So Much Trouble In The World

Lately it seems like just about everyone I know is having a really hard time. Tuesday, my good friend Phyllis began chemo to slow the spread of her terminal lung cancer. Our friends N & T's teenagers have suffered from serious depression, and one is currently in treatment. My friend J is about to run out of his unemployment insurance -- with no job in sight. My friend S’s husband is recovering from major surgery, and now very painful complications have emerged which could threaten his life. My mother has suddenly become adamant about not taking medication -- even though to not take it could lead to sudden diabetic coma, stroke or heart attack. Our neighbors this week returned suddenly from Bhutan, because their elderly mother died. Everywhere I look, people are suffering. They are meeting real obstacles, and they are doing so with grace and determination. In all these different forms and flavors, these are all vivid manifestations of suffering. 

This suffering is not exactly news to anyone. I guess what matters is not the idea of suffering. Nor do ideas about remedies to suffering help. When we are in the throes of real troubles, the best we can do is to really and fully experience it, to the best of our ability. Our theories and ideas simply don't amount to much. Ideas aren't sufficient to the enormity. The situations people face can be so wrenching, so absolutely horrendous. Usually, much as we wish to help, we can’t change what’s happening to our friends. We can’t even slightly shift the conditions that they face. That’s not possible. Maybe we can do a tiny errand for them. Maybe we can sit with them. Or we can listen. That's about it. And it surprises me that this seems valuable to them, often very much so. But of course when I'm hurting, that's what matters most to me: someone to listen and abide with me.

Heros

I've been thinking about moments of heroism. Every time I see someone on t.v. news labelled a hero, the person resists the label. Recently, there was a young woman who saw a trucker nearby in a terrible crash. His vehicle was about to be engulf in flames. She left the safety of her own car, in which her child was still strapped in a car seat, and she rushed to the trucker to pull this complete stranger to safety. These were two human beings of different ages, different races, entirely unknown to one another. She was a small woman; he was a large man. And by attempting to rescue this man, the young woman could have put herself or her infant child at risk. But the woman acted without hesitation. That's a hero.

There is something universal about these reports of heroism. In every case the hero says, "I only did what anyone would do in the situation." Or, "I did what I had to do." They are humble and grateful that the stranger was brought to safety. The hero acts without any guile, without self-protection or self-promotion. It blows our minds, because we've constantly been told that human beings are calculating and selfish. Yet in these moments of crisis, we see something quite different. We see deep, instinctive generosity. Even to the point of self-sacrifice, these people act to protect others. There's absolutely no selfishness. The consuming interest is the well-being of a total stranger.

In my experience, heroic action isn't as rare as we may think. It's not only someone like the Dalai Lama or some exalted spiritual practitioner, but ordinary people who will act this way. On a few occasions, a life-and-death-situation comes up.  I felt a need to act, and I just acted. In retrospect, it may look crazy, or it may look heroic. In each case, it may have saved a life, although I don't know for sure. But it wasn't at all about being noble or being admirable or being anything. There was nothing but the action. The moment simply cried out for the action, and --zap!-- it was done. And there's just about nothing more satisfying than those moments.

One time was when I was in law school in Berkeley. My four roommates and I had a party on a Saturday night. The living room was packed with people, most of whom I hardly knew. A man I did know slightly, a man named Alan, arrived looking very agitated. I saw instantly that he was carrying a gun -- and that he was pointing it. I moved toward him, and somehow I was in front of him immediately. I reached for the barrel and calmly took the gun out of his hand. I said to him, "No need for this here. I'll return this to you later." Amazingly, he didn't resist. There was this surreal, intimate moment -- when I knew he could kill me, since the gun that I was taking from him was pointed right at my chest. But instead, he let me take the gun out of his hand. Then I smiled at him and said, "Alan, you are welcome here tonight."

It sounds preposterous. I don't know what happened that allowed me the presence of mind to take the gun from a crazed-looking man. I don't know what allowed me to swiftly put myself in front of him, between him and the other guests. I don't know what released him from the anger that was besetting him. In retrospect, many other approaches may seem wiser. But I acted in the moment with my best efforts. And -- it worked. Alan stayed at the party, and he stayed calm that night. And when he left that evening, I gave him back the gun, but I urged him to consider getting rid of it. And I hope he did, but I have no idea.

There was another occasion where that energy of necessity arose and I acted. It may have saved a life, too, but it was less simple. The events occurred a number of years later in Washington, D.C. I'd gone to a play with a man I scarcely knew, a friend of a reporter friend of mine. He was a theater director from San Francisco, and we lingered after the performance so he could speak with the actors about performing the play. When we left the theater, the area was eerily empty, and I suggested we call a taxi. My companion wanted to walk, though, since it was a pleasant spring evening. Despite my misgivings, I agreed. Within a block, we were held up by a gang of at least four young men, one of whom shakily held a gun at us. Instantly, I opened my wallet, handing over everything of value, including my rings and watch. My companion, however, resisted. Seeing the tension of the situation rise, I swiftly took the wallet from my companion and handed over his cash to our robbers. Right then, the assailants melted away into the night. From my companion's perspective, he was humiliated not once but twice -- by the robbers and by me. He said he felt like the Cowardly Lion -- shivering and ineffectual. I tried to reassure him, but to no avoid.  I felt absolutely clearly that he had been a split-second away from being shot over a few hundred dollars. And I did what I had to do. Needless to say, I never saw the theater director again. I'm sure it remains a very unpleasant memory for him. But he survived. I have no doubt at all that I did what I had to do. And I would do it again.

Aiming to Please

It happens gradually. The change occurs without warning. A person goes along as a young child with cheer and curiosity, playing and learning, discovering and growing. But then as an adolescent or a young adult he or she starts to realize the enormity of societal expectations. Maybe someone makes a nasty remark (or an admiring one) about our looks, our behavior, our friends, our academic skills or other abilities. This can be a significant moment. Suddenly, we may realize that this stuff matters to other people. Some children rapidly shrug off this recognition. They go their own way. But these are the few. For more of us, we are affected by the press of other people’s wants and opinions. Even if we don’t get entirely swept along by the pressure, we feel it deeply. We are motivated to get along. We aspire to win -- even at endeavors that we don’t value much. We aim to please. We are socialized to be a “good girl” or a "good boy." This goes deep. We become determined to get good grades, to impress peers, to get the approval of parents and other relatives. We may become diligent and dutiful. This is touted as normal and admirable. 

The dark side of this process is that by being swept along, we begin to lose sight of the internal forces that brought us joy. We may develop an ever-greater urgency to please others. The inevitable disagreements with the diverse views of those around us dismay and buffet us. It becomes harder to know what we actually want. 

Of course growing up requires learning about social standards and norms. That's important, if only to avoid inadvertently hurting people and avoiding awkward conflicts. But as we mature, we also need to be able to have confidence enough to choose the way we want to live and standards we reject. Is it important to us to dress fashionably? Is it important to be popular? Is it important to be admired for our brains or for our talents or our athletic abilities? We have to decide if these things matter to us, and if they do, to what degree. If this isn't a conscious choice, then we are ensnared in many choices that are not fully our own.

To some degree, it is inevitable that we will compare ourself with others. But to what degree? It seems to me that this is a culture in which the basis of comparison is often very harsh and continuous, and the focus is often on matters that aren't insignificant. Why berate myself for every demerit of beauty, talent and skill? Is it important to examine every physical flaw in myself or other people? I can't see how this can possibly make me happier. And becoming good at the witty, cutting remark only serves to undermine my own happiness at the small but real skills I do have. So why engage in this? This judging, comparing, self-loathing is highly culturally determined. In U.S. public education, there’s a huge emphasis on evaluations and competition. That’s not an inherent, unavoidable aspect of development. We could instead focus more on cooperation and encouragement. Creative activity, imaginative play and developing latent skills could be emphasized over testing and ranking of students. School -- and childhood generally -- could be more joyful and supportive than it is.

Harshly comparing ourself to others, and aspiring to be “best”, may galvanize our focus. For some, it may provide some boost in determination and zeal, and it may help us marshall energy toward some achievements. But this approach has very significant costs. In fact, it tends to move us toward a hardening and narrowing of our focus. This competitive, combative way of looking at the world sets us up to feel that even when we victories occur, with their little ego boosts, there is always a looming defeat on the horizon. Because no matter how much we aspire, no matter how hard we work, there will always be skills we lack and challenges we aren’t equipped to meet. And there will always be others equal to or more skilled. Even a gold medalist must know that sometime in the not-so-distant future that title will pass to another. It is inevitable that our the day will come when we'll be unable to raise our hand to wave goodbye, so of course a day will come when someone's talents will outshine ours. Having that humility and that appreciation of the changing sands on which all of life is built, that seems a more fruitful way to approach each day. (Really enjoying the abilities of others rather than trying to outdo them is something that gives so much more pleasure, and it's a skill I only learned later in life.)

An attitude that pushes ourselves to be the best isolates us. It inevitably drains joy from the experiences themselves. We may become so focused on the goals than anything short of the spectacular achievement feels like a mouthful of ashes. If you watch a skating competition, you'll frequently see the person who wins second place looking grim and fighting back tears. This is sad: their own wonderful activity has been reduced to something paltry by comparison with another's work. Striving squeezes something inside, so that we no longer play our music for our love of music; we no longer do our work with a sense of the creativity involved in the task. We’ve lost track of what gave us purpose, what brought us a spark. We’re mesmerized by an image of winning. But a win is an abstraction: the work itself is neither a win nor a loss. If we only enjoy work for the reward offered by others, we live life always at the whim of others. We are slaves to chance. We will live far away from well-spring of joy, from what motivated us as a young person. We’ll lose heart -- the most devastating loss a person can suffer. 

Whether you call it depression, which is rampant in our society, or whether you call it a loss of purpose or loss of heart, it’s devastating. I have been there -- I know. This loss of heart, a loss of the center of what makes us feel vitality, affects every aspect of life. It manifests in the slouched, self-effacing way the person stands, the halting, dreary way she or he speaks. There’s no spring in her step. There may be a slumping of shoulders, almost as though she wishes she could hide -- or disappear. There’s no light in his eyes. Perhaps gradually, and probably at no one pivotal moment, these people became convinced to live their life according to someone else’s standards. So the things that represented what is magical and precious in life began to recede. 

Decades back, I was diagnosed with depression. That terminology makes the condition sound merely  medical, like a broken arm, but it had to do more with heart and soul. I lost heart. For many years, I had poured enormous efforts into making myself into my version of a “respectable” person. It was an enormous effort. And it seemed to be succeeding as degrees accumulated, jobs came along, and I found work that felt meaningful. So when everything about me, my creation, came under intense and pitiless scrutiny by friends, colleagues and strangers, something in me began to crumble. I came to reconsider the entire effort to charm and placate the world. The edifice I had built did not work for me. I began to see that it was actually impossible to be true to myself and simultaneously please people all of the time. This was a major shake-up, and it occurred over the course of years. Painful as it was, I see it now as a good thing.

Around the same time, I had a close friend in D.C. who worked diligently to develop a reputation as formidably smart and competent economist. He was evidently talented, with stellar credentials. He’d get one prestigious job after another, but nothing seemed to bring much contentment. By his own report, he shouted and railed at other co-workers, and on one occasion he came to blows with another economist. 

Although apparently placid, this man was often angry, and beneath it was a lot of unexamined sadness and hurt. Once this friend told me of a dream that really shook him. He said in this dream, he wanted to take me to a place where he used to find frogs as a kid. He got very enthusiastic about finding this magical, marshy pond. But the trouble was, he no longer could recall how to find his way. In telling me about this dream, the sorrow in his voice suggested to me that there was a deep truth in this dream. He no longer knew how to go back to the places that gave him delight as a child. He couldn’t take me there -- as much as he might want to. Much worse, he couldn’t find his own way there, either.

Finding a way back to the source of wonder, of real vitality. That's what's worth doing. That's the journey of a hero. Or a heroine. And it's a journey we all must take.

Some Persistent Questions

People with a certain peculiar turn of mind, and I am one, ask questions that others wouldn't bother to consider. They certainly weren't topics at dinner in my family. They weren't discussed in my schools. Well, to some small extent in philosophy graduate school, but even there, not so much. Even there, the discussion was what historical figures had said, and what others said in reply. But what I want to know is what is true in my experience.

I want to know, who am I? What is it to be me? What is really fundamental about me, and what aspects are extraneous? It can't be my body, because my body changes continually, and even if my body were changed by surgery or accident, we'd still all agree that it remains my body. And it can't be my emotions, which vary depending on what I've eaten, what I'm encountering, what memories are arising, and many, many other factors. I'm surely not a different person if I become less angry, am I? Yet when people do something embarrassing or stupid (and we've all done that, haven't we?), they say, "I just wasn't myself that day." And we do know what they mean. Sometimes in the heat of the moment (and there is heat in that moment)  we feel as if we are swept away by forces that are alien. They certainly aren't who we normally think we are. People often find it hard to apologize for these situations -- precisely because they can't really believe it was something they did. It's a most mysterious situation.

So -- who is the "real" Janet? Is it the Janet I aspire to me, the one who represents my best intentions and acts in accordance with inner dialogue? The self who models what I like to be? Or should I say the "real" Janet is the sum of all of the behaviors I've ever exhibited? That would be highly theoretical, and kind of impossible to document, because no one is serving in the role as record-keeper of this "real" Janet. There is no one who has tracked all of my behaviors -- the good, the bad, and the ugly.  Nor is there anyone who would want to! This theory of self would also be highly challenging for me, because included in this huge catalogue of behaviors are many moments I have forgotten precisely because they conflict with and disturb my image of myself. Hmmm. . . .

So that's one set of questions. Troubling ones. I have some provisional answers, too. But first the questions.

Another set of questions is about reality. Why is it that in some situations everything seems to flow and your words and actions feel like they simply fit the situation flawlessly? There is neither effort nor calculation. The world seems vibrant and alive, and I am a seamless part of it. These magical moments arise, and then they just disappear. And in other situations there is an almost aching absence of vitality, a dullness, and a lack of connection.  Everything feels awkward, there's an awareness of the distance between intention and result. Everyone present seems to notice the heavy, clumsy nature of the interaction. Nothing I or others do seems to work in those moments.

So one basic question, and it's a practical one, is how to arrange my life to have more of the sparkling, flowing moments, and less of the clanging, awkward moments. That's pretty basic. And yet it's still something I'm learning, as quite a neophyte.

My quest is to have more moments of connecting to the simplicity and the movement of the world. Being more alive. Being with what is happening without getting lost in stories that take me two and three layers away from this moment. I'm here at a keyboard, with a dog snoring behind me. Let me see how closely I can live to this tapping of fingers, feet on the slick floor. There's nothing so elevated about it. Yet there's something precious in it, nonetheless.

After all, life is short. And that's so easy to ignore -- and even to forget. I'm painfully aware of both the brevity of life and the tendency to push it to the periphery of our thoughts. Just yesterday, I was speaking to a friend who was told this week that her cancer has returned, and she may have only months to live. She said, "It's so hard to take in." Of course! How can our minds grasp such news? We live to live. Every day of our lives have been geared toward another day, a future. Yet there are no guarantees, even for those of us without stark diagnoses, that we will have more days. My friend has a grim diagnosis, and we all will meet that moment of death. And it seems so important not to have missed my life through inattention. Already, I've missed so much.

Learning to Live

For me, and maybe for you, there is so much to learn just to be human. Just to reassure you, I am biologically a human. But being a human to me means something more. I mean living with a grateful and open heart, and living with awareness of the preciousness of life. It doesn't necessarily mean being happy, because happiness comes and goes, depending on the circumstances of life. But it's a kind of willingness and determination to engage with life, just as it is. That's being human, in my book. For many years, I was very, very insistent that I was right, and anything or anyone in conflict with me was at the very least misguided, but probably downright and seriously wrong. And it's been hard to make amends for that insistent, self-righteous former me. But I try. And that's all one can do.

Things have changed. Increasingly, I see that there's so little certainty to be had. Oh, there are occasions when I can puff myself up into believing my own propaganda. Usually that's when I'm hurt or angry, and then I can take a spin in the world of certainty. But it fades far more rapidly these days, thank heavens. For real certainty, that's a whole other thing. It's becoming more elusive, not more evident, as the years pile on. And that's a good thing.

Seeing everything as definite, as either good or bad, as either disgusting or delightful, is very limiting. And it's tiring. And it's just not seeing things clearly.

If we go about life unquestioningly, there's a very good chance that we'll become increasingly rigid and reflexive, and less wise and dynamic. Take a look around. Notice the people who are really admirable, the ones who stand out because they stay competent even when situations get messy, who are generous and resourceful to others, who are adaptive and creative. They are unusual -- sometimes exceedingly rare. It's not so easy to stay curious, light-hearted, friendly, effective and gentle in a world that has the potential to be confusing, chaotic, and perhaps even hostile.

Many of us aren't taught much of what is so important to living well. We aren't taught how to be at ease in inevitable changes that life brings our way. We aren't taught to question our beliefs. We aren't taught that identities can become imprisoning. We aren't taught that it's wise to seek help as well as to offer it, as it's valuable to receive as well as give. We tend to forget the things that brought joy as a child -- paying attention to all of our senses, to the vivid colors, sounds and smells, even when a situation complex or challenging. (It works even for adults, if we cultivate it.) We aren't taught that feelings are ephemeral. Tomorrow, most of what we feel today will probably be different -- and that's not a problem. We aren't taught that expectations about ourself and others are very often a source of pain for us and others. So there's a lot to unlearn, to adjust and to relearn.

So we have to teach ourselves as we wend our ways through life. We teach ourselves from our embarrassing mistakes: the most humiliating catastrophes can be the most instructive (as I well know). We teach ourselves also by observing others. We see how others navigate a child's terrible twos, the illness of a spouse, the loss of a parent, and the graduation of their daughter -- and all of that teaches us about  generosity, kindness and celebration. We learn often by what we are surprised by: it shows us the edge of our beliefs and expectations. So by paying attention to what we do and the reactions, and by what we see others do, we learn.

And I find it's a further instruction to write. Because by writing, I can identify more carefully what seems to make a difference, what seems to be a salient factor in the event I'm noticing. So I undertake this project to remind myself: what can I learn about becoming more human? What is going on that I can observe and appreciate more closely? Am I flailing around or am I offering something of value in the world? Am I just colliding with the world through the eruption of my habits, or am I responding to the world appropriately, with something of valuable (however small). It's something to ponder.

So I begin this blog, hoping to encourage myself. What can I learn in this situation: what would being an admirable human being look like in this situation? And maybe by the end of my days, being an admirable human being will become something closer to habitual, something occasionally just a reflex. That's the goal.