My uncle visited me about eight weeks ago, and we had an interesting conversation that I'm remembering today.
My uncle and my father are precisely the same age, and they have a number of similiarities. They're both Italian. They're health conscious, intelligent, and hard workers. Honorable men. Yet, their differences are more remarkable to me. My mother's side of the family, growing up, was more nurturing and traditional than my father's, so my uncle's foundation of supportive indulgence completely contrasts my father's beginning of deprivation and instability. In their adulthoods, the differences are positively stark. The insecurities of my father's upbringing emerge in his high emotionalism and emphasis on tradition. My uncle, on the other hand, assumes life will hand him lemonade, not lemons, and proceeds accordingly. Whether divorce (two), a fairly estranged child (one), interstate moves (four +), and job changes (too many to count), he is moving this very weekend from Texas to Pennsylvania. He's selling his house and, at the age of 64, beginning anew. Again.
I remember discussing with him the aplomb with which he faces changes like moves and jobs, as opposed to the paucity of change of my father. My dad worked for the same company for 36 years, and his retirement era job in the six years since is administering where he had his second job for many years. He's lived in the same house for 37 years. Except for college, he's lived his entire life within a two mile radius. Obviously, he's confronted challenges; he's sustained a 40+ year marriage to my mother, raised two fairly well-adjusted children, and earned a graduate degree and periodic promotions. But, most of the time, he has dwelled in the comfortable familiarity of the known, choosing his "next" from within the bosom of his family in the cradle of his hometown. Seeking out change is anathema to him, as it's been for most of the rest of my immediate family. Not unless there was a good reason, an abundance of support in the form of his family, and a reasonable return on the investment of effort did he even attempt a change.
But, my uncle is a horse of another color. And I mentioned to him this obvious difference between him and my dad, whom he's known for most of his life. My father ruminates. He (over)thinks. He wonders and worries. My uncle does not. Does my uncle see that? How does he explain it?
I remember we were driving when we discussed it, and I looked at him from my perch in the driver's seat. He glanced back at me, then looked out the windshield. "I took a philosophy class in college," he told me. "I don't remember much about the whole class, but this one conversation we had there changed my life."
I could hear laughing in my head, when I imagined my father's reaction to that initial statement. My father seems almost to resent my uncle as the pampered son of misguided parents who didn't even attempt to veil their preference for sons over my mother and her sister. "Philosophy class?" I could hear my father sneer. "He's in love with the sound of his own voice, isn't he?"
I ignored my father, and I asked what my uncle meant.
"There was this Greek myth we were talking about," he began. "The one with the guy who had to push the rock up the hill. The guy pushed and pushed, and when he'd get to the top, he'd lose control of the rock, and it'd tumble back down to the bottom, where he'd have to start over again."
"The myth of Sisyphus," I said promptly, the English teacher in me emerging.
"Yeah, right," my uncle agreed, though he was placating me; the name didn't matter. "My professor asked the class what we imagined the guy was thinking when he watched the rock roll back down."
My inner-father's daughter emerged next, and I said, "He was probably thinking, 'Dammit, I have to start all over again' and getting pissed," I guessed. I knew that's what my father would have said. I knew that's what my father would have been thinking in Sisyphus' place. He speaks often enough about his disenchantment with life's arduousness.
My uncle smiled a very little smile. "Everybody said that. But my professor said, 'What if he's just glad he has a break from pushing the rock, even if only for a little while?'"
I glanced at him again. "But he's just going to have to start pushing it again. He's got to dread that."
My uncle nodded, Dumbledore-like. "So why wouldn't he feel grateful that in that moment, he has a break? That he can notice something else, even if only for a little while? Why does he have to pollute that small break for happiness with thoughts of the difficulties ahead of him?"
This is a wise idea. Very wise. Sisyphys has a small window where he doesn't push the rock, so why waste it thinking about pushing the rock? Worrying about it? Dreading it? Why not grab that small respite and enjoy it until the pushing begins again? How much of life can a person complicate when, in essence, everything is quite calm in the moment. We live for moments other than the one in which we are living.
My uncle explained that since that class, he made a focused effort not to wonder about pushing a rock in the moments in which he is not, in fact, pushing a rock. He lets everything be fine when it's fine. He plans ahead and does his part, make no mistake, but in his view, why worry about living in Pennsylvania until he is, in fact, living there? Why not enjoy the beautiful day in Texas with his niece, and let the rest of life happen as it is wont to do?
I have found a perfect way to apply this borrowed wisdom in my own life. I get scared to date. Ahead of a date, I worry incessently. Sometimes, I even dread. Why do I dwell on pushing that metaphorical rock up a hill when I'm not even doing it in the moment? Why do I let my fear milk all the pleasure out of my window of respite? Never mind that a date is never so scary once I'm there. It's the idea that scares me, the idea that I allow to punctuate every intervening moment.
As I am remembering forgiveness, I am going to try and remember the Rock of Sisyphys. I am going to try to keep each moment for its purpose, not to let the anticipation or dread of what's to come cast a shadow on my present.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Who We Are
The original germ for this study of "who we are" came from Elizabeth Gilbert's book Eat Pray Love. The second germ for it came from watching the Queen Elizabeth I sequel movie with Cate Blanchett last night. I sat there in the theater and thought about the violence and the rage within people, the jealousy and the frustration, and I saw some joy, peace, and love, too. I thought, "This is who we are."
In her book, Liz Gilbert describes the story of a psychologist friend who helped Asian refugees in America who'd survived terrible trials prior to their arrival. Despite their suffering, the women lamented breakups with their boyfriends, the stress of leaving behind men they'd met during their ordeal, the reality that their boyfriends in the home counry finding new companions in their absence, that their boyfriends still loved them in spite of new relationships or even new families. Liz thought their preoccupation with men was amazing, considering what they'd survived. "This is who we are," her friend told her. This interest is what defines us, humanity. Our connections to others are among our most serious and significant characteristics.
At the movie last night, I realized that just as much, that movie represents who we are, too. Elizabeth the Queen longed for a man to appreciate her for herself, but she couldn't and wouldn't have wanted to separate her femininity from her throne. She couldn't afford to. In the movie, characters wanted power and control. Conviction of rectitude led them to terrible acts, which they justified in the name of everything from God to loyalty to country to desperate emotion. This is Elizabethan England? It looks, sounds, and if I were there, it'd smell an awful lot like modern times.
Sure, there are evil people in the world. There are wars and losses and fears and frustrations and people who serve their own self-interests for power or attention over the basic truths.
I think of Al Gore, a leader who has obtained great power and authority over his interest in "global warming." However, Gore refuses to entertain any debate whatsoever on the issue, declaring it "over," shutting down the voices of legitimate scientists who point out inconsistencies with the relationship between carbon and temperature, as illustrated by Gore. If the debate is indeed over, he must think, then why should he listen to more people, especially if they disagree with him? But then, if he's so sure he's right, what's the danger in entertaining their theories? So much for having a free-thinking country. Entering into a dialogue with those who challenge him is a chance for learning, for the genuine truth to emerge; he has nothing to fear if it's the truth that matters to him. Doesn't it take educated debate, communication, over a long time with lots of tries and lots of tests, to determine truth? But it seems Gore must maintain single-mindedly focused on only his initial agenda, and I become further convinced that the only thing that will emerge is that he's an ass.
In the same way (and lest I be accused of partisianism), I see our President doggedly pursues his own path in our "War on Terror," a path that is generating far more questions than he deigns to answer. How can what's best for the people of America and the Middle East emerge without meaningful dialogue and concerted -- combined -- agreement and effort on action? Why should his path be the only and best way? Why doesn't he want to learn from those who think differently from him? The truth is our friend. But it seems he refuses to acknowledge any other choice but the one he's chosen, and the voices that long to dialogue with him get lost in the middle ground.
But this is who we are. We justify all sorts of questionable behaviors becase we "care so much," are "so sure" we are correct," or "fear so desperately" the time "lost" for true exploration and edification. We stop looking for new answers and become wedded with our original plans. We do it to save face. We do it because, for lack of choosing to learn over the chance to pontificate, we don't know any better.
I did this when my marriage ended. I spent three years insisting that life went on quite merrily, and I made life do that very thing, but was I happy? No. It was only when I began allowing the truth to seep into my consciousness, to emerge from the ashes of my old life, that I began to understand the way things really were and how I want to them to be. It took courage to accept that truth is different than I imagined it was, that my life in the future would be different, too. But to keep my finger on the pulse of this truth is a constant courtship. Truth is truth, but truth is not constant. What's true right now may not remain true in the future. Self-awareness. Self-knowledge. Honesty and little internal polling. That's the way to remain who I am, not what I think I am or wish I were.
I see a lot of moms in my world who do this with their children. Are they raising the children they have or the children they imagine they have? The gap between the two is the space where children can play their parents like violins. Parents can't face the truth. They can't ask the questions. Meaningful dialogue may present them with answers to questions they would rather do anything but ask.
But the truth is the truth is the truth. It's not good or bad, it just IS. Far better to operate off of reality than some imagined, projected, desired, or desperately needed misapprehension. But it's harder. Imagined truths are so much more comforting than genuine ones sometimes, it's no wonder that some people live with them almost exclusively. Too hard to face that one's husband is cheating, one's child is using drugs, one's parents are sliding slowly into dementia. Harder by far to admit that years of "work" in global warming are little more than a thinly veiled attempt to control American spending and free choice. Harder than admitting that the expense of American lives has done little to alter the environment of fanaticism and divine deaths in the middle east.
But this is who we are.
Humanity makes decisions from logic, from heart, and from soul. Logos, pathos, and ethos. They are not the same. When they work in concert, they work quite well. When one emerges over the other, the inbalance can wreak havoc.
Balance in all things. Balance and truth.
In her book, Liz Gilbert describes the story of a psychologist friend who helped Asian refugees in America who'd survived terrible trials prior to their arrival. Despite their suffering, the women lamented breakups with their boyfriends, the stress of leaving behind men they'd met during their ordeal, the reality that their boyfriends in the home counry finding new companions in their absence, that their boyfriends still loved them in spite of new relationships or even new families. Liz thought their preoccupation with men was amazing, considering what they'd survived. "This is who we are," her friend told her. This interest is what defines us, humanity. Our connections to others are among our most serious and significant characteristics.
At the movie last night, I realized that just as much, that movie represents who we are, too. Elizabeth the Queen longed for a man to appreciate her for herself, but she couldn't and wouldn't have wanted to separate her femininity from her throne. She couldn't afford to. In the movie, characters wanted power and control. Conviction of rectitude led them to terrible acts, which they justified in the name of everything from God to loyalty to country to desperate emotion. This is Elizabethan England? It looks, sounds, and if I were there, it'd smell an awful lot like modern times.
Sure, there are evil people in the world. There are wars and losses and fears and frustrations and people who serve their own self-interests for power or attention over the basic truths.
I think of Al Gore, a leader who has obtained great power and authority over his interest in "global warming." However, Gore refuses to entertain any debate whatsoever on the issue, declaring it "over," shutting down the voices of legitimate scientists who point out inconsistencies with the relationship between carbon and temperature, as illustrated by Gore. If the debate is indeed over, he must think, then why should he listen to more people, especially if they disagree with him? But then, if he's so sure he's right, what's the danger in entertaining their theories? So much for having a free-thinking country. Entering into a dialogue with those who challenge him is a chance for learning, for the genuine truth to emerge; he has nothing to fear if it's the truth that matters to him. Doesn't it take educated debate, communication, over a long time with lots of tries and lots of tests, to determine truth? But it seems Gore must maintain single-mindedly focused on only his initial agenda, and I become further convinced that the only thing that will emerge is that he's an ass.
In the same way (and lest I be accused of partisianism), I see our President doggedly pursues his own path in our "War on Terror," a path that is generating far more questions than he deigns to answer. How can what's best for the people of America and the Middle East emerge without meaningful dialogue and concerted -- combined -- agreement and effort on action? Why should his path be the only and best way? Why doesn't he want to learn from those who think differently from him? The truth is our friend. But it seems he refuses to acknowledge any other choice but the one he's chosen, and the voices that long to dialogue with him get lost in the middle ground.
But this is who we are. We justify all sorts of questionable behaviors becase we "care so much," are "so sure" we are correct," or "fear so desperately" the time "lost" for true exploration and edification. We stop looking for new answers and become wedded with our original plans. We do it to save face. We do it because, for lack of choosing to learn over the chance to pontificate, we don't know any better.
I did this when my marriage ended. I spent three years insisting that life went on quite merrily, and I made life do that very thing, but was I happy? No. It was only when I began allowing the truth to seep into my consciousness, to emerge from the ashes of my old life, that I began to understand the way things really were and how I want to them to be. It took courage to accept that truth is different than I imagined it was, that my life in the future would be different, too. But to keep my finger on the pulse of this truth is a constant courtship. Truth is truth, but truth is not constant. What's true right now may not remain true in the future. Self-awareness. Self-knowledge. Honesty and little internal polling. That's the way to remain who I am, not what I think I am or wish I were.
I see a lot of moms in my world who do this with their children. Are they raising the children they have or the children they imagine they have? The gap between the two is the space where children can play their parents like violins. Parents can't face the truth. They can't ask the questions. Meaningful dialogue may present them with answers to questions they would rather do anything but ask.
But the truth is the truth is the truth. It's not good or bad, it just IS. Far better to operate off of reality than some imagined, projected, desired, or desperately needed misapprehension. But it's harder. Imagined truths are so much more comforting than genuine ones sometimes, it's no wonder that some people live with them almost exclusively. Too hard to face that one's husband is cheating, one's child is using drugs, one's parents are sliding slowly into dementia. Harder by far to admit that years of "work" in global warming are little more than a thinly veiled attempt to control American spending and free choice. Harder than admitting that the expense of American lives has done little to alter the environment of fanaticism and divine deaths in the middle east.
But this is who we are.
Humanity makes decisions from logic, from heart, and from soul. Logos, pathos, and ethos. They are not the same. When they work in concert, they work quite well. When one emerges over the other, the inbalance can wreak havoc.
Balance in all things. Balance and truth.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Good Things
Many good things are happening right now. I've gone on two "dates" without losing my lunch, and I even liked one of the men at the time. I'm busy at work and apparently doing a job that satisfies those in charge. I'm a bit creatively stunted, but once I get back to writing some more, I think I'll find my stride there, too.
I was rereading a divorce recovery page I found shortly after my ex-husband moved out, and I found a few related links I'd not noticed before. In one of them, the author described her almost 30-year marriage and the steady decline of her then-husband's behavior and treatment of her, culminating in him moving out to spend more time with his girlfriend. She was devastated. She was middle-aged and sure she'd never find happiness or family again (her children had already moved out). A few paragraphs later, outlining her life through the grief, she added that she was actually glad that he left, because her life is so much better now.
She is actually glad he ended it! More than that, she says that the divorce was part of God's plan for her, to give her a way to grow stronger and wiser in preparation for this wonderful life she's now enjoying, complete with a second husband who really does love and value her.
I did feel loved and valued in my marriage, but I wasn't. My feelings didn't matter to my ex-husband; though he professed that they did, he behaved differently, and I was fluent in the writing on the wall. I believed in my head that I mattered, but I knew in my heart that I didn't. When I look back on the marriage now, and even more, when I examine how I expect men to treat me in the present, I am astonished to recognize that I allowed my feelings not to matter in my marriage (but then again, I was already married and trying to make the best of it), and I forget that my feelings are supposed to matter now. That it was wrong before, when ex disregarded them. At the very least he should have listened to me and attempted to achieve some resolution in partnership with me that gave both of us a voice in our allegedly shared life. Instead, he taught me that having feelings is dangerous, because they are merely a way for me to lose bits of my soul as they die for lack of attention. I learned not to have feelings in relationships, not to have needs or expectations or even dreams, because they are alive, and without nurturing, they die, and me along with them. if I have them and the man in my life chooses not to respect him, well, then I have either to put up with that treatment or else jettison the man.
And that's the whole point, isn't it? To find someone who cares about me and my feelings. Jettisoning those who don't is necessary. Important. Logical. Expected. Acceptable.
But in moving forward, I am remembering the forgiveness. I am also going to keep in mind that God needed me to go through what I've undergone, to learn and grow and mature and find some humility, because if I'm open enough to accept it, he has something even better available to me in the future.
It's not only my job, but my destiny, to get beyond the stages of grief to open myself for the stages of joy.
I was rereading a divorce recovery page I found shortly after my ex-husband moved out, and I found a few related links I'd not noticed before. In one of them, the author described her almost 30-year marriage and the steady decline of her then-husband's behavior and treatment of her, culminating in him moving out to spend more time with his girlfriend. She was devastated. She was middle-aged and sure she'd never find happiness or family again (her children had already moved out). A few paragraphs later, outlining her life through the grief, she added that she was actually glad that he left, because her life is so much better now.
She is actually glad he ended it! More than that, she says that the divorce was part of God's plan for her, to give her a way to grow stronger and wiser in preparation for this wonderful life she's now enjoying, complete with a second husband who really does love and value her.
I did feel loved and valued in my marriage, but I wasn't. My feelings didn't matter to my ex-husband; though he professed that they did, he behaved differently, and I was fluent in the writing on the wall. I believed in my head that I mattered, but I knew in my heart that I didn't. When I look back on the marriage now, and even more, when I examine how I expect men to treat me in the present, I am astonished to recognize that I allowed my feelings not to matter in my marriage (but then again, I was already married and trying to make the best of it), and I forget that my feelings are supposed to matter now. That it was wrong before, when ex disregarded them. At the very least he should have listened to me and attempted to achieve some resolution in partnership with me that gave both of us a voice in our allegedly shared life. Instead, he taught me that having feelings is dangerous, because they are merely a way for me to lose bits of my soul as they die for lack of attention. I learned not to have feelings in relationships, not to have needs or expectations or even dreams, because they are alive, and without nurturing, they die, and me along with them. if I have them and the man in my life chooses not to respect him, well, then I have either to put up with that treatment or else jettison the man.
And that's the whole point, isn't it? To find someone who cares about me and my feelings. Jettisoning those who don't is necessary. Important. Logical. Expected. Acceptable.
But in moving forward, I am remembering the forgiveness. I am also going to keep in mind that God needed me to go through what I've undergone, to learn and grow and mature and find some humility, because if I'm open enough to accept it, he has something even better available to me in the future.
It's not only my job, but my destiny, to get beyond the stages of grief to open myself for the stages of joy.
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