Michael J. Cahill

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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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Entrancement

Some years ago a cynical friend remarked to me, “I thought I fell in love once. But it turns out I only stepped in it.”

I almost laughed. But I could see he meant it.

Eric was a really sweet guy who’d subjugated himself entirely to a willful woman. He bowed to her wants and never challenged her. He had believed that was the best way to get along with a woman. And, truth be told, I thought so too.

I grew up with five sisters and a doting mother and it was made abundantly clear that when a woman says no, she means no. My mother and father cultivated in me the traditional behaviors of opening doors, paying compliments, presenting flowers, and all the courtesies and kindnesses attendant to gentlemanly behavior.

But my dad shared an insight with me the day I left home to strike out on my own.

“Michael”, he said. “There are two things you need to know to understand women…… and nobody knows what they are.”

That time I laughed. It was only years later that I realized he meant it.

Spending a couple of decades in the same house surrounded by that much estrogen meant the man knew from whence he spoke. I still don’t know that much about women. It’s likely they’ll remain mysterious to me and, of course, that will always be part of the attraction. Romance isn’t romance without mystery.

Being a fairly even-tempered fellow, friends have had occasion to confide in me. A lot. And I’ve learned something about men from these late night laments over beer and self doubt. It turns out the same two things you need to know to understand women are the pretty much the same two things you need to know to understand men. The upshot of which is that nobody really knows anything.

I am getting better at picking up signals. I’m listening more. Especially to women. One of them recently shared that, “Yes, a woman wants a partner who isn’t afraid of tenderness. But she also wants a MAN who can stand in the fire of our emotional changes.”

That’s an intimidating way to put it. Still it brings me to a slightly higher level of understanding. But only slightly.

There’ a good deal of bob-and-weave involved in courtship. So much conflicting wisdom. And yet I persevere. I expect the fighting now, but I’m looking for a fair fighter this time. Love may be a battle. But love is also a growing up.

My parents, it turns out, were fair fighters. They enjoyed 62 years of the greatest love story anyone has every been audience to. Now that mom is gone, I recognize one more thing I learned from my father — you don’t get to really know yourself until you know yourself in a relationship. It is revelatory to see yourself in someone else’s eyes.

Victor Hugo once wrote: “The greatest happiness in life is the conviction that we are loved. Loved for our self, or rather loved in spite of ourselves.”

To be so entranced is an honorable conviction and one I deeply aspire to. To be elevated, even levitated, by a swooning rush of delight and filled with wonder and a sense of enchantment — that is the aim of the human heart. It is among our baser instincts to defy loneliness.

I believe and desire all of this. But one must also consider S.J. Perelman’s take on the matter as well:  “Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin; it’s the triumphant twang of a bedspring.”

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Contemplation

Contemplation is a deeply reflective word—a gentle, almost soothing assembly of syllables. You don’t rush contemplation. In fact it’s almost scripture that the word be pronounced with even tones and in the slowest and most meditative manner attainable.

Contemplation is the very kind of pastime for which languorous summer evenings were born. Your shoes in the grass, feet up in a hammock, and nothing more significant than a misty notion noodling around your noggin.

Not even an idea, mind you—just a notion.

Because a notion isn’t demanding. A notion has no outcome of any real consequence. And a notion is the fodder of a ruminating mind, all of which leads us back to… contemplation. Contemplation has oodles of hours to waste batting a notion around until tedium takes hold or the dinner bell rings.

Whereas… an idea? Well, an idea insists your brain get up off its frontal lobes and do a little legwork. An actual idea demands hard, cold calculation and ties up too much gray matter at one time. A single idea is exhausting. But a notion?

Well, with a notion you can…… do it.

Or you can…. not do it.

Or you can do it.

Or not.

And so on.

Why?

Because it’s a notion and it’s accountable to no one. And notions are why they invented contemplation. A notion is about as far down on the scale of wistful, glassy-eyed ponderings as a human mind can handle and still be functional.

Here’s an example of a notion:

Since a cat’s voice is already really, really high, wouldn’t it stand to reason that, if you feed a cat helium, its voice would then become so high that only dogs could hear it?

Okay, now that’s a notion. The kind of innocent nonsensical distraction that diverts a brain from all that makes sense in the world. Too much sense actually and far too little room for the soul to breathe.

The sad fact of the matter is that most folks can’t be bothered with contemplation. Apparently nobody with a life has that kind of time on his hands. And still I wonder what my life would be if I never took two minutes or ten hours to step outside myself and ruminate on the origins of a daffodil.

I wonder.

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Blush

We have all been victimized by this involuntary act. And frequently at the most inopportune moments. I haven’t blushed in years. Or if I have I most certainly denied it, as all who blush are bound to do. Whatever the age, whenever it is pointed out, the armor goes up and recriminations run riot.

“I did not”, you hear them cry. “It’s just hot in here!”

Yes, I’ve told that lie too, knowing all the while how ludicrous it sounds. But you stick to your guns when your dignity is so very clearly in harm’s way. You handily debase yourself without hesitation. Looking the fool is, after all, far better than owning up to even the faintest flush of authentic emotion.

The alternative of course is too grim to consider. No one in a civilized society wants a thing to do with any weasel who so obviously wears their emotions on their sleeve, let alone parades around in them like a holiday hat. Admission to a blush is tantamount to pariah status – at least that’s the internal spin we give it.

In point of fact there is a sweetness in a blush, in even the most unattractive among us. It is one of the great ironical stigmas of the modern era. A reddening of the features betrays the facade of staunch and worldly confidence that has taken decades to command. To lose one’s social footing would be horrific on so many levels. God, please don’t let it happen in a business environment!

And while I am a fan of the blush, a keen and effective reminder that a tiny breath of innocence and purity still hides in all of us, I am of two minds about it. No one contests that it has its charm. But when you fall in love at my age, it’s rather like being sea sick – you think you’re going to die but everyone else just thinks it’s funny.

The blush may be the great betrayer. But it is also one of the finer points of being truly human.

Damn it.

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Anticipation

There is nothing mystical about foresight. It’s standing up on your toes for a quick peek over the crowd to catch a glimpse of what might be next. My father taught me early on to anticipate. If you’re a waiter, don’t just deliver what they order. Think ahead whether they may want more than their meal. When you’re driving, count on the likelihood that this distracted guy on the cell phone may cut you off without looking.

Over the years I’ve trained myself to think three or four steps ahead before taking action. Though I often miss the mark, more often than not this bit of mental legwork plays to my advantage. Anticipating events in the physical world saves grief. I know this to be true.

But emotional anticipation isn’t such an easy tread.

I saw a delightful film the other night called “We Bought a Zoo”. There’s a wonderful scene in which the new owner of the zoo, played by Matt Damon, comes across an escaped full grown 850 pound North American grizzly bear. Damon’s character stumbles onto a grassy hilltop where the bear is mere feet away. The normally sedate creature appears more animated than he’s ever seen him, almost drinking in the cool morning mist gazing out into the open valley before him. Then the bear notices Damon and his mood shifts. But Matt can’t bring himself to use his gun. The bear closes in and angrily slaps the weapon from Damon’s hand and roars in his face. A fellow zookeeper hits the bear with a tranquilizer dart and drops him at Matt’s feet.

Other zoo personnel gather round and remark that Damon is lucky to be alive.


“He was completely free for a moment”, he says to the others.

They look at him. And Damon’s character does something remarkable.

“I want to expand his enclosure. Make it much, much bigger.”

Not a reaction typical of a man who moments before faced death. But he recognized what the bear had been going through. He anticipated what it would be like for this poor creature to go back to the way things were. It is this sort of compassion, not just for an animal, but for the people in our lives, those close and valuable to us, that elevates the substance of who we are as human beings.

I haven’t often been very good at anticipating things. I never saw either of my divorces coming. But there is much to be said for perseverance. So I continue to try peeking over the crowd to get a brief glimpse of what others might need from me. And in so doing, I trust that I will better meet my own needs.

Or not. With my timing, the bear would have eaten me.

 

 

 

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