat pissy attitude. I tend to become irritated at the smallest things, something I’ve always known about myself and never liked. Since I’m still recovering from years of abusive Catholic guilt, I suppose my awareness of it has me constantly checking myself to be sure I’m not offending anyone. Who wants to be around someone in a constant sour mood? I certainly don’t.

Maybe it’s not optimism people notice in me but rather an overcompensation for my guilt at being a jerk and then masking the behavior before anyone notices. Jesus, whose brain works that fast just to not be noticed?

Damned Catholic school.

My mother’s experience with the nuns back in the 1930’s and 40’s was idyllic so it’s understandable that she would want the same for her children.

My father was exceedingly good at his job and every couple of years was promoted and transferred so we moved a lot. We never had money but my parents worked extra hard to provide the best they could manage and always scraped together money to make sure my five sisters, two brothers and I had a superior education.  We went to Catholic school.

Or rather they went — I did time.

I’m not saying all Catholic schools are bad — just the five I went to.

I can only blame so much of my angst on school though. When I was 22 and out on my own, I was complaining, as always, to a dear friend about the fact that I was so bad with money, always bouncing checks, because my parents never taught me how to balance a checkbook. My friend, Skip, told me I was an idiot.

“If they didn’t provide you a skill you need, okay, maybe they’re at fault a little. But once you realize you’re deficient in that skill and you take no action to change that situation then your parents are no longer guilty of that sin. You are the only one responsible for your own shortcomings. So shut the hell up and quit blaming them.”

Boy, I sure got told. He said it with love of course. But the truth really stings when you’re left with no recourse other than to admit, “Yup. I’m an idiot.”

I’m still not that great with finances. But I know now it’s not my parent’s fault.

If you don’t like your experience, it’s up to you to change it. So I insinuated myself into the company of people whom I most admired. Those I wanted to be like.

Nice people. Good people. People who don’t hit you. People who don’t spend their resources recklessly.

One of the best pieces of advice I’ve heard lately is that, to be happy, don’t spend your money on things — spend it on experiences. They enrich the soul.

I firmly believe we are all a product of our experience. If you want to be rich, hang out with rich folks. If you want to be funny, hang out with comedians. If you want to be a writer, spend time with other writers. And if you want to be happy, seek out the pleasant folks who aren’t so busy trying to be rich or funny.

One day eight years ago my wife, in a hail of tears, stated it was unfair that I seemed happy when she was so miserable. And her misery was my fault because it was my job to make her happy and I wasn’t doing my job.

You must understand that I’m a pleaser. I derive great enjoyment from doing for others and putting them at ease. It’s my fun in life. But this was the first time anyone ever told me that it was my job.

I don’t care at all for confrontation but I told her, “Sweetheart, it’s not my job or anyone’s job to make you happy. You are the only person in this world who can make you happy. It’s a conscious choice. It isn’t visited on you like a gift or something you can find. You must decide to be happy, despite all the anger and misery. If you don’t know how to do that for yourself, then I can’t help you.”

I’d never talked to her like that before. I stood up for myself. It was one of the best days of my life.

Also one of the very worst. Six weeks later we were divorced.

I suppose I internalize my frustrations too much. I was raised to put on a good front. And for the most part, I guess I end up buying into the act. I choose happiness. Which means I simply focus on good things, hang out with good people, read good books and listen to good music.

I don’t watch things like reality TV — watching angry people verbally bitch-slap their fellow man on national television is not my idea of entertainment. And it certainly makes me anything but happy.

So yeah, it’s an effort to choose to be happy. But given the alternatives, I will always find it worth the effort.

I guess I can see how people think of me as optimistic. We all get pissy now and then. But if you want something bad enough, like happiness, you create an environment within which a happy attitude is likely to grow.

Okay. Today I’m an optimist.

Now to make it come true.

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Nightfall

Darkness takes on many forms.

Because of its mysterious grip on our imagination, we often fear the dark. Not just as children but throughout our lives because darkness represents all manner of things that intend us harm. The less we can see of them, the more profound is our dread.

Doubt is a common culprit, ever lurking in the gloom. Pride too. Illness is forever fighting obscurity, while addictions are most at home in the shadows. Their powers reside in their ability to intimidate from a place of hiding.

To Shakespeare’s lament that ‘there is no darkness but ignorance’, I cry “Comrade!” However, to the popular boast that “ignorance is bliss” I may concede it’s true — but only for the ignorant. For any intelligent soul, an ignorant person is anything but bliss.

Philosophy and scripture are brimming with references to light and dark. It is our most commonly identifiable analogy for health and sickness, trust and betrayal, good and evil.

All mystical connotations aside, the core purpose of gloom is to cloak that which we most ought to recognize. As Thomas Merton wrote, “We stumble and fall constantly even when we are most enlightened. But when we are in true spiritual darkness, we do not even know that we have fallen.”

However, darkness has also gotten a bad rap. Much of the time we are too quick to dismiss its benefits since it provides a powerful frame of reference. Without darkness would we not recognize the value of light?

In painting and photography the playing together of light and shadow are everything. In our greatest tragedies and comedies, the fractious interplay between white hats and black hats is the only reason we remain engaged. Their powers to fascinate and entertain are shining examples of what a delightfully wicked mess it is to be human.

When great evil is visited upon us, we readily equate it with the darkest abyss — the utter absence of compassion. And we struggle against this insidious void through art, understanding, and tolerance to fight our way back to a sunny place. No good or worthwhile thing is ever easy. But darkness will always be the standard against which we measure our best ideals and most admirable behaviors.

I love that the singer Reba McEntire advocates the singing of sad songs because, “It gets the hurt out in the open into the light, out of the darkness.”

I never deny the inclination to grieve because it is there that our finest healing must take place.

When I think of the coming of darkness and whatever time I may have left in this world I’m often reminded of Og Mandino’s wisdom: “I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.”

When night falls, we should always choose to light a candle.

In my search for that one special someone to step out of the darkness and change my life, it may be worth considering that that person could be me.

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Magic

The human experience thrives on a convincing act of magic. At least mine does. One of the most emotionally staggering of all magic tricks is the sudden appearance of a fully formed person — a baby being born.

Of course it follows that the greatest disappearing act of all is death. Once the light in a person’s eyes evaporates into eternity, no investigation of hidden wires, trap doors or sleight of hand can account for its secrets. Search and ponder as you may, but in the end we are at the mercy of our ignorance.

To be sure, anyone who employs practical magic must be skilled in the art of misdirection. The element of trickery must be elegantly masked to generate an effective illusion.

But what about the magic of human interaction?

It occurs to me how easily interchangeable are the stages of a relationship with the categories of traditional magic tricks  — many of the same illusory practices apply:

.                              MAGIC                                                           ROMANCE
• Producing something from nothing              (Two people meet and hit it off)
• Teleportation from one place to another      (A growing together in affection)
• Prediction of an outcome                               (Partners project their dreams on each other)
• Levitation in defiance of gravity                     (Romantic love)
• Transformation from one state to another   (Suspicions and doubts develop)
• Penetration of one object through another  (Sex, or a knife through the heart)
• Restoration of a destroyed object                  (Making up after a fight, or therapy)
• Escape from a restraining device                   (Losing inhibitions, or coming clean on a lie)
• Vanishing                                                         (The breakup, or divorce)

However closely these mechanisms of magic and romance may seem to parallel each other, many would not conceive of romance as being the more unreal of the two.

Consider that, even though traditional illusionism is widely acknowledged to consist of intellectual puzzles and riddles, the audience still wants more than anything to believe the magic is genuine. Why else would they pay good money to experience something they know is fake to begin with?

Sound like any relationships you know?

If secrets behind these tricks were to be revealed, captivation would fall away and, robbed of our amazement, we’d be disappointed that we were so easily taken in.

Stage magic?

Or love?

Our wishes, wants, hopes and dreams are the pilot lights of true prestidigitation. In our finest goals we discover the alchemy of our aspirations.

Where Robert Heinlein remarked coldly that “One man’s magic is another man’s engineering”, an optimist may counter with Danielle Steele’s hopeful notion —  “If you can see the magic in a fairy tale, you can face the future.”

Personally, I’ll go with Erich Fromm who observed, “In love, the paradox occurs that two beings become one — and yet remain two.”

For my money, that’s as good as magic gets.

The end of awe is the beginning of hubris. And with hubris, innocence fades, excitement wanes, and love diminishes.

But the foundational root of all real magic is the wonderment we first experienced as children, wide-eyed to everything new in the world — breathtaking music, a child’s first sneeze, the opening of a tulip, a staggering sunset, the allure of a lover’s eyes, the flush from a first kiss.

With each of these enchantments something in you understands that genuine magic is more the province of the soul than of the mind. Any rational account of one’s life requires the inclusion of the mysterious.

Despite the occasional employment of smoke and mirrors, I still very much believe in magic.

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Levity

Respect is a pretty big deal in anyone’s book. Respect for a person, an environment, a life style or institution. Even a situation.

Levity is an appropriately satirical remark in an inappropriate environment.

A whispered bit of observant humor at an overblown funeral is one thing. But when an assailant sticks a weapon in your face and says, “You respect me now, don’t ya!” — are you really going to tell him the truth?

“Just because I respect what a gun can do, doesn’t mean I respect the fool holding the gun.”

No. That’s the kind of pithy reply that gets your vital organs shut down for you.

Extreme instances aside though, I actively seek out any and every opportunity for levity. My desire to illuminate the ludicrous or ridiculous is surpassed only by my need to laugh. I can’t resist poking fun at those who genuinely deserve it.

However, I would never make a joke at the expense of someone else’s dignity. That is cruelty, plain and simple, and I should not want to stoop to that kind of humor.

But when an inconsiderate, self-important individual or entity presumes it’s okay to behave in a manner disrespectful of others, I am compelled to react.

A couple years back, one such popular and still-too-common practice inspired in me a bit of satire. It resulted in my creating this fake commercial. As of this writing well over three and a half million people on YouTube have approved. It’s called “Cell Phones In Church”:

Like I said — appropriate response in an inappropriate environment.

Across the board, ordained clergy of every stripe have praised this bit of satire and many ministers and pastors have asked for their own copy to play for their congregations. I am always happy to accommodate and have received some lovely responses.

By the same token, I’ve also been hit with a good deal of hate mail for this bit of fun. There are those who have protested this video so vehemently and scorchingly with cries of “Blasphemy!” — really, blasphemy — that I am left to imagine these poor souls must either have been born without a sense of humor or had it surgically removed.

This video in no way disrespects the church or religion. It does however satirize the disrespectful nature of people who blithely ignore the courtesy of silencing their electronics in a public forum, whether it be a church, lecture hall or movie theater.

It’s not about religion — it’s about rudeness in any environment.

To be clear, I do not disrespect their negative points of view and I have not censored these scathing tirades. Indeed every comment that is fit to print, both pro and con, has been clearly posted beneath this video on YouTube. Only those remarks containing foul verbiage have been removed, and there have been quite a few. I never imagined church folk to be so handy with vulgarity.

I do however take issue with some viewers’ ludicrous accusations that this video means I must hate the bible. My NIV is a marvelous collection of 66 books containing a nice mix of history, poetry, literature, and life lessons. It is a volume I happen to read regularly and admire greatly. Though for some passages, I still prefer the more poetic translation of the King James. But no, I do not hate the bible.

It baffles me to receive such dire and serious comments such as, “Jesus wouldn’t allow such things”, “It’s unchristian to send people to hell”, and “You shouldn’t be doing that!”

Frankly I can’t decide whether to recommend these people put more fiber in their diets, or just thank them for their conviction that I can manage what the video suggests.

Levity is a tricky animal because when you pull it off you often run the risk of upsetting a portion of the populace.

I remain convinced that it’s not only important, but actually our duty, to observe some degree of vigilance — to draw attention to injustice and demonstrate the ridiculous nature of those who thrive on abuse at the expense of others.

For my money though, laughing at ourselves is the finest kind of laughter. When our own folly is made clear we can finally acknowledge we are not more important than the next guy. It’s what George Carlin called the laughter of recognition — things that are funny because they make us see the same failings in ourselves.

One of my favorite quotes happens to be from scripture. It urges us to “make a joyous noise.” What more joyous noise can there be than good-natured laughter?

In the spirit of levity, another of my favorite quotes is from the writings of Hunter S. Thompson:

“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

Folks, when dippy fundamentalists are convinced I possess the power to actually send people to hell, it doesn’t get much weirder than that.

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Kindness

For years I’ve seen bumper stickers that promote random acts of kindness. I absolutely get the concept they’re going for and the phrase moves well across the palate….. “Random Acts of Kindness.”

But from a strictly clinical perspective, an act of kindness is anything but random. Real kindness requires genuine consideration and the very deliberate execution of a heartfelt deed.

To me the words “Random” and “Kindness” constitute an oxymoron. The two terms are mutually exclusive, kind of like “Blind Faith” or “Microsoft Works”.

Maybe I’m too much of a literalist but all these phrases have troubled me for years. Yet everyone still embraces their core concepts — as well they should. Kindness and faith are always well worth promoting in any form, although maybe not so much the Microsoft thing.

Being kind falls squarely within the province of the human experience because it demands compassion. Other animals in nature can be nurturing by instinct but behavior-wise, the similarity ends there.

Only people can be truly kind, or for that matter truly cruel.

I think I identify easily with kids because I recognize their compassionate behavior more readily than I do that of grown ups. That’s not to say adults are unkind. I am personally acquainted with many sweet-tempered, accommodating folks who are the very soul of kindness. At the same time we’re so much more concerned with how a considerate gesture might be misinterpreted.

Adults are just too weird to get an honest read on them when they’re being nice for no apparent reason. Modern Americans have sadly devolved into a rather untrusting breed, which makes grown up kindness a little harder to spot, and a bit more of a challenge to pull off, even though it’s still very much alive out there.

Kids on the other hand, have no problem being candid with their feelings, which is really the essence of being kind. Still, when you teach them to share and they want to offer the neighbor’s Rottweiler a lick of their lolly pop, that’s when you have to start reining them in a bit. The impulse is right but it has to be tempered with sound judgment.

Although I missed getting to know my older daughter until she was grown, I dearly enjoyed teaching my younger one about being kind when she was small.

Children mimic behavior instinctively and are adept at learning by example. So demonstrating kindness as an adult is critical to a child’s interpretation of how to treat others — and how to be kind to themselves as well, an equally crucial part of their upbringing.

Occasionally kids take our lessons too literally. Once when Courtney was four, she wouldn’t let me apply a plain band-aid to a cut on her elbow.

I didn’t want to force it but I didn’t have time to explain about bacteria and infections. I wanted to be gentle — gentility is a big part of how kindness works.

“Why do I need that sticky thing on me?”

“Band-aids hold the kisses on, sweetheart.” She loved that idea.

Of course she knew where we kept the band-aids and the next morning I found she had applied six or seven of them to her cheeks and forehead — every place we had kissed her good night.

When she didn’t want to eat cucumbers I sliced some up and told her, “They’re garden cookies.” She’s almost 28 now and she still calls them garden cookies.

Kindness. It’s the great convincer that you really do want the best for them.

I suspect all of us are born with the germ of kindness already inside. It only requires the encouragement of expression and a positive direction.

Though I’m not particularly a fan of her novels, many years ago I did enjoy a slender volume of philosophy by Ayn Rand titled “The Virtue of Selfishness”. One of the key precepts of the book is that, when we do something inherently selfless for another person, like bringing flowers to your mother or girlfriend, your true goal is to make them happy so that you can enjoy the feeling of wellbeing that comes from their happiness about your thoughtful act. This is a good kind of selfishness. And while it can be construed as a bit self serving, there’s really nothing at all wrong with the enjoyment we derive from being nice to others. It’s healthy.

Following that logic, sort of, I also endeavor to be kind to as many people as possible for no more reason than to simply confuse them. You provide a welcome service, exercise a Christian value, and entertain yourself all at the same time. It’s great fun, especially if it’s someone who’s been really mean to you and knows they don’t deserve it. They get all perplexed and start looking around like someone moved their food dish.

Ultimately, I thoroughly enjoy going out of my way for someone very deserving who didn’t see it coming. That’s the best.

Now that I think of it, perhaps I was wrong about random acts of kindness. Could it be it’s not the kindness that’s random, but rather the person, time and place in which I choose to act?

Wow.

I love it when I talk myself into this stuff.

But I’m standing my ground on Faith and Microsoft.

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Jest

In accordance with the military code of conduct, it is a prisoner of war’s sworn duty to attempt escape and, if possible, to help others to escape also. I believe that should be our own personal maxim as well. When held at the mercy of our own anxieties, we must obligate ourselves to flee to an internationally recognized safe haven — laughter.

Human beings are among my all time favorites when it comes to carbon-based life forms, and amusing ourselves is something at which we excel. Entertaining others is even better. While it is commonly accepted that everyone who wishes to should be able to enjoy themselves equally, I know of a few syndromes that prevent some people from the physical demonstration of joy. Since I am so deeply reliant upon my own need to laugh, I was immediately struck by, and sympathetic to, this little-known portion of our populace.

In the spirit of the jest, I have chosen to explore this topic through verse.

DEADPAN THE JESTER
(© 2013 Michael J. Cahill)

There once was a boy unable to smile
With his features all frozen in place.
From birth, though his family prodded and tickled,
A frown would remain on his face.

As a child he was pleasant and always polite
Never crying or making a fuss.
But likewise he never could manage
A happy demeanor like any of us.

Believing that he was the saddest of souls
No one tried to make friends with this boy.
And yet, though his face could not possibly show it,
Inside he was bursting with joy.

The world as he saw it was brimming with fun
Yet people were so disenchanted.
How many, he thought, of these unhappy souls
Take the gift of a smile for granted?

It’s true that what’s awful and hurtful and sad
Is never that far out of reach.
Yet one thing that few of us manage to learn
Are the lessons a smile can teach.

Simply choosing to chuckle or let go a grin
Or to laugh right out loud at a joke —
The joy that is shared by a happy expression
Can brighten the saddest of folk.

As a young man he threw himself into the role
Of a fool on the people’s behalf.
Never mind why the people were laughing at him.
All that mattered was he made them laugh.

As he grew he perfected his gags and his stunts
And improved with each pratfall and jest
Yet, despite all the laughter his antics inspired,
The reaction inside was the best.

For any who wanted a reason for joy
There was much to be found as he’d seen it.
Deadpan swore that if ever he managed to smile
He would do so each day — and mean it.

Through the years he would learn how to easily turn
All his foes into sisters and brothers.
By bringing such joy to the saddest of souls,
He had smiled….. through the faces of others.

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Ink

My mother was a letter writer. Mostly newsy little handwritten notes of a page or two. Her missives often included a clipping from an advice column, a positive quote, a prayer or snapshot, and a few gentle paragraphs of wit and encouragement. She always signed them, “Love, Mom.”

Image.handwritten-letter

A popular lament these days is that no one writes letters anymore. When was the last time you received one from someone close — an actual letter with stamp and postmark? Such a gift in your mailbox is stirring.

The obvious benefits of digital technology not withstanding, there’s just something remarkable in the feel of a few crisp pages in hand, along with the knowledge that considerable care and forethought went into creating them.

From my experience, an email is grabbing a hot dog from a street vendor, whereas a personal letter is a sumptuous home cooked meal. Either meets a need, but which will you savor? I don’t know anyone who sits curled up on a rainy Sunday afternoon re-reading old e-mails.

Now that Mom’s gone, on the odd weekend I’ll pour over her old letters and postcards. Some of them bearing the faint scent of her perfume or a smear of lipstick where she sealed the envelope. A letter is a tactile, tangible, aromatic entity. It’s considerably more than the essence of the person not present — a comradely whisper that redolent emotion.

I’ve tried to follow my mother’s example with mixed success. The last few years it’s become important to try writing more letters to those I hold dear. There’s much catching up to do.

In 2008 my world shifted radically. I discovered I had a 32-year-old daughter I’d never known about. When she was 13 her mother had told her about me and for the next 19 years she wondered who and where I was. When she finally found me (on the internet by the way) it was a shock and a blessing for both of us. Immediate connection, same eyes, same face, exact same sense of humor.

In the weeks before I flew from California to Kansas to meet her for the first time, I thought about what it must have been like for her all those years. For our first meeting I wanted to make a gesture that would mean something to her. I gave her a polished wooden box. With 32 birthday cards inside.

In the weeks leading up to our meeting, every day I had written cards for all the birthdays I’d missed. In each I wrote what I imagined she might have wished to hear at that time from a father. She told me that she reads them every so often and now whenever I send a new letter or card she adds it to the box.

I often think of the gift my mother left me in her writings and I take great comfort in Emily Dickenson’s assertion that a letter is a tiny piece of immortality.

While I take ease in a digital world, I find my real comfort in a simple paper letter from a friend — stamp, envelope and all. Language is the way in which we reach out, the essence of how we connect with one another. But it’s the device of our expression that defines its permanence. The fine English poet W.H. Auden struck the true center of it when he set down in ink…

“And none will hear the postman’s knock
 Without a quickening of the heart.
 For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?”

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Harmony

My brother is a professional magician. He’s very good at it too. Back in the 1970’s he was Master Magician at Busch Gardens Florida. I visited him one summer.

Between engagements, as he sat with me in the arena stands watching an elephant act, something remarkable happened. In mid-performance a crew member rushed on stage, positioned a snow shovel under the animal’s tail and, as if on cue, the elephant deposited a load of dung into the waiting scoop. The fellow curtsied and disappeared with his catch. The audience roared their approval and the act went on.

I sat there baffled. “How did they know to do that?”

My brother just smiled. “Let’s go ask ‘em.”

Back stage George introduced me around. When I met the elephant performers they shared their secret. Not to be indelicate, but it seems there’s a hanging pocket of loose skin circling the outer rim of an elephant’s rectum. About ten seconds or so prior to relieving himself, the pocket firms up and juts outward. This puckering is a clear physical cue that a delivery is imminent.

Makes perfect sense. But here’s the part that slays me — during every performance there is one crew member whose entire job it is to watch the elephant’s anus. If a delivery is forthcoming, he’s there in a flash. For the rest of the day I couldn’t get my mind off the shovel bearer. What kind of job is that for a person? How do you even write the resume’ on that?

At this point let it be said I am primarily a visual thinker, as well as being ever on the lookout for a life-elevating metaphor. Sure enough, a winner showed up — “If you don’t want to get dumped on, keep your eye on the a**holes.”

Perfect analogy.

I used my snappy new line on all my friends until one of them replied, “How much does your life suck if that’s your best view?” I was 23 and thought I’d been so clever. But he was right. The elephant’s anus analogy was fun in an adolescent sort of way. For about ten minutes. But it had no value beyond that of a raunchy bumper sticker.

Is it fad, fancy or simple desperation that diverts us to the darker things in life, when all the while we are up to our bow ties in blessings? Our planet is a stunner. And the people on it are a staggering spectacle of high-octane personalities more flamboyant than any African sunset. How do we not marvel in that every waking minute of our day?

I think of such miracles and balance the many stupidities and missteps of my youth against the good people and good things around me today. Any real quality I may enjoy in my life is found neither in perfection nor perdition. Somewhere in the middle of it all, suspended between the despicable and the divine, if I look for it, there is harmony.

These days I no longer dwell on the shovel. Rather I am simply happy that I can appreciate the elephant.

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Grace

I know too many sad and angry souls who simply cannot bring themselves to forgive. The wounds are too fresh, too deep, too profound.

I concede that some offenses are frankly unpardonable. But when such oppressive anguish has its hooks into you so deeply, it eats away at the fabric of your wellbeing so that only one of two significant events must take place — either it will kill you, or you will kill it. A gesture of grace can be a fine weapon.

Some say they can live without forgiving someone. But holding onto such profound anxiety devastates in equal parts, mentally and physically. This pernicious decay is gradual and, though you may disguise it for a while, angst will always beat you down. That’s what angst does best.

Buddha said, “Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”

Absolving a cruelty or personal attack is never painless, which is why so many stay far afield of it. It’s an instinctively alien concept to actually allow someone who’s so clearly guilty to just waltz away with a Get-Out-of-Hell-Free card. But think of it rather as doing something wonderful for yourself.

In the 1970’s when I was a brakeman for the Santa Fe railroad in Wellington, Kansas there was a puppy that had lost one of its front legs to a train. It would hobble around the train yard and people remarked how sad and pathetic it was. I didn’t see that. His little face was curious and playful. Yes, he was missing a leg but he didn’t dwell on the loss. How miserable would it be to carry that kind of anguish around? Pain is not something we’re meant to hold onto.

Christ said turn the other cheek. But really think about where that came from. Imagine you’re Jesus, walking down the street on your way to give a sermon or comfort a sick soul. Suddenly a man punches you for no discernible reason. You and I would get into it with him and end up with an ambulance ride, a police report, and a fairly unflattering mugshot. But Christ knew, in the bigger scheme of things, this clown was nothing more than a distraction. Forgiveness, at its very core, is merely a difference engine.

It helps you choose — do I stop and confront my assailant, which accomplishes nothing and pulls me away from my intended goal? Or do I unceremoniously dismiss him with an “I forgive you” so I may stay on track with what’s important? There may be pain either way but which tact ends up being the lesser hurt?

Yes, there’s something definitively Christian in the concept of absolution, but at its rudimentary level, forgiving a person is really a matter of emotional economy. Do we invest our anguish in those who are undeserving of our attention in the first place? Or do we unburden ourselves of their ability to meddle with our happiness?

Terrible things will always happen to good people. And good people will always manage to navigate beyond tragedy and loss. Sometimes it takes a while, but it’s always achievable.

When I am wounded, either by circumstance or cruel intent, I remember the three-legged puppy — savaged by the world, yet determined to embrace the good that is in it. The giving of grace to another is a truly healthy act of selfishness. And it’s what I will always choose.

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Fear

All the really ugly emotions are firmly rooted in fear. Fear that we won’t measure up, fear that we’ll look foolish, fear that we’ll lose success or love or respect. Prejudice is a product of fear. Anger too.

Most people, myself included, allow too many important aspects of our lives to be dictated by the anguish of embarrassment or the dread of what may or may not come to pass. So much of our self-esteem is bound up in what other people might perceive. And that is the polar opposite of healthy.

In the recovery group Co-Dependents Anonymous there’s a saying that goes, “What other people think of me is none of my business.” They have a lot of sayings but that one pretty much sums it all up.

I suspect that being the most sentient creatures on the planet, we’re instinctively bent on hubris. Humans have the biggest brain-to-body ratio so naturally we’ve got control issues. It’s that Power-and-Small-People Syndrome. Basically, as a species we think way too much of ourselves. Take for example your typical road rage. Why does it happen? One word…… Control.

You’re the good driver. You take extra pains to stay in your lane. You mostly come to complete stops, usually signal for turns and stick pretty darned close to those speed limits. Rules are there for a reason. Then another driver breaks the rules right in front of you. And why should THEY be allowed to disregard the letter of the law when you so clearly comply? That’s when the control reflex kicks in and you decide to force him to play by the rules. Of course tensions elevate and tragedy ensues.

We humans fear a lot of really stupid things that constantly land us in trouble. It’s a widely held conviction that any really important decision should never be made when one is in an elevated emotional state. Because nine times out of nine it’s not only the wrong decision but also the worst possible one.

I once read, and firmly believe, that we cannot control our emotions. But… we can control how we react to them.

Some people take issue with that and claim they have full command of all their emotions. If they truly have that power then they’re more disciplined folk than I. My experience doesn’t bear that out. My emotions suddenly arrive out of nowhere like a moth at a porch light. Where did that come from? And even though I’ve always possessed the power to choose how I react, it never really occurred to me to exercise that choice.

Once I did, I started leaning toward the path of least resistance, or rather the path of best resistance. Now when a driver cuts me off, I just stay out of his way. It’s not my job to make him obey the law. His family has to live with him, I don’t.

When I gave my daughter her first driving lesson, I told her, “You have no right — no right — to get angry at someone else in traffic. Most drivers are basically self-absorbed brain donors and when they behave badly it HAS to be what you expected. Always count on it. The only genuine surprise should be when someone actually drives courteously. That, my love, is the rarity and should be your only unanticipated event on the road.”

I give her full credit for taking that to heart. She’s a marvelous driver now and I’ve never seen her upset in the car. At least not because of other drivers.

Yes, fear is the culprit for every negative feeling we encounter. As a writer, I cope with creative fears all the time. Over the years many people who didn’t know me, and a few who did, have suggested I let go of this fruitless dream of being a writer. And there are days I actually consider it.

When you’re on your own, there’s only so much self-induced encouragement and back patting you can muster. Now, whenever taunted by self-doubt, I refer to a sign on the wall over my desk. It simply reads:

“FAILURE IS FAR LESS FRIGHTENING THAN REGRET.”

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