real
Call me crazy (you'll be in good company), but Pinocchio has been turning up a lot in my life recently. I'm sure it means something.
It started last week, when I got to feeling an overwhelming urge to indulge a particular "guilty pleasure." Soon, I had my iPod loaded up with all the old Disney tunes I loved as a kid. My car may have 255K miles on it, but the sound system is boffo. So there I was, all plugged in and cranked up, driving down Memory Lane.
One of the first few tracks was "I've Got No Strings" from Pinocchio. All alone there in my car, I burst out laughing within the first few measures, as soon as Pinocchio started to sing. Oh, that voice! Good times. (If you can take yourself a little less seriously, go ahead and click the links I'll provide throughout this post; I dare you not to smile.)
The next day, I told my gym partner about the experience of reliving all those classic songs, particularly "When You Wish Upon A Star" (my all-time favorite Disney song) and "I've Got No Strings" from Pinocchio. You've already called me crazy at the start of the post, so allow me to prove your theory correct. There I was, at 5:30 in the morning, mimicking Pinocchio's voice as I sang to remind my friend of the tune:
I-I-I-I-I-I …
Got no strings
To hold me down,
To make me fret
Or make me frown.
I had strings,
But now I'm free –
There are no strings on me!
We were doing some work at the cable machines, so I even had "strings" to hold onto while I sang and did my puppet-like jig. It didn't seem to make a lick of difference to me that there were other people working out nearby, either. Really, I don't know what's wrong with me. But, alas – questionable mental health aside – we were both soon laughing. A lot worse things could be said about 5:30 AM, I say.
Well, I give voice lessons to four siblings on the weekend. And, don't you know, I started three of the four in on new Disney tunes. The twins (a girl and a boy) were soon singing "We Are The Daughters of Triton" from The Little Mermaid and "Bella Notte" from Lady and the Tramp. Their older sister, meanwhile, was setting into "When You Wish Upon A Star." I was in heaven. Fortunately, they are all Disney lovers, as well.
After lessons, I stayed and chatted for a while. I warned their mom about the Disney extravaganza she should be expecting around the house for the next several weeks, sparked by having relived my childhood through Disney classics the week prior.
Here, once again, Pinocchio poked his nose into things.
Their mom told a few stories about her oldest son, whom I had mentored throughout high school. Though he's now a grown man having recently graduated college, he was apparently a pudgy little guy at three years old. (By the way, if I suddenly go missing, you'll know that he got his hands on me after blabbing this stuff to the world.)
As the story goes, her son had been playing upstairs with another cousin, a girl just a year older than himself. As the adults chatted in the kitchen, down the stairs came the little girl in a pink princess costume. Cute. But not surprising. What was surprising, however, was moments later when their son came waltzing around the corner, decked out in a sequined, black tutu, exclaiming, "Oh, mummy! It's like a dream come true!"
His mom also recalls that his first watching of Pinocchio left him in a personal quandary. When she asked what was wrong, he replied sadly, "I want to be a real boy!"
"But you're already a real boy," she assured him.
"No, mummy," he pleaded, "I mean a REAL boy!"
Oh, the mind of a child.
Well, he is a real boy now, and hirsute enough to prove it.
***********
Yesterday was Saturday. At 9:30 PM, I noticed a text and missed called. They were letting me know that some of the other guys I'd previously mentored, now home from college for the summer, were having a bonfire and swim. They asked if I would come.
It had been a busy day, and I still had not written a blog post. Even if I started immediately, I'd be pushing it to get it written, edited and published before the deadline came. Going to hang out with these guys would mean I would have to miss posting for the day. This posed a dilemma.
But only for about ten seconds.
To decline the invitation would mean I'd chosen to stay home and write a post under pressure.
A post about not being dictated by "shoulds."
A post about living life instead of staying in our routines.
A post about taking time away from work and busyness to be still.
A post about valuing the people in our lives.
I don't know if you've ever read what I chose to say about myself near my gravatar (the picture of the yellow sticky with the smiley face at the bottom of each post), but I end with this:
[It's] more about writing lives than writing pages.
And that is truly what I believe.
So, there is no post for Saturday, July 16, 2011. Instead, I chose to be a real boy. I chose to go out into real life with real people and make some new memories, rather than merely writing about how we really ought to.
I had strings,
But now I'm free –
There are no strings on me!
guess
TAKE ONE:
I went through the drive-thru at a coffee shop today. It was nearing 4:00PM and I hadn't eaten yet, so I had to settle for an iced coffee and as healthy a sandwich as such a place might offer. As I rolled my window down to order, I was assaulted by a high-frequency squeal emitting from the order station. I instinctively winced and recoiled from the sound. I couldn't believe a national place like this can't manage to stay on top of fixing their equipment. Honestly – do they want my business? News flash: I don't have to buy their food.
It was tempting to just drive off, but from somewhere within the grating feedback, a small voice addressed me. I couldn't make out what he was asking, or even if it was a "he."
I sighed, shouting back, "I can't hear what you're saying! You're machine is a mess out here!"
I was able to barely get "… sorry … your order …" I assumed it was the usual, "Can I take your order?" The line behind me was getting longer and I just wanted to get out of there. I yelled my order: "A medium decaf French vanilla iced coffee..."
I was interrupted. "… sorry … up please … can't hear …" I literally growled, hoping they could hear that.
I leaned well out the window, now yelling with an edge of attitude. "I said I'll have a MEDIUM DECAF FRENCH VANILLA ICED COFFEE, LIGHT WITH MILK, AND TWO SWEET AND LOW and ..."
I was cut off again. "… that complete y … order?"
"No!" I shouted, exasperated. I knew I must have looked like a lunatic to the people behind me, the cars now backing up well around the corner of the building. "I'd like a BACON EGG AND CHEESE ON AN ENGLISH MUFFIN!"
"Drive … please."
As I rounded the corner toward the window, the customer ahead of me seemed to be having an issue. The window worker was leaning out. Bags and money were going the wrong way. "I'm sorry …" I heard the worker start to say, but the car had already sped off, tires spinning. Geesh. This place was really doing some excellent customer service. :: rolled eyes ::
When I got up to the window, the kid said, "A small iced tea?"
What the …?
"No, not even close," I told him dryly. I repeated my order. Yet again.
"Yeah, sorry, the intercom isn't working," he said. As if I didn't already know this. I let him know how irritating my visit thus far had been. "Can't they fix that thing? It's really annoying to the customer. I almost just drove off. At least put a sign on it that says it's out of order and just tell people to drive up and order." He knew I was ticked. He handed me back my card and receipt, offering a nonchalant "sorry, yeah, it's busted," and then disappeared.
Minutes passed. All I could do was sigh repeatedly and keep looking in my rear view mirror at the disgruntled faces behind me. Just as I thought about rapping on the window and telling him I wanted my money back, the kid reappeared with my drink and sandwich.
I know this situation all too well. If they're screwing up most things, they're screwing up everything. I sat right where I was, removed the straw wrapper, popped it through the coffee top and took a sip. As I thought. They'd only put one Sweet and Low. I handed it back through the window unceremoniously, with half-closed eyelids. "TWO Sweet and Low, please." He took it from me, uttering more apologies, as I unwrapped my sandwich, to be sure it was right. No bacon. I ground my teeth together. After all this, and they still couldn't get it right. No excuse. I'd be calling the number on the bag to report this place.
The kid came back with the coffee and I handed him the sandwich. "With bacon, please," I said in the same flat manner. One of the cars behind me zipped out of line and took off. Why did these people even have jobs here? Don't they have a manager? I thought.
At last, I got the sandwich back, checked it, and grinned mirthlessly at the final apology. Then I drove off. What a nightmare, for such a simple order!
TAKE TWO:
I went through the drive-thru at a coffee shop today. It was nearing 4:00PM and I hadn't eaten yet, so I decided to treat myself to an iced coffee and the "guilty pleasure" of a breakfast sandwich. Why not? I thought. I'd earned the extra calories having skipped breakfast. As I rolled my window down to order, a high-frequency squeal emitted from the order station. Yowzer! I instinctively winced and recoiled from the sound.
I wasn't sure what to do, so I waited a few more moments. Somewhere within the scrambling noise, I heard a voice. I figured they must be asking me what I wanted, so I placed my order: "Hi, could I have a medium decaf French vanilla iced coffee …"
I was interrupted. "… sorry … up please … can't hear …"
I spoke up a bit louder and repeated my order. The line behind me continued to grow. I felt bad for the workers, having to deal with a broken intercom that they clearly couldn't fix. That must be awful, to come to work for minimum wage and find that the equipment was on the fritz. They must have been hearing the feedback in their earpieces. And I'm sure most customers were less than kind about it. I felt genuinely sorry for them. Well, I'd do what I could to cheer them up.
I drove up to the window. Surprisingly, the kid who opened the window was still smiling. "A small iced tea?" he asked.
"Nope," I said smiling. "I had the sandwich and an iced coffee."
"Oh, OK. Yeah, I see it. Sorry, this machine's really horrible today."
"You know what, Craig?" I said, "You're handling it really well. Just keep smiling and everyone will get over it."
He laughed, eyes flashing. "Well, I hope that's true!" he said, clearly frazzled but happy for the light interaction.
I looked in my rear view mirror. The woman behind me looked really peeved.
Craig came back with coffee. I took a quick sip. Only one Sweet and Low. Oh well. For Pete's sake, I thought, we live in a country where we can order unnecessary luxury items like coffee while sitting in our cars. Not only coffee, but iced coffee, and specialized right down to the type of sweetener we want! It was definitely not that big a deal – certainly not worth making this kid's day any worse over. Plus, it got me out of my routine, if only in a small way.
Craig came back, handing out my sandwich. I said, "Hey, Craig, would you ring in the woman behind me, as well? She looks miffed. It might cheer her up a little."
He smiled. "Sure, no problem. She had the iced tea. That OK?"
"Yup," I said. Soon, I was on my way. I smiled thinking about the woman getting a little treat and hoped she'd be less irritable with Craig.
As I opened my sandwich and took a bite, I noticed that there was no bacon – just egg and cheese. I thought of Dibby and the special egg and cheese sandwiches she makes for me (though this one could not compare). Never bacon on hers, just egg and cheese. The thought somehow made it taste just fine.
*************
The basic details of these two scenes are the same. What's more, those details are true and happened to me today.
"Take Two," I'm happy to report, is how it really went down.
The only difference between these two "takes" is that one was me-focused and one was others-focused. Can you tell which was which?
Guess.
swing and a miss: part two
Yesterday, I talked about the idea that, where interpersonal confidence and ease are concerned, practice makes perfect. Today, in the hopes of painting a clearer picture of things, I want to add some thoughts. While practice will widen the boundaries of your comfort zone and fine tune your communication skills, it won't guarantee success. At least immediately apparent success.
In June's post entitled "grand," I introduced you to John, a troubled teen I took in back when I was in my twenties. I shared with you heart-warming stories of watching The Lion King with this pre-emo tough guy, of his childlike wonder at visiting the ocean for the first time, and of his touching emotional breakdown at seeing the awe and beauty of the grand canyon.
Roses and sunshine, right? It was not always so.
After all the movies and beaches and white water rafting down the Colorado – I kicked John out.
The primary purpose of John staying with me was to give him a fighting chance to overcome his drug addiction. I was gracious and affirming when he slipped up. I told him often that I believed in him and that I knew he could do this. I constantly pointed out his strengths and help him gain perspective on his weaknesses. I washed his clothes and fed him and took him to movies -- and I was by no means rich. I tried to give him as normal a life as he'd ever had.
I was patient with him. And, boy, did he know how to test it.
At the time, I had a fairly new red Ford Probe – new enough to still have been in the thick of payments on it. It was the sportiest car I've owned – and likely will ever own. As a kind of reward, and to allow him some freedom, I would sometimes let John borrow my car for short periods of time. He never asked. But when I offered – "Why don't you take the car for a while and go visit a friend" – he would beam. It gave him a sense of pride and trustworthiness. It was as close to a bonding father-son experience as he knew.
At one such time, I handed him the keys and off he went, while I made use of the two hours with a mid-day nap. Ahhhh.
Seemingly only a few minutes later, I was awakened from said nap by John's voice close by the bed. He spoke very quietly. "Erik … Erik …" I turned and opened bleary eyes to see Brandon Lee from The Crow. John, dressed in his usual head-to-toe black, was drenched and dripping. His long, black hair fell in front of his face. And he looked pale.
"What's up?" I asked, groggily.
"I crashed your car," he said with a chagrined smile, as if he'd clogged the toilet instead. I knew he was kidding.
"Uh-huh," I said and rolled over to resume my nap. He wasn't going to get me with this.
"No," he continued meekly, "I'm … serious. It's … really bad. You should probably come and look at it."
"OK, John. You crashed the car," I said without turning back to him. "I'll look at it when the rain stops."
Silence. I thought he'd given up his charade. Then he ventured again.
"Um … Erik …?"
All right, all right. I'd let him have his fun with me. I got out of bed. "OK, let's see the car." I even got to thinking that maybe he'd picked me up a little treat or something and was just eager to show me. I went along with it. I traipsed over the sodden carpet of my bedroom where he'd been standing, pulling on socks, shoes and a coat.
It was really pouring. Was he actually going to make me walk all the way to the car in this? Oh brother. I smiled at whatever he had up his sleeve.
Upon seeing the car, I was rendered speechless. I thought I must still have been dreaming. It looked more like a Picasso than a Probe. And certainly not at all like my Probe. The hood was contorted beyond belief, blocking the windshield which was broken. Every quarter of the car – and the top – were crumpled and filthy. How was this even possible? And he'd driven it home!
I drew a long breath. And then, I laughed. Hard.
I just burst out laughing and shook my head. Soon he was laughing as well, despite looking fearful that I'd flipped my lid and was two shakes from the asylum. I hugged him. "What can you do?" I finally got out. "Things happen. Getting mad isn't going to put it back together. I'm glad you're all right. Let's get inside out of this rain."
Back inside, John was in disbelief that I'd handled it this way. He told me what had happened, without making excuses. He'd been on the highway in the speed lane and suddenly realized that his exit was approaching. Cutting across three lanes of traffic, he tried to make the curved exit. By curved, I mean horseshoe. In the pouring rain. For all his claims of what an awesome driver he was -- he just wasn't that awesome.
The car, being nearly new, was not quite totaled. I had to have the extensive damage repaired, and not particularly well. John paid the deductible over time. Screaming and yelling and blaming wouldn't have changed a thing. I'd handled it well. He felt loved. He'd learned a lesson. Life goes on.
But I told you that I had to kick him out.
After all of this, he started going back to the drugs. And lying about it. I can deal with nearly anything. But I've just never been able to do much with lying. If there is no trust, no one knows what we're actually up against. And he was lying regularly.
One day, while doing laundry, I found a paper crammed into the pocket of one of his many pairs of black jeans. I unfolded it. It was a police citation for possession with intent to distribute. My chest felt like the plug had been pulled from the drain.
When John got home, I told him that we needed to talk. He sat on the couch beside me.
"I'm going to ask you something very important, John," I started. "And I want you to understand that I already know the answer to the question. Still, I'm going to ask you. And I need you to tell me the truth."
His eyelids lowered in the beginnings of defiance, but he said, "Kay."
"Have you been using drugs again? Or had them with you at all?" I quickly added, "Remember – I already know the answer. If you can't tell me the truth, it's not going to go well here."
"No, I haven't," he said flatly.
I repeated my question. He repeated his stoic answer.
Tears came to my eyes. I took the folded paper from my pocket and handed it to him without any further words. I then collected the laundry I'd just done and folded, and started putting it and his other things into bags. He watched me without a word. Finally packed, I handed him his life. Tears fell liberally now. "John, I love you. You know that. But I can't have you living here, getting good food, a place to sleep, showers – a normal life – if you want the drugs instead, enough to lie to my face. It would be allowing you to believe that you can have both in the real world. And you can't. I would by lying to you, to let you believe that you could."
He snatched his belongings, jumbling them over shoulders and arms. "You don't know anything!" he shouted.
I offered to help him carry his things outside.
"F*** you!" was his curt reply, and he stormed out the door.
I sat wearily on the couch and sobbed. That was the last I heard from John for five years.
To all appearances, I'd done everything right. Well, no one does everything right. But relatively speaking, I'd done right by him. I'd sacrificed. I'd taken a risk in even offering to let him stay with me. I'd been kind with my words at all times. Patient. Still, it was another "swing and a miss," I guess.
Only it wasn't.
I mentioned in "grand" that, last I knew, John was doing well. Days after I posted this, an old friend of John's appeared on my Facebook sidebar: "You may know this person." I hadn't seen or heard of this kid in eons. But I dropped him a line and he got back to me. Sure enough, he had been in recent touch with John. And soon, I was too. Less than a week after writing that post, John and I were out to dinner together at a pizza place that we frequented during the best of our times together. We then went and played some billiards – another favorite of ours. And he was doing fantastic.
He is 34 now. Best we could figure it had been 12 years since we had last seen one another. I had said in the previous post that he was a respected high-level mechanic. He'd done that one better. He owns his own shop. Listening to him talk about tax preparation and negotiations with police and gaining permits, I felt so proud of him. And I told him so. He's in a stable relationship of many years with a grounded woman in the medical field. And not only is he not a user, he's made the hard decision to cut all ties with his lifetime of friends who remain there.
John thanked me over and over for the investment I'd made in him all those years ago. For teaching him how to live and to love. How to shoot high in relationships. How to be patient. And he thanked me again for drawing the hard line I had drawn at the end. I was really overwhelmed.
All those years ago, as that door slammed with his curses still ringing in my ears, it looked – like it all been for naught.
It was another clear reminder to do what you do, because you believe in doing it – not because you expect a certain outcome in return. The fact is – we don't always see that outcome. But I truly do believe that unselfish love is never – never – wasted.
Sometimes, it just takes a while to show.
swing and a miss: part one
Some years back (I won't say exactly when, in order to protect the innocent – chiefly myself), I found myself in a new and long-term social situation. In these circles, there was one particular woman who I could tell didn't like me, right from the get-go. I was never sure exactly why, but the fact remained. Even the smallest interactions seemed to go awry, assuming she didn't just walk the other way upon the sight of me.
One particular late fall day, I turned a corner and there she was. Up close and personal. Eye to eye. She couldn't run without throwing all decorum to the wind.
In that first two seconds, you could almost hear the air crackle. She arched her eyebrows and lowered her lids. I had to think fast. I was much younger then. But even so, I was a risk taker when it came to being friendly. The first thing I noticed was her dress – a one-piece number with large, colored leaves on it. That seemed grounds for a pleasant, neutral comment. So I just opened my mouth and had out with the first thing that came to my mind:
"Hi there. Well. It looks like you're not going to be able to wear that dress much longer."
She instantly looked as if someone had yanked her snood tight without warning. I was at a loss! What had I said? She most definitely began to have door-knob face. Then, the realization dawned on me.
She was not a small woman.
"No, no!" I sputtered. "I didn't mean … I just meant that … well, the print …"
She inhaled sharply, turning shades of red and looking as if she might actually strike me. Then she just shook her head, deflated in a sigh, and walked off in the other direction with a "well-I-never" air about her.
I had only meant that fall was coming to an end and the dress was seasonal, so she should enjoy the few remaining weeks of wearing it before it had to be retired to the closet until next fall.
Alas – a stellar motive was foiled by the wrong word choice. "The best laid plans of mice and men" and all that. Only, she thought I was a rat.
I'm happy to tell you that such foibles happen much less frequently these days, though I have far more impromptu, risky and otherwise potentially challenging interactions with people now than ever before. Did I learn my lesson?
No, not really.
Or, rather, I've learned many lessons. And I continue to learn.
As a pianist and piano teacher, I can tell you that there is no short and easy road to get from primer level – plunking away with your right hand in the five-finger C position – to tearing up the keys with Tchaikovsky. It takes a lot of intentional hard work and commitment. The same is true of being able to interact comfortably and naturally with others. It takes practice.
Back in the day, roller skates were a contraption that consisted of two metal pieces that slid closer or further apart along a central runner. The front part, which reminded me of a knight's helmet on my pair, would fit over whatever regular shoes you had on. The back part was a simple cusp that slid up against the heel of the shoe. Once the adjustable gadget was in place, you used a small turnkey on the bottom, twisting it tight up around a bolt that protruded through a groove in the runner. Some varieties had a leather strap that would further secure around your ankle. Mine did not.
My mother recalls one day when I was only three or four. I'd donned my skates and was making an attempt at propelling myself around the concrete floor of our basement.
Wobble-wobble-wobble. SMACK!
I must have then emitted some sort of shriek, because my mother came running down the wooden steps to see what sort of trouble I'd gotten myself into. She recounts that, as she came to my aid, I looked up at her, sniffling, and sagely said, "I fell. But it's OK, because you have to fall to learn."
Gee, wasn't I the cutest thing.
I guess I realized even then that, as with piano, making mistakes is part of the process.
Why is it, then, that we expect novel social interactions, compliment giving, or other attempts at genuine kindness to be a hit every time? It takes a lot of missing in order to get to the home runs (or so I'm told).
Rather than shy away from taking risks with people for fear of failure, what if we instead expected a certain amount of failure? Told ourselves that it was a necessary part of the process? And then gave ourselves a break?
Another proverb comes to mind:
If you aim at nothing, you'll hit it every time.
Don't let mistakes hold you back from experiencing the joy of deeper interactions with others.
Don't take yourself so seriously.
Practice. Learn. Grow.
Now get back in the game!
tabloid
I'll give you the disclaimer up front: this post is likely only for the more stalwart and thick-skinned reader who is honestly open to real change.
A MESS • TRAMP • LOSER • PSYCHO • BAD MOTHER • AUTO-TUNED • TERRIBLE ACTRESS • MAN STEALER • SPOILED • PLASTIC • DOUBLE DIVORCÉE • DRUGGIE • DITZ • HEAD SHAVER • REHAB REGULAR • ALCOHOLIC • ENTITLED B*TCH • LOST HER KIDS • WHO CARES?
We buy the rag mags, or just flip through them in line at the supermarket. We click the headline links online. We tune in for the news (I'm still amazed at what counts as "news") or gossip shows on television. We listen to friends' accounts as if they are the gospel truth. And every pop radio talk show has some version of "Celebrity Sleaze." So in answer to the question "Who cares?" the answer is – apparently most of us.
I picked Britney somewhat arbitrarily. It's not because I'm her No. 1 Fan. Promise. I could just as easily have picked Angelia Jolie, Kim Kardashian, Charlie Sheen, Kirstie Alley, Michael Jackson or Barack Obama. The lives of the rich and famous are endless sources for entertainment, amusement and criticism.
"Look how fat she's getting!"
"He's such a pig."
"Did you see that awful dress she wore?"
"What a lunatic that one is!"
"Did you hear his wife left him?"
"Aw, c'mon now, Erik," you're saying. "You can't be serious. I mean, people like that are asking for it."
People like that? Who exactly are "people like that"?
People who have more money than I do?
Would you welcome such comments if you had more money?
People who have a different kind of job than I do?
Would you feel that carte blanche personal criticisms were warranted if you became more well known?
People who choose to be in the public eye?
So, when you are jogging outside on a public street, does it then become fair game for passers-by to comment on your body flaws and how you look in that Spandex, how you are aging, and what they suppose about your family life?
I talk a lot about seeing and treating people as people, and not as props or background noise (for a crash refresher, see the post entitled "triple threat"). I suggested that if I see those around me as objects instead of people with real lives like my own, this necessarily carries over to how I treat those closest to me. I can't treat some people as people, while treating some people as less. Every time I treat someone as an object -- by looking past them, or seeing them as a means to an end, or using them for my amusement or humor -- I feed the monster that tells me that I am better. Smarter. More important. And I hate to be the one to tell you, but that beast is never satisfied.
Maybe this even makes sense to you – when we're talking about real people that you interact with on a daily basis. But Britney Spears? I mean … she's …
She's what? Not human? Not a real person like you? Not worthy of consideration?
Do you know that, shortly after Britney's apparent breakdown when she shaved her hair off, several media companies went quickly to work making "special edition" documentaries of her traumatic life – ending with her death? Yes, that's right. They were waiting for her to kill herself, so that they could add the final footage and make a quick bundle off of it. They had to count it as a loss when she didn't wind up doing the deed as expected.
Do you think this is odd? Creepy? Sick? Yet how is it any different from what we choose to do? These companies wanted money. We want entertainment, someone to point and laugh at or to sharpen our wit upon. The pay-off is different, but the motives seem frighteningly similar. At best, we certainly aren't wishing her well.
Oh, and by the way, word of these impending documentaries was made public at the time. That means that Britney, then in her mid-twenties and with two babies, knew that the media was hoping for her suicide. Think about that.
Britney Spears was thrust into the role of a sex object at the age of fifteen – with parental consent. She is the young mother of two little boys under the age of six. I imagine that family relationships are strained at best, given that her father has full legal control of her money and affairs due to her psychiatric history.
Every pound she gains or loses is broadcast to the world, with media trying to find the most unflattering pictures of her constantly. There are no quiet moments at a cafe or private vacations to truly relax without care for what she is wearing and how her skin is.
She must wonder who her real friends are – those who would stay true even if she lost everything. I'd guess that she is lonely quite often. That she thinks of her two little boys when it's quiet at night, and cries at her failures with them. But she has to get up and smile the next morning, put on the outfit, and give a good show.
She will turn thirty this year. I imagine she thinks, "I'm not a kid anymore. My looks and body won't last forever. What then? What will I have besides money in ten years? Who will I grow old with?"
That is Britney Spears – the person. I'm not claiming she is a victim. Like the rest of us, she makes some bad decisions. But she is a person just like me nonetheless.
"But I will never meet Britney Spears," you may protest. "She'll never know what I say about her. So my little jibes aren't really hurting her in any way."
That may be true. But it's not the point. It's about your choices, your attitudes, your world view. If we are really serious about change, we can't pick and choose who gets to be treated with dignity and who does not. It spills over. And it feeds the ME monster, every time.
Treating the homeless woman as a real person feels right and noble to us, and so it is often easier going. Treating the rich and famous as real people? Well, that may take some hard work. It may take choosing to disengage from derogatory conversations at work. It may take turning the channel. It may take speaking aloud about celebrities in terms of their humanity and "real person-ness" whenever they are mentioned, even if your friends look at you like you've gone religious or something.
Before too long, you'll find that you feel real compassion for the up-and-outers, instead of finding amusement at their struggles. And that will translate to everyone else with whom you come into contact, including those who matter most to you.
What's more, in the process, you may find that kindness actually fits you better than being critical ever did.
quotes
A handful of readers may have seen this image and title before. That is because it was briefly posted as the jump-off point for another post, which wound up being renamed, "out of the box" – about my dear friends Jon and Kayla and the unique treat of a birthday present they gave me a couple of years back. The box they gave me had, among other treasures, personalized quotes that these friends felt reminded them of me in some way.
Well, in the last few days since re-opening that box, I've been particularly inspired by those quotes and some others. I only shared three in the post itself. So I'd like to share with you a few more of these words of wisdom that have been helping me keep my focus this week. In place of a story for today, I hope they will inspire you to write your own stories worth telling.
This first quote is from a famed source, deaf and blind like my amazing and ultra-positive friend, Anindya that I told you about Tuesday:
It's not what you gather but what you scatter that tells what kind of life you have lived.
~ Helen Keller
I've chosen a good assortment of other quotes, below. If one (or more) speaks to you, write it down. It will only take a moment. Then bring it with you throughout your day or week. Remember, real change takes being intentional.
The greatest use of life is to spend it for something that will outlast it.
~ William James (American psychologist and philosopher)
You have not lived a perfect day, even though you have earned your money, unless you have done something for someone who will never be able to repay you.
~ Ruth Smeltzer (I love that I couldn't find her claim to fame)
A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out.
~ Walter Winchell (American news and radio commentator)
The greatest good you can do for another is not just share your riches, but reveal to them their own.
~ Benjamin Disraeli (British Prime Minister and statesman)
Real charity doesn't care if it's tax deductible or not.
~ Dan Bennett (comedian and juggler)
Friendship is unnecessary. Like philosophy, like art, it has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that gives value to survival.
~ C.S. Lewis (novelist)
Service is the rent we pay for being. It is the very purpose of life, and not something you do in your spare time.
~ Marian Wright Edelman (children's rights activist)
Nobody grows old by merely living a number of years. People grow old only by deserting their ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up interest wrinkles the soul.
~ Douglas MacArthur (American general and field marshal)
Complete possession is proved only by giving. All you are unable to give possesses you.
~ André Gide (French author and Nobel Prize winner)
We do not remember days, we remember moments.
~ Cesare Pavese (Italian novelist and poet)
My religion is simple. My religion is kindness.
~ The Dalai Lama
life: the movie
I recently read a book by Donald Miller called A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. It got me thinking. To paraphrase his preface, imagine going to a movie about a guy who goes to college and gets good grades so that he can get a good job. He graduates, gets the job, but wishes he had a better car. So he works longer hours, moves up the ladder, and finally, at the end of the movie, he is able to get the car he wanted. He drives off in his car into the sunset.
Would you watch this movie? How long do you think it would hold your attention?
Miller proffers this supposition: if it would make a snooze-fest of a movie, it makes a snooze-fest of a life.
Miller actually found himself in a position few of us ever will. Movie producers did approach him, wanting to make a movie of his life, based on some things he'd written in a previous book. However, at every turn, the producers wanted to change the actual facts of Miller's life. They wanted him to have worked a more interesting job. To have had more love interests and tension. To have done more noteworthy things with his time, and had more interesting interactions with unusual people and such.
At first, Miller interjected, reminding them that this wasn't "the way it really was." But they continually told him that it wasn't important what actually happened, but rather that it "made for an interesting movie, one that people would want to watch."
Despite being an established writer and public speaker, Miller realized that, as a matter of fact, his life was extremely uneventful and mundane. He did the same basic things every day, staying predictable and safe. It was then that he decided to intentionally take steps in order to live a different version of his life. And with that decision, he began to accomplish more than he ever thought he could. From hiking the treacherous road to Machu Picchu, to biking coast to coast to raise money for charity, he turned his life into something that he and others might actually want to watch. Something filled with drama and mystery, romance and adventure.
Of course there are real movies that do draw an audience, but not for reasons we'd want our lives to be known. I'm not certain that farcical teen dramas, a la Mean Girls, are the goal to which we should aspire. And Bonnie and Clyde, while exciting in its own way, doesn't seem quite the thing either.
While reading Miller's book, I asked myself if anyone would want to watch the movie of my own life. And, do you know what? I actually think they would. It would have pain, for sure. But also triumph. The characters would be fascinating. No one would be able to guess what would happen in the next scene. Even I couldn't. I like that.
How would the movie of your own life look if it aired today?
Are the dialogs riveting, or repetitive and stale?
Would the action be suspenseful, or cloyingly predictable?
Would the plot hold anyone's attention, or would they walk out, demanding a refund?
If your life-in-movie-form wouldn't be quite award winning, remember that you always have the next choice. The choice to thicken the plot. The choice to add new and interesting characters to the cast. The choice to rewrite the script, day by day.
Here's to Take 2.
gun shy
Some of you will recall that, a little over two weeks ago, I took a trip from Boston to North Carolina. By way of quick summary, this involved driving down and flying back. The trip down, which would already have been long at 16 hours, turned into 27+ hours when the car's transmission overdrive kicked out in the Bronx. This required that we drive all the way back home at low speed in the breakdown lane and with the blinkers on, then switch vehicles, and head out again that night. Mind you, this was all on no sleep.
Well, this past weekend was the reverse version of the trip. The plan was to fly back down to North Carolina to arrive Friday evening, and then set back out early Saturday morning by car for the return trip home. If you did happen to read that previous post, you can imagine how this second trip – a mere two weeks later – might have seemed to me going into it.
I arrived at the airport more than two hours prior to my 3:00 flight. I only had carry-on luggage and had already printed my boarding pass from home, so there was no need to stand in a line at the ticket counter. I went straight to security where, other than my laptop being randomly selected for "testing" with some sort of feather duster, it was uneventful. I was through in less than five minutes. So I bought myself a bottle of water with essence of pomegranate and tangerine, because it seemed like the type of thing people might drink when things were going swimmingly. Then I settled into a chair to read and await boarding.
While waiting (and as had happened many times during the previous two weeks), thoughts about the return drive crept in. As I told you, I feel I made positive choices in handling that fated erstwhile trip. But it still was by no means something I was eager to repeat. So, when my mind turned to consideration of the next day's road travel, I told myself things.
I told myself that it would be another adventure.
I told myself that I was exceptionally resilient and youthful.
I told myself that I was really proving my mettle.
I told myself how much cooler my party story would seem, after tacking on another 18 or 20 hours of travel within such a short span of time.
I'm not sure I quite believed myself.
It was the best I could do.
Somewhere in the midst of telling myself such things, I became aware that it was approaching 2:15 and there was no plane at the gate. My ticket said boarding would begin at 2:30. When 2:30 and then 2:45 rolled around, still without a plane, people began to stir. The LCD display behind the service counter hadn't changed. It still said 3:00. No announcement had been made as to the nature of the delay or the plan for our flight.
Or if there would be a flight at all.
I texted my mother and brother in North Carolina to inform them of the delay and to see if they could dig up any more information on their end. No word. I was in the dark.
Around ten-of-three, a plane taxied onto the tarmac nearby. Still no announcements were made to inform passengers. Eventually, the plane circled around and the accordion walkway protruded to meet it. Passengers exited. Food trucks and luggage trains and cleaning crews swarmed around outside. Finally, boarding began. Even if all went smoothly in the air, we would be 30 minutes delayed in landing.
All did not go smoothly in the air.
Approaching Charlotte, the captain's voice came over the speakers, announcing that no planes were being allowed to land, due to thunderstorms over the airfield. We would have to enter a holding pattern indefinitely. If the airport did not give clearance within 20 minutes, we would have to reroute to another airport.
I started mentally running the numbers. Even if things had gone perfectly, I would only have gotten 12 hours at my brother's place before facing the demanding drive the next morning. That number was rapidly dwindling. And now, there was even talk of rerouting to another airport. Just like the last trip, things were starting off on the wrong foot. Or wing, I guess.
Stop.
Consider my last line in the paragraph above. I said, "Just like the last trip…" It's technically true. The last trip had presented some unforeseen problems. The current trip was likewise presenting some unforeseen problems. Therefore, it seems perfectly legitimate to say that this trip was, in fact, "just like the last trip." Right?
Except that this trip wasn't the last trip. This was a new trip, with its own set of unique circumstances.
By allowing ourselves to think that something in the present is "just like" some past thing, we add the baggage of that past thing to our present. We rob ourselves of experiencing the present for its uniqueness and wonder.
Don't we give in to this all the time?
The food or service at a local restaurant wasn't quite to our liking, so we decide then and there that we will never return, launching into a missive about their ills every time we drive by the place thereafter.
A previous employer took advantage of us. So we start updating our resumé as soon as our new boss asks if we might take on some task that isn't technically part of our job description.
A friend betrayed us. So we choose not to trust the next person fully. Or any future person. Ever.
A past lover became controlling or cheated on us. So we see the horns growing from our current partner whenever they make the slightest move without consulting us. Or we turn any mention of their lifelong friend – who happens to be of the opposite sex – into an emotional upheaval and certain proof that we really should just break up.
But the wonderful truth is that this server is not that server. And this boss is not that boss.
This new friend is not that other friend who hurt us.
This lover is not that abusive one.
While I waited for boarding in the airport, I used the extra time to observe.
A teen girl picked up where she'd left off in a novel, turning pages with the kind of fervor and wide eyes and slack mouth that come with total engagement.
A father got on the floor and played a card game with his kids.
An older gentleman pulled his concerned wife in closer and kissed her forehead, smiling.
And later, as we traveled in circles over Charlotte, I looked down and thought, How many people throughout all of time, past or present, have had the opportunity to witness the awe of a lightning storm -- from above it? Yet there I was, one of them.
We did not reroute. We landed twenty minutes later. My brother was waiting. I got hugs from my niece and nephew upon arrival back at my brother's place. We enjoyed a comfort meal of pork loin and potatoes and pineapple casserole, compliments of mom.
And you know what? While there was no way around the fact that the car trip back was still sixteen hours long, it was smooth sailing, without traffic, construction or other incident. The dog slept peacefully in the back seat. Mom and I listened and sang along to music, from her era and mine. We enjoyed the continuation of an audio book we'd started on the trip down. There were many opportunities for good conversation. We learned more about one another.
We let it be its own trip. And it was a good one.
Every journey in life is its own journey.
Today is not yesterday.
In fact, this moment is not the last moment. It's this one. It's new. It's special.
Let it be.
should
While I was away in North Carolina, I smelled like strawberries and some kind of coconut concoction allegedly endorsed by monkeys.
After a mind-twistingly long drive, I was in desperate need of sleep. I hadn't unpacked yet. Couldn't bring myself to. But I knew I wouldn't sleep until I'd had a shower. I used my niece's bathroom, and that's what she had -- strawberry body wash and fun-fun-fun, 2-in-1 coconut monkey shampoo. I was too tired to consider the ramifications. So I just used it.
A few minutes later, tucked into my 6-year-old nephew's bed under Super Mario Bros. sheets, I thought to myself as I drifted off, I smell like fruit.
When I awoke a whopping two hours later to greet my niece and nephew – yep, I still smelled like fruit. When my niece hugged me, for the first time in about a year, she said, "Uncle Erik!" and then "Hey, you smell like fruit!"
And do you know what? I didn't care. I'm pretty sure society was screaming at me, "You're a grown man! You should care!" But I didn't. And why should I care whether I smell like strawberries or monkeys or whatever "cool sport scent" is supposed to be? I was clean and happy and reunited with family. Did it matter?
It's surprising to me how many shoulds we allow ourselves to be placed under. What we should or should not wear. How our hair should or should not be. What kind of car we should or should not drive. Whom we should or should not associate with. I've lived in enough decades by now to know that the shoulds change. What you should wear and drive and say in the 80s are most definitely should nots in 2011. And if it's always changing, was it that important to begin with?
I lived a life fraught with shoulds for a long time growing up.
I should be perfectly behaved at all times.
I should not let my hair get to such a length that it touched my eyebrows or ears or collar.
I should always say yes when people asked me to do something for them.
I should not play the piano or sing or be artistic, being a boy.
I should pretend I am fine and happy, whether I really am or not.
I should not question anyone in authority. Ever. No matter what.
In college, the shoulds I'd placed on myself nearly cost me my life.
I was maintaining a 4.0, because that is what I should do. A 3.95 was the same as failure. But I was also surrogate parent to Brandon. And I was also interning. And I was also on an international singing team that was planning to travel to Asia in a few months.
One night, I met up with a friend outside her dorm. I started to feel dizzy. She ran inside, and in a few minutes, returned with a large, plastic cup of Tang. When I held the cup in my hands, it felt strange. It occurred to me as I took the first few gulps that I honestly couldn't remember the last time I'd had a drink. Of anything. I tried hard to remember when the last time I'd eaten was, or what kind of meal it had been. I couldn't.
Moments later, a fire erupted in my gut, spreading out, taking over my body. A few moments later, I was on the ground in a tight ball. Blackness. My roommate appeared out of thin air. Then I was somewhere else, over his shoulder, screaming. Blackness. I was lying down and couldn't move. Someone jabbed my arm. Red and blue lights. Blackness. I'm moving fast. Sirens. I hear my roommate beside me say, "… and then he just collapsed in my arms." I reply, "How romantic." Blackness. I'm in a hospital bed. It's the next day. I'm hooked up to a bunch of machines. I still had no idea what had happened to me.
When I was released from the hospital a few days later, my mom called my dorm room. Being a nurse, she asked me many questions about my stats. I learned that she'd been keeping close tabs with the doctors in the ER by phone while I was in the hospital. The best anyone could figure, I hadn't had anything to eat or drink in about ten days.
"But you feel all right now?" she asked, full of concern.
"Yes," I said. "I feel fine. Tired and weird that I missed days of my life, but fine."
Once satisfied that I was, in fact, all right, my mother's quiet concern gave way to the lion's roar. "Good! Well, then you're an idiot! You nearly killed yourself. And a four-point-oh GPA does you absolutely no good if you're DEAD!" She went on to explain that I'd been in critical condition due to the severe dehydration. My temperature had dropped to death's door and, as I recall, certain organs were already beginning to shut down by the time I got to the hospital.
I've quoted my mother's words many times to myself and others since then: "A 4.0 does you no good if you're dead."
It's true. Keeping all the shoulds in the world are no good if they are at the cost of your life.
OK, so maybe it isn't always quite so dire. Maybe the trade-off for holding up your shoulds is stress. Anxiety. Missed opportunities to follow a dream. Or simply living life less fully than you could (e.g., "You're not young anymore, you know. You shouldn't be out on the dance floor acting like that").
I'm not advocating irresponsibility. Rather I'm suggesting that we ask ourselves, when we feel the pressure of shoulds or should nots in our lives, whether we believe in them, or whether we are merely conforming to external expectations.
You'll recall Carlotta's advice that, in essence, "no one can make you happy." I would add that neither should anyone else be able to keep you from being happy, with unnecessary expectations. In the end, you are the only one responsible for you. It's that simple.
I say shed the shoulds.
and the answer is ...
Chad and Eric picked me up from the airport as I returned from North Carolina after a few days with my brother and his family. On the way back, we stopped for lunch. During the conversation, Eric commented that he and Chad had held much different views from each other back when they'd been in high school together, but that they were becoming more and more like-minded over time. One has to wonder, how did this happen?
Did they argue one another into agreement on specific issues?
Did one of them switch political parties, swayed by a particularly persuasive Sociology professor?
Did they change to win the affections of girls who happened to share more similar views on things?
In fact, Eric's answer was one I greeted with an enthusiastic "hear hear!" They were becoming more similar because they were realizing more and more how much they didn't know. Beyond this, they were willing to admit that they didn't know what they didn't know. And that was erasing the lines previous drawn by standing firmly on what they'd thought they knew for certain only a few years prior.
Some guys will tell you that, when they were a kid, they pulled the legs or wings off of bugs. Some might even admit to having combined firecrackers and bullfrogs. I have a confession of my own to make.
I killed a cat.
It's true. When I was in college, I killed a cat. I not only killed it, it was messy. As others watched on, I bashed its head in with a shovel. Several times, in fact, before the deed was done. I wish the whole ordeal had never happened. But I'm afraid it did.
I've confessed this to my closest friends. And even those who know me best were incredulous when I told them. I saw flashes of doubt in their eyes. Is my best friend really a psychopath? They just couldn't believe that I had ever been the type of person who would do such a thing. But I had to accept that I was the type of person who would do such a thing. Because I did such a thing. With my very own hands.
What do you think of me now? Do you interpret all of my thoughts and advice differently in light of what I've revealed here? Are you incensed? Does your stomach churn with disgust? Or have you perhaps granted that I've honestly changed my ways and don't have it in me to do such a thing anymore?
The truth is, I would likely do it again today.
You see, the cat had been hit by a car. Several, actually. I'll spare you the more vivid details, except to say that the cat was screeching, clawing wildly at the pavement with its front paws—and not going anywhere fast with the rest of its body. Traffic was swerving in dangerous fashion. I pulled over with a friend. He stopped traffic while I took a shovel out of his trunk. And, as quickly as possible, I ended the cat's pain. I then used the shovel to move the cat's body to the side of the road, so that traffic could continue safely.
"Wait," you protest, "you tricked me!"
Did I? Or did you simply not yet have all the details before making a judgment?
I admit, I use this story to illustrate a point. And that is—we rarely have all the details. About anything. Yet we go about life, feeling assured that we do know—and drawing lines with people over it.
I can truly say—with contentment and not angst—that the older I get, the less I know with surety. I realize this sounds philosophical or pious. Even passive. But I mean it. There's a certain freedom in being able to accept that you don't have all the answers. That you might be mistaken. That the big picture is infinitely bigger than you'd been willing to admit.
Don't get me wrong. I have my beliefs, convictions and principles. I live passionately by them. I'm not a relativist (it's not logical to be one), nor am I easily duped. But rather than doing quite so much "show and tell," I've decided to do more "observe and listen." Telling says I already know all there is to know. Listening says there may be important details I've missed.
It seems to me that, most often, the best answer is to ask one more question.