Every morning on my paper route, I ride past a tall telephone pole on which is posted a sign that reads: PLEASE DO NOT PARK ON THE VERGE. Zipping past, I've never really thought much about it until today. It's in the moments when we feel we can't keep pushing forward that seemingly insignificant things take on momentous value. People giving a thumbs-up, a smile and a chat, a sign on a telephone pole. These are the things the paper route has taught me, and today, after I gave my two weeks' notice as we prepare to begin our transition back to the states this summer, a sign spoke the words on which I desperately needed to ruminate.
Maybe you do, too.
If you find that you're on mile 23, running and feeling the burn along your calves, the strain inside your thighs, the stinging circling your stomach--don't stop. Now is not the time to take a breather, wait and see, wonder the thousand what ifs your mind seems always ready to proffer. Now is the time to keep moving forward. Please, don't park on the verge.
If you find that you're parenting as best as you can, and certain patterns feel so hard to change, and you have so many questions about what you need to learn to do better, what kinds of behavior you're teaching, why your kid shares sometimes and sometimes hoards, why a temper tantrum happens when the day looks bright--don't doubt. Now is not the time to question your ability as a mother or a father, your commitment to growth, or your unconditional love. Keep moving forward, doing the best you can, but understanding that you are never going to get it right every time. No one does. Please, do not park on the verge.
If you find that you're chasing a dream, and yet rejection is chasing you, and calls come that are so close you feel the whisper of their tender-hearted declines--don't lose faith. Now is not the time to take it easy, sit back in your chair, and ponder other avenues or possibilities. Now is the time to work through the closeness until it gets closer and closer. Now is the time to lean into the wind that blows you back, using its own force to make your forward movement that much more determined. Please, do not park on the verge.
If the character arc you're traveling seems oddly void of worldly goods--be it money, fame, praise, prestige, success, respect--don't change course and seek signposts that point towards results over work, product over process. Now is not the time to consider what your bank account could have been, what your status could have been, where your voice might have travelled. Now is the time to get down on yoru hands and knees and watch a bee on a flower; now is the time to realize and fully grab hold of that ancient truth that the work itself is the reward for the work. The joy of the journey is itself the reward for the journey. The love with which you hear and respond to the people all around you is the greatest possible fruition you can fathom. A kiss on the cheek of an elderly woman when you feel like crashing down, a wave to a neighbor, the example of a wife who keeps on giving so generously to a homeless shelter, to friends, to anyone in need even though her own battle is fierce--these are the signposts of love. These are the acts of triumph. Hold onto these. believe these. trust these and keep moving forward. Please, do not park on the verge.
Among everything you are up against, remember that love triumphs if you only choose to keep moving forward. Love your wife. Love your son. Love the people whose paths you find yourself crossing. Let this be your legacy. Not a bullet-point list on a resume. Not a checklist. Not fears of inadequacy nor worries about accomplishments. Let the sheer fact that you never stopped moving forward be all the bullet points you need.
Please, do not park on the verge. Cross over it, believing that the triumph lies in this feat and no other.
Showing posts with label money. Show all posts
Showing posts with label money. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Nonsense of That Sort
There's a beautiful line in George Eliot's Middlemarch where Caleb Garth is responding to the notion that people in town will criticize him if he makes a certain decision--not because of the quality of the decision, but because of how it will seem to others. And Caleb says in beautifully potent words: "Life is a sad tale if it is to be decided by nonsense of that sort."
It strikes me how important these words are when we consider the choices we make: what hopes do we have for our decisions? So much of our culture has become entrenched in results-oriented, data-driven decision making. Nowhere is this seen as clearly as in the consistent battles over school reform. With major foundations and corporations sponsoring bottom-line oriented reforms, teachers are becoming more and more like stock brokers: here's the raw material; make us a return. And the returns are so often tied exclusively to standardized test score results.
As adults, our lives are consistent with this ethos. The standardized tests are still plentiful, though we call them by other names. We talk of how much money we make, achievements we garner, resume-builders we can claim, honors we've been awarded. These things are all helpful and can be such beautiful gifts, but when we value them first and foremost we set a dangerous precedent: we start making decisions based on the chances that these kinds of results can be achieved.
The question is: what if they can't or aren't?
Are actions in our lives any less courageous or important or beautiful or inspiring or true if they are not results-oriented?
Parker Palmer talks about the need for faithfulness over effectiveness in this recent interview in The Sun. He says:
"We need to change our calculus about what makes an action worth taking and get past our obsession with results. Being effective is important, of course. I write books because I want to have an impact. But if the only way we judge an action is by its effectiveness, we will take on smaller and smaller tasks, because they're the only kind with which we are sure we can get results. I'm not giving up on effectiveness, but it has to be secondary to faithfulness...And when people are faithful to a task, they often become more effective as it as well."
The values we want to live by aren't corroborated by results. They are corroborated by the faithfulness with which we continue to live by them. Courage, kindness, grace, boldness, hope, and love aren't data-driven and they aren't dependent on results. They are values that can guide the way we teach, parent, write, and interact with others. The more we get used to thriving on value-rich interactions and pursuits, the more we can say with Caleb Garth that we don't care about what other people think--we don't care about "nonsense of that sort."
When I was still in elementary school at John F. Kennedy in Windsor, CT, my oldest brother Christopher worked at the local grocery store, Geissler's. Chris was in high school, and this was his first job. My mom would often bring me and my brother Michael into the store to buy groceries just so we could go through Christopher's line and visit him. I loved doing this. Often, another man who worked at Geissler's was near Chris. His name was John, and he had emigrated from China with his wife, Elizabeth.
In China, John has been a professor of Mathematics. But in America, he bagged groceries.
One evening, after Chris had worked at Geissler's for a few months, he told us that John and his wife were coming over to the house for dinner, as they wanted to cook an authentically Chinese meal for us. That night ended up being one of the all-time highlights of my elementary school years. Seriously. John and his wife glowed with fun and excitement as they explained to us what they were doing in the kitchen. My whole family watched them, laughed with them, and just loved being around them and hearing stories of their lives.
Over two decades later, John's face is so clearly in my mind. The man's smile could power Manhattan. His exuberance knew no boundaries, and his kindness as a man and joy as a teacher was so beautifully on display. I've been thinking of John an awful lot in light of this journey. As an elementary school kid I saw John as one of the happiest people I had ever met in my young life.
Now, as a man, I am sure that John went through great doubts--and I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he and Elizabeth struggled to make ends meet, or that John perhaps mourned the loss of his vocation and status as a Professor when eh came to America and exchanged it to be a grocery bagger. And yet John's life is no less beautiful or inspiring to me now than it was when I was a kid. John's smile is no less real or poignant because I have grown and seen some of the hard truths life so generously gives us.
Instead, John's work in the world strikes me as even more profound. The impact he had on me as a young kid was to plant a seed which grew up inside my heart to say, essentially, who we are isn't tied to the results we achieve or the amount of money we make. Who we are is tied to the way we care for others--the love we give and receive.
Sometimes I fight with this seed and its growth. Sometimes, I dang well want to take clippers and prune the thing way, WAY back. Sometimes--YES!--I want to chop the whole thing down.
But then it flowers. Little buds appear on the growth of what was once a seed, and when these buds open up they confirm what John first showed me long ago, what Parker Palmer talks about above, and what Caleb Garth scoffs about. What keeps us warm on cold nights aren't the results we've accomplished or the test scores we've garnered. It's the love we share.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Departure Eve
After nearly a month back in the states, we're preparing to head back to England tomorrow on a red-eye flight that will land us in Manchester at the crack of dawn.
And when I say "preparing" what I mean is: gazing at the mountain pile of clothes on the bed, letting Tyler stay up late to dig in the sand with Poppa and whisper secrets with Nanna, taking note of every single American thing we've missed and making sure to savor it (i.e. free refills on drinks at a restaurant, green road signs, the political fix from CNN, the warmth of family, the laughter of summer nights, and watching Tyler reconnect with grandmas and grandpas and aunts and uncles after two years abroad).
Today, in the car as we left the Cape Cod Potato Chip Factory, I started to cry. Not because of my all-consuming passion for potato chips, but because I had been watching our son giggle as my mother-in-law, Susan, ticked his toes. His laughter touched that part of me that spoke of the importance of watching our own children grow up connected to that web of creation that helps them exist in the first place.
And I'm going to miss it.
This isn't to say we aren't looking forward to Lesley Avenue in York, and the dozen of so children that live on our street, the kind neighbors who always seem to have something odd they no longer need and are kind enough to pass it on to the American next door (a bird feeder, a bottle of wine, a T-shirt, a Gruffalo suitcase). And we're looking forward to our last year abroad as a chance to reflect on all we've learned, the obstacles we've been facing, and the way Isaac Newton's claim about knowledge has really rung true for us. Newton once responded to someone who asked what his years of scientific research had taught him. Paraphrased, his reply was: Everything I have come to know is like a single grain of sand on the shore of knowledge.
This time away from England has afforded not only a lovely reprieve as parents (read: our own parents and brothers and sisters have performed countless changing of the clothes with Tyler, explorations and adventures, and bedtime book-reading), but it has also bequeathed us a chance to reflect on what two years abroad with no money has taught us.
And essentially, our grain of sand is this: grace trumps everything. Grace with our son, with with one another, grace for mistakes, grace for misplanned possibilities, grace for failures, grace for countless imperfections. England has been both beautiful and hard for us, and the synthesis of these necessities of life has been teaching us that what creates sustainability is grace.
As we embark upon the return flight tomorrow, our fourth passenger, we hope, will be grace. And if he allows Tyler to sleep for any percentage of the red-eye, that would be about the most stunning gift in the world about now. But if not, I hope to be able to redeem the way we first arrived in England two years ago: rather than a panic attack, I want to able to look out at the dawning English day and say, with faith, it's all going to be okay.
And when I say "preparing" what I mean is: gazing at the mountain pile of clothes on the bed, letting Tyler stay up late to dig in the sand with Poppa and whisper secrets with Nanna, taking note of every single American thing we've missed and making sure to savor it (i.e. free refills on drinks at a restaurant, green road signs, the political fix from CNN, the warmth of family, the laughter of summer nights, and watching Tyler reconnect with grandmas and grandpas and aunts and uncles after two years abroad).
Today, in the car as we left the Cape Cod Potato Chip Factory, I started to cry. Not because of my all-consuming passion for potato chips, but because I had been watching our son giggle as my mother-in-law, Susan, ticked his toes. His laughter touched that part of me that spoke of the importance of watching our own children grow up connected to that web of creation that helps them exist in the first place.
And I'm going to miss it.
This isn't to say we aren't looking forward to Lesley Avenue in York, and the dozen of so children that live on our street, the kind neighbors who always seem to have something odd they no longer need and are kind enough to pass it on to the American next door (a bird feeder, a bottle of wine, a T-shirt, a Gruffalo suitcase). And we're looking forward to our last year abroad as a chance to reflect on all we've learned, the obstacles we've been facing, and the way Isaac Newton's claim about knowledge has really rung true for us. Newton once responded to someone who asked what his years of scientific research had taught him. Paraphrased, his reply was: Everything I have come to know is like a single grain of sand on the shore of knowledge.
This time away from England has afforded not only a lovely reprieve as parents (read: our own parents and brothers and sisters have performed countless changing of the clothes with Tyler, explorations and adventures, and bedtime book-reading), but it has also bequeathed us a chance to reflect on what two years abroad with no money has taught us.
And essentially, our grain of sand is this: grace trumps everything. Grace with our son, with with one another, grace for mistakes, grace for misplanned possibilities, grace for failures, grace for countless imperfections. England has been both beautiful and hard for us, and the synthesis of these necessities of life has been teaching us that what creates sustainability is grace.
As we embark upon the return flight tomorrow, our fourth passenger, we hope, will be grace. And if he allows Tyler to sleep for any percentage of the red-eye, that would be about the most stunning gift in the world about now. But if not, I hope to be able to redeem the way we first arrived in England two years ago: rather than a panic attack, I want to able to look out at the dawning English day and say, with faith, it's all going to be okay.
Friday, July 20, 2012
The Power of Voice
Two small black and white lemurs have the ability to scare away a whole army of predators--and after seeing these two docile, innocent-looking creatures in action, I believe it.
Today, Jennifer and I had our first parents-on-a-school-field-trip experience as we accompanied Tyler and his pre-school to the Yorkshire Wildlife Park in Doncaster, South Yorkshire. Retaining a heavy conservation mission, the park's ultimate goal is to help endangered species and to, when possible, return them in greater number to their native habitat. Currently, they are raising two rare Amur Leopards with this intention in mind.
And as Tyler and Jen and I saw various species--tigers! lions! meerkats! camels! wallabees!--the most fascinating creatures we encountered today were the two docile, innocent-looking bland and white lemurs. After eating, these two lemurs came close to one another and began shrieking louder than a chorus of toddlers having tantrums. Their shrieks rose to the highest alto equivalent, and the lowest bass depth. The shrieks went on, and on, and on.
I watched wordlessly, unable to pick up my jaw.
When the black and white lemurs were finished, the Lemur Expert--a young man whose affable nature and resistance to palm oil because of its destructive sourcing from Madagascar for hair products for Western consumers made him imminently engaging--told us all that this practice was a cultural tradition passed on through the generations of black and white lemurs.
If the sheer volume of the cries weren't enough to scare away predators, the variability in pitch and tone would be enough to make predators think that more than a dozen animals were gathered there rather than just two. In essence, their voices could carry enough power to translate into action--to make predators firmly believe that there'd be no point in attacking.
Contrast such lemur lobbying for life with many of our own visions of protection.
Recently, I finished Jonathan Kozol's groundbreaking book Savage Inequalities. Essentially, Kozol documents with clear facts and zero drama the essence of inequality in America' public education system. Schools in wealthy suburbs often have as much as double to spend per pupil in each school system, while schools in poverty-stricken areas (both rural and inner-city) have far less materials, resources, and sometimes class sizes that double those of their wealthier counterparts.
I was sharing some of my own passion for justice in this area of school funding with a friend on the phone, and he asked a great question, "What would you say to someone who says, it's not my responsibility to ensure that a poor five-year old kid I don't know gets the same education that a wealthy five-year old kid gets?"
I thought about his question for a while, and then realized how often hypothetical questions like these form the basis of a lot of individualized thinking. The essential premise is: it's not my responsibility.
Tax dollars for welfare, education spending, medical insurance? It's not my responsibility.
However, an interesting thing happens when marriage and abortion arise. Then, the stance transmogrifies into It IS my responsibility. Regarding these issues, arguments for protection of life and protection of marriage are promulgated.
What I find fascinating is that such protection is a veiled attack--and what's more, it doesn't cost any real money or any real sacrifice. It doesn't even cost any change in social order, class hierarchy, or systemic understanding. Essentially, it's cheap and easy to attack homosexuals and women who go to an abortion clinic and then claim to protect life and protect marriage.
Ultimately, what I shared regarding my friend's hypothetical question was this, "Isn't someone who asks a question like that saying that life is more valuable in the womb than out of it?" How can someone be outraged regarding abortion but watch a five-year live in poverty and receive an education unequal to her wealthier, suburban counterparts? Isn't that a death as well?
How can someone deride homosexual marriage under the guise of protection, yet not protect a woman's right to live without domestic violence, rape, unequal pay, or unaided childcare?
The answer--as it so often does--amounts to complexities of money and patriarchy. So much of society is predicated upon ways in which those with wealth and power can maintain wealth and power, and those in poverty remain in poverty. The education system, as Kozol writes, bolsters this inequality. Our society becomes more just only as those with wealth and power are willing to fight for those without them.
It's cheap and easy to throw punches. It's difficult to use one's own money and agency towards the ends of creating a more just society. But America is an experiment that is, theoretically, built upon the latter and not on the former.
Even two black and white lemurs are able to raise a chorus of shrieking so loud that the predators wouldn't dare come close. In our current climate, how can we raise our voices to that same effect--so that equal education, counseling services, domestic abuse prevention, community improvements, and the welfare of all children become the new moral imperatives?
How can we use pitches high and low to make the case for the five-year old student who also deserves an education--who deserves the same kind of protection of her life that conservatives are so forceful about in the womb, but seem to forget once she's been born?
If we are going to protect life and love, then we do so by opening our arms wider, not closing our fists around our own money and power tighter and tighter. And even a few black and white lemurs shouting out such a message of equality and justice can scare off a whole army of predators. I've seen it happen.
Today, Jennifer and I had our first parents-on-a-school-field-trip experience as we accompanied Tyler and his pre-school to the Yorkshire Wildlife Park in Doncaster, South Yorkshire. Retaining a heavy conservation mission, the park's ultimate goal is to help endangered species and to, when possible, return them in greater number to their native habitat. Currently, they are raising two rare Amur Leopards with this intention in mind.
And as Tyler and Jen and I saw various species--tigers! lions! meerkats! camels! wallabees!--the most fascinating creatures we encountered today were the two docile, innocent-looking bland and white lemurs. After eating, these two lemurs came close to one another and began shrieking louder than a chorus of toddlers having tantrums. Their shrieks rose to the highest alto equivalent, and the lowest bass depth. The shrieks went on, and on, and on.
I watched wordlessly, unable to pick up my jaw.
When the black and white lemurs were finished, the Lemur Expert--a young man whose affable nature and resistance to palm oil because of its destructive sourcing from Madagascar for hair products for Western consumers made him imminently engaging--told us all that this practice was a cultural tradition passed on through the generations of black and white lemurs.
If the sheer volume of the cries weren't enough to scare away predators, the variability in pitch and tone would be enough to make predators think that more than a dozen animals were gathered there rather than just two. In essence, their voices could carry enough power to translate into action--to make predators firmly believe that there'd be no point in attacking.
Contrast such lemur lobbying for life with many of our own visions of protection.
Recently, I finished Jonathan Kozol's groundbreaking book Savage Inequalities. Essentially, Kozol documents with clear facts and zero drama the essence of inequality in America' public education system. Schools in wealthy suburbs often have as much as double to spend per pupil in each school system, while schools in poverty-stricken areas (both rural and inner-city) have far less materials, resources, and sometimes class sizes that double those of their wealthier counterparts.
I was sharing some of my own passion for justice in this area of school funding with a friend on the phone, and he asked a great question, "What would you say to someone who says, it's not my responsibility to ensure that a poor five-year old kid I don't know gets the same education that a wealthy five-year old kid gets?"
I thought about his question for a while, and then realized how often hypothetical questions like these form the basis of a lot of individualized thinking. The essential premise is: it's not my responsibility.
Tax dollars for welfare, education spending, medical insurance? It's not my responsibility.
However, an interesting thing happens when marriage and abortion arise. Then, the stance transmogrifies into It IS my responsibility. Regarding these issues, arguments for protection of life and protection of marriage are promulgated.
What I find fascinating is that such protection is a veiled attack--and what's more, it doesn't cost any real money or any real sacrifice. It doesn't even cost any change in social order, class hierarchy, or systemic understanding. Essentially, it's cheap and easy to attack homosexuals and women who go to an abortion clinic and then claim to protect life and protect marriage.
Ultimately, what I shared regarding my friend's hypothetical question was this, "Isn't someone who asks a question like that saying that life is more valuable in the womb than out of it?" How can someone be outraged regarding abortion but watch a five-year live in poverty and receive an education unequal to her wealthier, suburban counterparts? Isn't that a death as well?
How can someone deride homosexual marriage under the guise of protection, yet not protect a woman's right to live without domestic violence, rape, unequal pay, or unaided childcare?
The answer--as it so often does--amounts to complexities of money and patriarchy. So much of society is predicated upon ways in which those with wealth and power can maintain wealth and power, and those in poverty remain in poverty. The education system, as Kozol writes, bolsters this inequality. Our society becomes more just only as those with wealth and power are willing to fight for those without them.
It's cheap and easy to throw punches. It's difficult to use one's own money and agency towards the ends of creating a more just society. But America is an experiment that is, theoretically, built upon the latter and not on the former.
Even two black and white lemurs are able to raise a chorus of shrieking so loud that the predators wouldn't dare come close. In our current climate, how can we raise our voices to that same effect--so that equal education, counseling services, domestic abuse prevention, community improvements, and the welfare of all children become the new moral imperatives?
How can we use pitches high and low to make the case for the five-year old student who also deserves an education--who deserves the same kind of protection of her life that conservatives are so forceful about in the womb, but seem to forget once she's been born?
If we are going to protect life and love, then we do so by opening our arms wider, not closing our fists around our own money and power tighter and tighter. And even a few black and white lemurs shouting out such a message of equality and justice can scare off a whole army of predators. I've seen it happen.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Unprompted
Today, our three-year old son Tyler did something that made me weep. In public. Eyes watering, chocking back gobs of gasps and becoming a mess--and the unprompted thing that prompted my emotional reaction wasn't something I would have expected of a three-year old: not a tantrum (though Jen and I have enjoyed our fair share of those parenting joys); not a fall from the top of a super-tall, unbelievably-high, can-a-slide-be-this-high-in-a-child-friendly-playground-come-on-can-it? slide; not an emotional or physical collapse due to hunger, exhaustion, or the terrifying mix of both.
This morning, we headed out to a day in the city--ready for a jaunt to the National Railway Museum, the City Centre Library, a stop to pick up vitamins at the Holland & Barrett vitamin store, a stop at Ryman's Stationers to pick up a fountain pen refill for the Lamy Jen got me last Christmas, and the occasional stop to peer at cracks in the sidewalks, rather large puddles, or various animal poopies that lay like a trail of Who's Been along our journey.
Right at the beginning of our excursion, we stopped to chat with Jock, the friendliest man who has ever lived anywhere. (You can read a little more about him here). Today, after chatting, Jock reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, extended his arm towards Tyler.
"For you, laddie!"
Tyler smiled wide and said, "Thank you!" Then, he grabbed the handful of coins, put them into his digger-coat pocket, and turned to me. "Daddy, we can get twenty-ten treats with this money!"
And we were off, continuing onwards towards the centre. After taking the number 7 bus into town, we got off a ten minute walk from the museum. We crossed a lot of roads and made it to the small tunnel that leads to the museum for pedestrians. In the tunnel, we met Galf, a young homeless man we'd seen often before. Previously, Jen and I and Tyler would stop, talk, and share food. Today, Galf had his hat out in front of him, a beige blanket covering him, and he looked sick in the cold and wet.
Tyler jaunted ahead of me, stopped in front of Galf, reached into his digger-coat pocket and pulled out his handful of coins. He dropped them all into Galf's hat.
Galf laughed and his eyes rose.
I cried and my eyes closed.
Tyler asked, "Are you feeling sick?"
Galf said, "Yes I am. But thank you for your money."
The three of us talked for a while longer, and then we exchanged high-fives.
The thing is, generosity is an act of love that knows no bounds--but only when it doesn't really even know what it's up to. Generosity that makes a show of itself or seeks a microphone to announce what it's doing isn't really generosity at all. It's something more calculated. Sure, it can yield beautiful results, and it's important, but there's something sublime and remarkable about unprompted generosity--sharing that just happens automatically because we know that we have something and someone else is in need.
Tyler didn't have time to calculate what he was doing. It was obvious to me that he wasn't considering his twenty-ten treat-buying capability. Instead, he was considering Galf.
How often does it happen to a Dad that he's shown something by his son that challenges and inspires his own heart?
So many forms of generosity have become bounded by a system that most of us use to skirt the sheer act of reckless generosity. We pass the homeless, we witness the oppressed, we watch the sick and feeble, the lonely, and the disenfranchised, and we say, Well, if we gave money, they'd probably buy alcohol with it. Or we say, They must have done something to end up where they are. Or--worse--we say If they had worked harder. It's not that giving money is always the wisest choice--giving food, or talking can sometimes be best--but it's the fact that we so often claim an excuse for not doing anything because we assume the worst, and use our assumptions to avoid loving someone who is--at core--just the same as we are.
In essence, we're so used to legalistic and, really, love-voided forms of giving, that we tend to veer away from generosity for the sake of hoarding. We tend to see ourselves as deserving; ourselves as working hard; ourselves as rightful owners.
And maybe ownership is the problem. I one read that a wise Rabbi welcomed guests into his home for a meal. The guests walked in and realized that he owned practically nothing--almost no furniture, no real possessions, not much to take up the small space he occupied. The guests asked him, "Rabbi, where are all your possessions?" The Rabbi responded with a question, "Where are yours?" They laughed at him, replied, "Why, we're just visitors here." The Rabbi laughed back and said, "I, too, am just a visitor here."
But there's also generosity that goes beyond possessions / money, and into the realms of time, hospitality, kindness, presence, encouragement. I can look at the situation with Galf today and feel deeply emotional about watching Tyler what he did. But it was also obvious to me that Tyler didn't think he was doing anything important--just a natural act. In this light, another layer of status-quo thinking became clear to me: who is to say that when Jen and I and Tyler stop and talk with Galf, or give food or money, we are the generous ones? Galf gives his time to us, his presence, his story, his eyes, his emotions and experience. Galf shares with us, just as deeply-- and more deeply perhaps--than we share with him.
Our conditioning teaches us to think that some people deserve money and opportunity because they were born into the right places, or because they worked for it. Both of those mentalities are merely two forms of one lie.
Everyone deserves opportunity. Everyone deserves the kind of unprompted love and generosity that we all can offer. I do, you do, Galf does, all of us.
This morning, we headed out to a day in the city--ready for a jaunt to the National Railway Museum, the City Centre Library, a stop to pick up vitamins at the Holland & Barrett vitamin store, a stop at Ryman's Stationers to pick up a fountain pen refill for the Lamy Jen got me last Christmas, and the occasional stop to peer at cracks in the sidewalks, rather large puddles, or various animal poopies that lay like a trail of Who's Been along our journey.
Right at the beginning of our excursion, we stopped to chat with Jock, the friendliest man who has ever lived anywhere. (You can read a little more about him here). Today, after chatting, Jock reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, extended his arm towards Tyler.
"For you, laddie!"
Tyler smiled wide and said, "Thank you!" Then, he grabbed the handful of coins, put them into his digger-coat pocket, and turned to me. "Daddy, we can get twenty-ten treats with this money!"
And we were off, continuing onwards towards the centre. After taking the number 7 bus into town, we got off a ten minute walk from the museum. We crossed a lot of roads and made it to the small tunnel that leads to the museum for pedestrians. In the tunnel, we met Galf, a young homeless man we'd seen often before. Previously, Jen and I and Tyler would stop, talk, and share food. Today, Galf had his hat out in front of him, a beige blanket covering him, and he looked sick in the cold and wet.
Tyler jaunted ahead of me, stopped in front of Galf, reached into his digger-coat pocket and pulled out his handful of coins. He dropped them all into Galf's hat.
Galf laughed and his eyes rose.
I cried and my eyes closed.
Tyler asked, "Are you feeling sick?"
Galf said, "Yes I am. But thank you for your money."
The three of us talked for a while longer, and then we exchanged high-fives.
The thing is, generosity is an act of love that knows no bounds--but only when it doesn't really even know what it's up to. Generosity that makes a show of itself or seeks a microphone to announce what it's doing isn't really generosity at all. It's something more calculated. Sure, it can yield beautiful results, and it's important, but there's something sublime and remarkable about unprompted generosity--sharing that just happens automatically because we know that we have something and someone else is in need.
Tyler didn't have time to calculate what he was doing. It was obvious to me that he wasn't considering his twenty-ten treat-buying capability. Instead, he was considering Galf.
How often does it happen to a Dad that he's shown something by his son that challenges and inspires his own heart?
So many forms of generosity have become bounded by a system that most of us use to skirt the sheer act of reckless generosity. We pass the homeless, we witness the oppressed, we watch the sick and feeble, the lonely, and the disenfranchised, and we say, Well, if we gave money, they'd probably buy alcohol with it. Or we say, They must have done something to end up where they are. Or--worse--we say If they had worked harder. It's not that giving money is always the wisest choice--giving food, or talking can sometimes be best--but it's the fact that we so often claim an excuse for not doing anything because we assume the worst, and use our assumptions to avoid loving someone who is--at core--just the same as we are.
In essence, we're so used to legalistic and, really, love-voided forms of giving, that we tend to veer away from generosity for the sake of hoarding. We tend to see ourselves as deserving; ourselves as working hard; ourselves as rightful owners.
And maybe ownership is the problem. I one read that a wise Rabbi welcomed guests into his home for a meal. The guests walked in and realized that he owned practically nothing--almost no furniture, no real possessions, not much to take up the small space he occupied. The guests asked him, "Rabbi, where are all your possessions?" The Rabbi responded with a question, "Where are yours?" They laughed at him, replied, "Why, we're just visitors here." The Rabbi laughed back and said, "I, too, am just a visitor here."
But there's also generosity that goes beyond possessions / money, and into the realms of time, hospitality, kindness, presence, encouragement. I can look at the situation with Galf today and feel deeply emotional about watching Tyler what he did. But it was also obvious to me that Tyler didn't think he was doing anything important--just a natural act. In this light, another layer of status-quo thinking became clear to me: who is to say that when Jen and I and Tyler stop and talk with Galf, or give food or money, we are the generous ones? Galf gives his time to us, his presence, his story, his eyes, his emotions and experience. Galf shares with us, just as deeply-- and more deeply perhaps--than we share with him.
Our conditioning teaches us to think that some people deserve money and opportunity because they were born into the right places, or because they worked for it. Both of those mentalities are merely two forms of one lie.
Everyone deserves opportunity. Everyone deserves the kind of unprompted love and generosity that we all can offer. I do, you do, Galf does, all of us.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Date Night (A Bit Differently)
This past Friday, Jennifer and I had a date night.
Date. Night.
For two parents living abroad with a toddler, we finally came face to face with the stats: seven months, two dates.
Ah!
Sure, we had those long evening conversations after Tyler went to bed; yup, we cuddled while we watched endlessly romantic comedies and a few intense sagas; indeed, we sipped wine and clinked glasses. But all that didn't quite feel the same as getting out.
When getting out as a married couple, it doesn't matter where you go, just the fact that you leave the actual premises of the house you occupy in order to prove a few things to yourselves:
1) The dishes can wait.
2) There is a whole world that exists outside of laundry, online grocery shopping, and toy-stowal.
3) Walking down a sidewalk in a city somewhere--anywhere--is pure magic.
So Jennifer and I were pretty psyched about our date night. We smiled conspiratorially to one another as we put Tyler to bed, singing the song that the Farmer sings in the movie Babe: the Talking Pig and then telling a fantastically long story about a boy named Tyler and his friends Alice, Benjamin, and Edward who go up in a hot air balloon and run into a thunderstorm, various talking birds, and a large helicopter, and then land on the moon and dig a large hole, wherein they find a family of fireflies that have been surviving (magically) in that crevice of the moon for eons feeding only on the light that comes from each other and then Tyler, Alice, Benjamin, Edward free the fireflies into space and they have (magical) wings that allow them to move and direct themselves even in space and then...
Tyler fell asleep.
Jen and I walked downstairs, and prepared to make tea. Herbal tea. (Berry-flavored.) Our date would consist of a long walk to Millennium Bridge, which spans the River Ouse, and then wherever beckoned from there. We would sip our tea, talk, laugh, and dream together.
Now, I've got to confess: I used to love going out to eat. When Jen and I first met, and she offered some coupons for us to go to a sub place for a buy-one-get-one-free deal, I declined and waltzed her off to the nicest restaurant in town.
But I have (slowly) come to see the beauty and power in not going out to eat, and in not going to really cool restaurants (not that there's anything wrong with it, of course!).Where I used to depend on money to create a magical night of romance, now I know that it's about the togetherness that happens.
Thus: our Friday night date. We carried our steaming tea in to-go cups, launched our massively oversized umbrella, and strode forth into the pouring rain of an English night. The sun was shining through a layer of clouds, and we stopped at the entrance to the trail that would lead us towards Millennium Bridge. The vista we encountered was, yup: magical. Rain shot through the descending light like sparks against a dark sky.
We stood shoulder to shoulder watching the scene.
And hour later, we found ourselves walking the 1,000 year old Roman walls that encircle the city of York. Atop the walls, we could look out and see the clusters of homes filled with modern technology, then glance ahead and see the intermittent towers that capped a turn in the direction of the walls.
All the while, we talked of our journey to England, whether or not we are legally sane, life before switching roles, what it means to trust God, and on staying disciplined along the path to dreams.
We we arrived home two and a half hours later, we both looked at each with that same conspiratory glance with which the date night began--that sense that something magical had taken place, and we didn't pay a dime for it.
Well, okay, maybe approximately ten cents if you tally the cost of the tea bags.
Date. Night.
For two parents living abroad with a toddler, we finally came face to face with the stats: seven months, two dates.
Ah!
Sure, we had those long evening conversations after Tyler went to bed; yup, we cuddled while we watched endlessly romantic comedies and a few intense sagas; indeed, we sipped wine and clinked glasses. But all that didn't quite feel the same as getting out.
When getting out as a married couple, it doesn't matter where you go, just the fact that you leave the actual premises of the house you occupy in order to prove a few things to yourselves:
1) The dishes can wait.
2) There is a whole world that exists outside of laundry, online grocery shopping, and toy-stowal.
3) Walking down a sidewalk in a city somewhere--anywhere--is pure magic.
So Jennifer and I were pretty psyched about our date night. We smiled conspiratorially to one another as we put Tyler to bed, singing the song that the Farmer sings in the movie Babe: the Talking Pig and then telling a fantastically long story about a boy named Tyler and his friends Alice, Benjamin, and Edward who go up in a hot air balloon and run into a thunderstorm, various talking birds, and a large helicopter, and then land on the moon and dig a large hole, wherein they find a family of fireflies that have been surviving (magically) in that crevice of the moon for eons feeding only on the light that comes from each other and then Tyler, Alice, Benjamin, Edward free the fireflies into space and they have (magical) wings that allow them to move and direct themselves even in space and then...
Tyler fell asleep.
Jen and I walked downstairs, and prepared to make tea. Herbal tea. (Berry-flavored.) Our date would consist of a long walk to Millennium Bridge, which spans the River Ouse, and then wherever beckoned from there. We would sip our tea, talk, laugh, and dream together.
Now, I've got to confess: I used to love going out to eat. When Jen and I first met, and she offered some coupons for us to go to a sub place for a buy-one-get-one-free deal, I declined and waltzed her off to the nicest restaurant in town.
But I have (slowly) come to see the beauty and power in not going out to eat, and in not going to really cool restaurants (not that there's anything wrong with it, of course!).Where I used to depend on money to create a magical night of romance, now I know that it's about the togetherness that happens.
Thus: our Friday night date. We carried our steaming tea in to-go cups, launched our massively oversized umbrella, and strode forth into the pouring rain of an English night. The sun was shining through a layer of clouds, and we stopped at the entrance to the trail that would lead us towards Millennium Bridge. The vista we encountered was, yup: magical. Rain shot through the descending light like sparks against a dark sky.
We stood shoulder to shoulder watching the scene.
And hour later, we found ourselves walking the 1,000 year old Roman walls that encircle the city of York. Atop the walls, we could look out and see the clusters of homes filled with modern technology, then glance ahead and see the intermittent towers that capped a turn in the direction of the walls.
All the while, we talked of our journey to England, whether or not we are legally sane, life before switching roles, what it means to trust God, and on staying disciplined along the path to dreams.
We we arrived home two and a half hours later, we both looked at each with that same conspiratory glance with which the date night began--that sense that something magical had taken place, and we didn't pay a dime for it.
Well, okay, maybe approximately ten cents if you tally the cost of the tea bags.
Monday, March 21, 2011
The Glory of Dirt
It gets in our fingernails and it won't come out. I'm not talking about the kind of dirt that gathers in corners of our hallways and lightly sits on window ledges, hanging out until someone comes along with some Pledge and a disgusting rag or some old Hanes underwear (as was the custom ion my house growing up) to whisk such dirt away.
That kind of dirt only wants to be dirt.
Really, it's dust. It's like the five-year old dressing up as Superman or Cinderella or Super-Cinderella.
No; today's blog is about actual dirt that is thick and everywhere and underneath the grass and when you hold it you feel the weight of it and you sometimes have to say, Wow, that is some serious dirt right there.
I'm writing about dirt today because Tyler has been having a love affair with the stuff lately. For a total of two hours and 25 minutes today, we sat in the backyard and dug in the dirt. Some neighbors were kind enough to bequeath us a large pile of dirt left over from their garden, and Tyler and I put it to excellent use.
We dumped it on the path that Jennifer had cleared away yesterday, and then we went town building Muddy Monsters, towers, large piles and small piles, and also sifting through it to find worms of various sizes. Each time we spotted a worm, Tyler's delighted voice rang out, "I hold that worm on my finger, Daddy?" and my voice rang in response, "Yeah!"
Many worms and ladybugs later (yes, we took some brief breaks from the dirt to explode the grass, and it was certainly amazing to watch how the weight of a ladybug tips a blade of grass back on itself at the median) we went inside for some juice, crackers with humous, and a nap. Well, Tyler napped, and I tried to organize our little study a bit.
But I couldn't stop thinking about dirt. I still can't.
And there indeed plenty of other stuff to think about. There are books to be written, projects to tackle, things to fix, financial situations to worry-over-but-then-pray-and-remind-myself-not-to-worry-over-them-and-keep-working, dishes to be cleaned and generic-brand Lego blocks to be picked up from the living room floor.
But dirt.
Man. DIRT.
See, the thing about dirt is that you never have to question whether it's there. You get your hands in the soil and you know it right away. It's there. You feel it, to see it, its dirt-ness gets right in through your skin and into some part of you that feels stuff like, well, dirt.
In a world where so much is in our minds--where so much is talked about, written about, discussed, and conjectured, I notice, today, how good dirt feels. How real. How tangible. How here.
For my current writing project, I have been allowing Robert Frost's definition of poetry to knock me upside the head as many times as I can let it without going blind. Frost wrote this: "My definition of poetry, if I were forced to give one, would be this: words that become deeds."
Words that become deeds.
Dirt is like that. Dirt was once a word. When God said, "Let it be!" and it was, the dirt became deed. It became real and earthy and thick and the way it is today, and the way we are today.
We live in a culture where it's so easy for words not to become deeds. We live in a society where we can say and write a whole lot of things but never really back them up or believe them or make good on the promises they hold within their letters.
But how do we live like poems? How do we allow our lives to be so imbued with action that the words we form in peace and silence and rest are not the Forewords of what we hope to be but the Afterwords of what we already have been becoming? How can we use words that begin as seeds but, by the time their meaning breaks free, become the very fruit that feeds us?
One humble suggestion is to go back.
To the dirt.
To go outside, roll up our sleeves, dig away a patch of grass and then plunge our hands right into the earth, worms and all. Let the dirt get in under our fingernails. (We can wash it off later, before dinner.) Grab a couple handfuls and roll that dirt around like it's as precious as the money we've got in our wallets, the dreams we've got in our hearts, the peace we so deeply fear.
William Faulkner said in his 1950 Nobel prize acceptance speech that "the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart, which alone can make good writing." Instead, Faulkner says, we're writing about lust and glands rather than the conflict that arises out of really trying to love.
One might say our tendency is to ease into grabbing the fruit without ever acknowledging the soil from which it came. We might honor Faulkner and Frost both by trying to remind ourselves of what matters--that before the words, there was the faith, and after the words, the deeds that remain for our progeny are those that were written not with our lust, but with our love--not with our hands scrubbed clean, but with dirt beneath our fingernails.
That kind of dirt only wants to be dirt.
Really, it's dust. It's like the five-year old dressing up as Superman or Cinderella or Super-Cinderella.
No; today's blog is about actual dirt that is thick and everywhere and underneath the grass and when you hold it you feel the weight of it and you sometimes have to say, Wow, that is some serious dirt right there.
I'm writing about dirt today because Tyler has been having a love affair with the stuff lately. For a total of two hours and 25 minutes today, we sat in the backyard and dug in the dirt. Some neighbors were kind enough to bequeath us a large pile of dirt left over from their garden, and Tyler and I put it to excellent use.
We dumped it on the path that Jennifer had cleared away yesterday, and then we went town building Muddy Monsters, towers, large piles and small piles, and also sifting through it to find worms of various sizes. Each time we spotted a worm, Tyler's delighted voice rang out, "I hold that worm on my finger, Daddy?" and my voice rang in response, "Yeah!"
Many worms and ladybugs later (yes, we took some brief breaks from the dirt to explode the grass, and it was certainly amazing to watch how the weight of a ladybug tips a blade of grass back on itself at the median) we went inside for some juice, crackers with humous, and a nap. Well, Tyler napped, and I tried to organize our little study a bit.
But I couldn't stop thinking about dirt. I still can't.
And there indeed plenty of other stuff to think about. There are books to be written, projects to tackle, things to fix, financial situations to worry-over-but-then-pray-and-remind-myself-not-to-worry-over-them-and-keep-working, dishes to be cleaned and generic-brand Lego blocks to be picked up from the living room floor.
But dirt.
Man. DIRT.
See, the thing about dirt is that you never have to question whether it's there. You get your hands in the soil and you know it right away. It's there. You feel it, to see it, its dirt-ness gets right in through your skin and into some part of you that feels stuff like, well, dirt.
In a world where so much is in our minds--where so much is talked about, written about, discussed, and conjectured, I notice, today, how good dirt feels. How real. How tangible. How here.
For my current writing project, I have been allowing Robert Frost's definition of poetry to knock me upside the head as many times as I can let it without going blind. Frost wrote this: "My definition of poetry, if I were forced to give one, would be this: words that become deeds."
Words that become deeds.
Dirt is like that. Dirt was once a word. When God said, "Let it be!" and it was, the dirt became deed. It became real and earthy and thick and the way it is today, and the way we are today.
We live in a culture where it's so easy for words not to become deeds. We live in a society where we can say and write a whole lot of things but never really back them up or believe them or make good on the promises they hold within their letters.
But how do we live like poems? How do we allow our lives to be so imbued with action that the words we form in peace and silence and rest are not the Forewords of what we hope to be but the Afterwords of what we already have been becoming? How can we use words that begin as seeds but, by the time their meaning breaks free, become the very fruit that feeds us?
One humble suggestion is to go back.
To the dirt.
To go outside, roll up our sleeves, dig away a patch of grass and then plunge our hands right into the earth, worms and all. Let the dirt get in under our fingernails. (We can wash it off later, before dinner.) Grab a couple handfuls and roll that dirt around like it's as precious as the money we've got in our wallets, the dreams we've got in our hearts, the peace we so deeply fear.
William Faulkner said in his 1950 Nobel prize acceptance speech that "the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart, which alone can make good writing." Instead, Faulkner says, we're writing about lust and glands rather than the conflict that arises out of really trying to love.
One might say our tendency is to ease into grabbing the fruit without ever acknowledging the soil from which it came. We might honor Faulkner and Frost both by trying to remind ourselves of what matters--that before the words, there was the faith, and after the words, the deeds that remain for our progeny are those that were written not with our lust, but with our love--not with our hands scrubbed clean, but with dirt beneath our fingernails.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Way We Walk
Today, as I made my way in the city center (or, rather, the City Centre as it's written on all the signs from Fulford Road on into York) I tried to really look at people as we crossed paths. Their faces so often seemed etched with concern. Most of us, I realize, look down as we walk, bundled up with our scarves, our coats zipped up to just beneath our chins, considering how we'll make it through the day, what we'll do about the problems that face us, how we'll find some way of living with freedom and hope.
As I passed the huge diggers that line a section of Main Street, I recalled how Tyler and I stood in front of them only yesterday, his eyes gazing on them as though they were a gift from God, placed there with their metal shovels, mounds of dirt, and massive wheels for his viewing pleasure.
Where are the diggers for us adults? What are the visions that call our eyes to look up and out upon something that warms us?
I think that for most of us, we reach a certain age and the idealism, perhaps, kicks off. Change the world? Naw. Too difficult. Too complicated.
Love in freedom? Hah! Impossible. Too many problems. Too many people telling us it's not that easy.
Do what brings joy to your heart? As if! Anyone who thinks it's possible to live in a world where capitalism is king and still follow your dreams--well, you haven't woken up yet. But you will. (Voice furrows eyebrows and nods slowly) Oh, you will.
Whatever reasons we have for letting go of simple joys like seeing a digger on the sidewalks of our lives, we do. It happens to us all. It's the time-tested and impenetrable subject of all great literature, from Homer to Shakespeare to Harper Lee to Toni Morrison.
Our English teachers (including myself, here) call it The Journey from Innocence to Experience, and I'm sure many of us have filled in flow charts and graphs finding the precise points when characters let go of Innocence and claimed Experience as their rallying cry.
And right they should. There is, truthfully, no other way.
But the question that ping-pongs itself back and froth across the gooey web of mess behind my eyes is: Whoever decided Experience would only have one face?
When we walk, most of our hearts are heavy for two reasons, I would venture: money and success. We have neither and want both. We have one but not the other. We have both but want more.
We tell our wive or husbands to wait. We tell our kids to hold on. We laugh our hearts down and we bully our souls. Not down, dang it all!
Instead, we must get a little more money, a little more success.
We convince ourselves--like heroin addicts--that one more hit will be enough. Just one more promotion. One more sale. One more account. One more title.
Just a bit more money. A touch more for retirement. A few extra dollars in this account. A bit more spending cash. Then--YES! THEN!--everything will be good and there'll be time to hug our kids and talk to our husbands and wives and listen to our hearts and remove our hands from the mouths of our souls.
Yes: Then there will be time and there will be space. Just let us finish our checklist of Capitalism's Approval! Is that so hard? Sheesh!
But then, there's the way we walk.
That stubborn demonstration of what's really going on inside us. Who we really are.
See, we don't walk like a free people.
We don't walk with our heads facing up and out.
We don't walk with a sense of authenticity about us.
We don't walk like people who feel pain but band together and somehow make it through.
We walk like people who live in captivity, constantly reminding ourselves that one more slice of the pie will bring us just enough freedom to let go of the whole game, once and for all.
But the truth is: no one wins. None of us, no matter how much we dedicate our lives to the gods of money and success, ever win.
And that, I think, is the real reason we walk the way we do. Deep down, we know it. We know we can never win. But, what would everyone think of us if we stopped playing the game?! How could we!? They'd think we have gone mad!
But maybe we'd walk a little freer. Perhaps we'd hug our kids a little tighter, listen to our wives and husbands a little more, laugh a little easier.
The interesting thing about walking is that you can do it differently every time out. Just because we may have walked a certain way into work today, doesn't mean we have to walk that same way home. There are countless ways to watch your feet slap the pavement of time, countless paths to take, countless visions to behold.
Maybe it's time to try something different. After all, who knows what diggers may sit on the sidewalks we have yet to discover.
As I passed the huge diggers that line a section of Main Street, I recalled how Tyler and I stood in front of them only yesterday, his eyes gazing on them as though they were a gift from God, placed there with their metal shovels, mounds of dirt, and massive wheels for his viewing pleasure.
Where are the diggers for us adults? What are the visions that call our eyes to look up and out upon something that warms us?
I think that for most of us, we reach a certain age and the idealism, perhaps, kicks off. Change the world? Naw. Too difficult. Too complicated.
Love in freedom? Hah! Impossible. Too many problems. Too many people telling us it's not that easy.
Do what brings joy to your heart? As if! Anyone who thinks it's possible to live in a world where capitalism is king and still follow your dreams--well, you haven't woken up yet. But you will. (Voice furrows eyebrows and nods slowly) Oh, you will.
Whatever reasons we have for letting go of simple joys like seeing a digger on the sidewalks of our lives, we do. It happens to us all. It's the time-tested and impenetrable subject of all great literature, from Homer to Shakespeare to Harper Lee to Toni Morrison.
Our English teachers (including myself, here) call it The Journey from Innocence to Experience, and I'm sure many of us have filled in flow charts and graphs finding the precise points when characters let go of Innocence and claimed Experience as their rallying cry.
And right they should. There is, truthfully, no other way.
But the question that ping-pongs itself back and froth across the gooey web of mess behind my eyes is: Whoever decided Experience would only have one face?
When we walk, most of our hearts are heavy for two reasons, I would venture: money and success. We have neither and want both. We have one but not the other. We have both but want more.
We tell our wive or husbands to wait. We tell our kids to hold on. We laugh our hearts down and we bully our souls. Not down, dang it all!
Instead, we must get a little more money, a little more success.
We convince ourselves--like heroin addicts--that one more hit will be enough. Just one more promotion. One more sale. One more account. One more title.
Just a bit more money. A touch more for retirement. A few extra dollars in this account. A bit more spending cash. Then--YES! THEN!--everything will be good and there'll be time to hug our kids and talk to our husbands and wives and listen to our hearts and remove our hands from the mouths of our souls.
Yes: Then there will be time and there will be space. Just let us finish our checklist of Capitalism's Approval! Is that so hard? Sheesh!
But then, there's the way we walk.
That stubborn demonstration of what's really going on inside us. Who we really are.
See, we don't walk like a free people.
We don't walk with our heads facing up and out.
We don't walk with a sense of authenticity about us.
We don't walk like people who feel pain but band together and somehow make it through.
We walk like people who live in captivity, constantly reminding ourselves that one more slice of the pie will bring us just enough freedom to let go of the whole game, once and for all.
But the truth is: no one wins. None of us, no matter how much we dedicate our lives to the gods of money and success, ever win.
And that, I think, is the real reason we walk the way we do. Deep down, we know it. We know we can never win. But, what would everyone think of us if we stopped playing the game?! How could we!? They'd think we have gone mad!
But maybe we'd walk a little freer. Perhaps we'd hug our kids a little tighter, listen to our wives and husbands a little more, laugh a little easier.
The interesting thing about walking is that you can do it differently every time out. Just because we may have walked a certain way into work today, doesn't mean we have to walk that same way home. There are countless ways to watch your feet slap the pavement of time, countless paths to take, countless visions to behold.
Maybe it's time to try something different. After all, who knows what diggers may sit on the sidewalks we have yet to discover.
Monday, October 25, 2010
On Money
Money? Whoa...whoa. Hold on just a moment. I thought this blog was about literature, England, writing, stay-at-home-daddying, faith, inspiration...any of a number of other assorted things that can be discussed, but not money.
Why money?
I guess the simple answer is that it has been coming up lately. A lot.
We recently attended a church service where the pastor preached a message imbued with the notion of the "prosperity gospel." And it stuck to me like moldy jam.
Thing is, our world is involved in a love affair with money. And I get it. I do. It wasn't long ago--when Oprah had aired a segment on the book The Secret and was telling everybody to make dream boards and cut out pictures of their dream houses and paste them on, the cars they wanted, the designer kitchens and clothes and everything else--and I made one. I admit it.
On mine, I had pictures of my novels with the words "The International Bestseller" on top, and a big, beautiful home, and all kinds of other "stuff."
Stuff.
So I know what that's like--to chase down the American Dream that everybody's screaming at us to go after. Fo goodness sakes: buy a house, buy stock, buy properties, buy a nice car, buy a nice shirt, buy a nice aftershave, buy a nice computer, buy a good insurance policy, buy a good wallet to house the good money that you need to GET MORE OF!
The funny thing--the really funny thing--is: why?
Why?
I mean, if we really pasue for a moment and try and articulate thoughtful responses for these seemingly endless demands hurled at us from a culture media-frenzied enough to beg for more people telling us what we need to achieve the American Dream, then we may come to some startling conclusions.
Startling Conclusion #1:
Are people really happier when they own more stuff?
No.
I don't mean to sound like a know-it-all here (and of course, I know basically next to nothing. Or, perhaps a better way (a more poetic way) to phrase it is to borrow and paraphrase Isaac Newton's words on the matter of ignorance: knowledge and wisdom are the ocean, and I have played with a few grains of sand. So, what I'm doing here is maybe playing with a few grains of sand).
Okay, Okay. One grain of sand.
In my limited experience of life, I haven't found anyone who is happier because they own more stuff. In fact, I've observed the inverse to be true. The people I've met who have many properties, cars, extra rooms, etc., seem to have a lot more stress and worry in their lives. It seems like they often discuss what is going on with all of the "stuff" they have, and think about how they can gain more "stuff."
That doesn't sound much like freedom to me. Though the possession of money parades itself around as a way to achieve freedom and a better life, its masquerade quite possibly disguises its real intention and masterful ability as an overseer.
In short, I haven't met very many people who own tons, and appear free. Most often, they live as indentured servants to their own stuff. Their stuff comes to own them more than they own it.
Startling Conclusion #2:
The Lie of Ease. I'll be honest here. I didn't want to live without a dryer this year. I knew ahead of time that I would be the stay-at-home parent, and I had visions of my little man spilling yogurt all over himself, or oatmeal, or juice, or any number of assorted foods and other beverages. I thought to myself: Self, there's going to be a lot of laundry this year. Thus, in our first week here in York, I called Comet (I guess a sort of appliance store in the UK) and ordered a 200 pound (currency, not weight) drying machine.
Job well done.
So I thought.
But then we started getting calls about problems with our USAA credit card. The order didn't go through, and instead of getting the dryer, we handled the mix-up ("Yes, USAA Customer Service, we are living in the UK, etc..") and decided not to buy the dryer after all.
Initially, I thought it would be really tough for us.
But it's not.
Instead, it's gleefully freeing.
Okay, maybe I added the "gleefully" part a bit on the hyperbolic front. But it is freeing. Really. We usually do a wash at night, and then drape our underwear, socks, pants, and other such items over the radiators before we go to bed.
In the morning, it's like teh Santa Clause of the Laundromat came: dry clothes!
It started me thinking on the lie we often here when it comes to having more money so that we can purchase more things so that we can have more time to relax. However, instead of relaxing, we often spend the time fixing, venting, exchanging, or trying to figure our said things.
Case in point: how many people do you know who haven't spent hours and more pored over their technologically brilliant flat-screen televisions and computers and all the rest, trying to figure out just where the heck the "on" switch is?
The great lie is that having more, and better, stuff doesn't always make out lives easier or more relaxing. Indeed, it can often have the exact opposite result.
Startling Conclusion #3
We all die.
Ouch.
Even me?
Yes, Luke.
But WHY!
Because.
Fine.
Fine.
So, if we all die, we've got to ask ourselves a hard question about money. What's the point? It's kind of like a kid at a playgroup. (I only feel entitled to make this analogy because I've clocked quite a few playgroup hours in the last three weeks.)
In a playgroup, there are always those kids who want to slowly but steadily gather as many of the toys as possible to their general spheres of dominance. Even if that kid's mom or dad says something like, "Honey, ten more minutes and then we've got to go," the kid will still relentlessly (and perhaps even more strenuously) try to get as many toys as possible.
But the thing is--and what I really want to stay to that kid--is this: "Buddy, you're leaving in five minutes! Then, those toys that you spent so much of your playtime hoarding are gone. We're putting them back in the closet for more kids to get in the next playgroup. Why not find a toy or two you like and actually play with it!"
(Whenever I try to say that to said kid, he usually repsonds, "You're not my Daddy!!")
(Okay, I've never actually said that to a kid. Probably wouldn't.)
Simple analogy, perhaps. But really, think about it. Why spend your life gathering a whole bunch of toys when some grwon-up, at some point when you really can't expect it, is going to yell out, Okay, toys in the closet, playgroup is over!"?
Why spend our lives trying to gather more and more when the reality is: how much can we really play with?
Really?
Startling Conclusion #4:
Other people need it.
Really.
I mean: need it.
I'm not espousing any ism here, I'm just trying to think clearly and simply. If you're sitting at a table with four other people, and you've got a full, bar-b-q chicken, three ears of corn on the cob dripping with butter, peas, mashed potatoes with gravy, a tall glass of milk, the gallon of milk nearby, fresh bread, and summer squash, and the other four are slwly grinding their way thoguh day-old bread and water...what do we do?
Really.
We don't need to call it any sort of theory of govering, or talk about forms of government, or theology, or anythign else.
It's a simple question for us all. What do we do.
And the answer is pretty simple as well: we share.
We don't interrogate the other four people, asking questions like, "Now, why don't you have more food yourself?" and "Did you ever, at any point in your life, have more food? If so, what happened, why, and how are you to blame for no longer having said food?"
Nope. We just simply share.
After all, we couldn't eat that feast ourselves anyway.
I guess the point with this rather long, long (long), long blog today is a simple one. We know we all want money. Everyone on television tells us we should more money. Our friends tell us we should get more money. Our families tell us we should get more money. Heck, strangers even tell us we should get more money.
The question I'm asking, then, is a simple one:
Why?
Why money?
I guess the simple answer is that it has been coming up lately. A lot.
We recently attended a church service where the pastor preached a message imbued with the notion of the "prosperity gospel." And it stuck to me like moldy jam.
Thing is, our world is involved in a love affair with money. And I get it. I do. It wasn't long ago--when Oprah had aired a segment on the book The Secret and was telling everybody to make dream boards and cut out pictures of their dream houses and paste them on, the cars they wanted, the designer kitchens and clothes and everything else--and I made one. I admit it.
On mine, I had pictures of my novels with the words "The International Bestseller" on top, and a big, beautiful home, and all kinds of other "stuff."
Stuff.
So I know what that's like--to chase down the American Dream that everybody's screaming at us to go after. Fo goodness sakes: buy a house, buy stock, buy properties, buy a nice car, buy a nice shirt, buy a nice aftershave, buy a nice computer, buy a good insurance policy, buy a good wallet to house the good money that you need to GET MORE OF!
The funny thing--the really funny thing--is: why?
Why?
I mean, if we really pasue for a moment and try and articulate thoughtful responses for these seemingly endless demands hurled at us from a culture media-frenzied enough to beg for more people telling us what we need to achieve the American Dream, then we may come to some startling conclusions.
Startling Conclusion #1:
Are people really happier when they own more stuff?
No.
I don't mean to sound like a know-it-all here (and of course, I know basically next to nothing. Or, perhaps a better way (a more poetic way) to phrase it is to borrow and paraphrase Isaac Newton's words on the matter of ignorance: knowledge and wisdom are the ocean, and I have played with a few grains of sand. So, what I'm doing here is maybe playing with a few grains of sand).
Okay, Okay. One grain of sand.
In my limited experience of life, I haven't found anyone who is happier because they own more stuff. In fact, I've observed the inverse to be true. The people I've met who have many properties, cars, extra rooms, etc., seem to have a lot more stress and worry in their lives. It seems like they often discuss what is going on with all of the "stuff" they have, and think about how they can gain more "stuff."
That doesn't sound much like freedom to me. Though the possession of money parades itself around as a way to achieve freedom and a better life, its masquerade quite possibly disguises its real intention and masterful ability as an overseer.
In short, I haven't met very many people who own tons, and appear free. Most often, they live as indentured servants to their own stuff. Their stuff comes to own them more than they own it.
Startling Conclusion #2:
The Lie of Ease. I'll be honest here. I didn't want to live without a dryer this year. I knew ahead of time that I would be the stay-at-home parent, and I had visions of my little man spilling yogurt all over himself, or oatmeal, or juice, or any number of assorted foods and other beverages. I thought to myself: Self, there's going to be a lot of laundry this year. Thus, in our first week here in York, I called Comet (I guess a sort of appliance store in the UK) and ordered a 200 pound (currency, not weight) drying machine.
Job well done.
So I thought.
But then we started getting calls about problems with our USAA credit card. The order didn't go through, and instead of getting the dryer, we handled the mix-up ("Yes, USAA Customer Service, we are living in the UK, etc..") and decided not to buy the dryer after all.
Initially, I thought it would be really tough for us.
But it's not.
Instead, it's gleefully freeing.
Okay, maybe I added the "gleefully" part a bit on the hyperbolic front. But it is freeing. Really. We usually do a wash at night, and then drape our underwear, socks, pants, and other such items over the radiators before we go to bed.
In the morning, it's like teh Santa Clause of the Laundromat came: dry clothes!
It started me thinking on the lie we often here when it comes to having more money so that we can purchase more things so that we can have more time to relax. However, instead of relaxing, we often spend the time fixing, venting, exchanging, or trying to figure our said things.
Case in point: how many people do you know who haven't spent hours and more pored over their technologically brilliant flat-screen televisions and computers and all the rest, trying to figure out just where the heck the "on" switch is?
The great lie is that having more, and better, stuff doesn't always make out lives easier or more relaxing. Indeed, it can often have the exact opposite result.
Startling Conclusion #3
We all die.
Ouch.
Even me?
Yes, Luke.
But WHY!
Because.
Fine.
Fine.
So, if we all die, we've got to ask ourselves a hard question about money. What's the point? It's kind of like a kid at a playgroup. (I only feel entitled to make this analogy because I've clocked quite a few playgroup hours in the last three weeks.)
In a playgroup, there are always those kids who want to slowly but steadily gather as many of the toys as possible to their general spheres of dominance. Even if that kid's mom or dad says something like, "Honey, ten more minutes and then we've got to go," the kid will still relentlessly (and perhaps even more strenuously) try to get as many toys as possible.
But the thing is--and what I really want to stay to that kid--is this: "Buddy, you're leaving in five minutes! Then, those toys that you spent so much of your playtime hoarding are gone. We're putting them back in the closet for more kids to get in the next playgroup. Why not find a toy or two you like and actually play with it!"
(Whenever I try to say that to said kid, he usually repsonds, "You're not my Daddy!!")
(Okay, I've never actually said that to a kid. Probably wouldn't.)
Simple analogy, perhaps. But really, think about it. Why spend your life gathering a whole bunch of toys when some grwon-up, at some point when you really can't expect it, is going to yell out, Okay, toys in the closet, playgroup is over!"?
Why spend our lives trying to gather more and more when the reality is: how much can we really play with?
Really?
Startling Conclusion #4:
Other people need it.
Really.
I mean: need it.
I'm not espousing any ism here, I'm just trying to think clearly and simply. If you're sitting at a table with four other people, and you've got a full, bar-b-q chicken, three ears of corn on the cob dripping with butter, peas, mashed potatoes with gravy, a tall glass of milk, the gallon of milk nearby, fresh bread, and summer squash, and the other four are slwly grinding their way thoguh day-old bread and water...what do we do?
Really.
We don't need to call it any sort of theory of govering, or talk about forms of government, or theology, or anythign else.
It's a simple question for us all. What do we do.
And the answer is pretty simple as well: we share.
We don't interrogate the other four people, asking questions like, "Now, why don't you have more food yourself?" and "Did you ever, at any point in your life, have more food? If so, what happened, why, and how are you to blame for no longer having said food?"
Nope. We just simply share.
After all, we couldn't eat that feast ourselves anyway.
I guess the point with this rather long, long (long), long blog today is a simple one. We know we all want money. Everyone on television tells us we should more money. Our friends tell us we should get more money. Our families tell us we should get more money. Heck, strangers even tell us we should get more money.
The question I'm asking, then, is a simple one:
Why?
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