My wife called me out of the shower to see the sight. “Jim, there are wild turkeys outside!” I wrapped myself in a towel and ran to the front window. Six wild turkeys were making their way across the street into our front yard. They pecked their way up around the driveway and discovered the bird seed dropped by our piggy birds from their perches in the trees. Our birds are so well fed that they do not have to be careful about dropping food, much to the delight of the squirrels and now the turkeys.
I dripped my way from room to room in my house as the turkeys moved through the yard to the woods out back - six turkeys, each in its own right a spectacle. But six together, well that is an even bigger spectacle – maybe qualifying as a superspectacle, if there is such a word. If superstar football players can make superspectacular plays, then my turkeys can be a superspectacle.
Later in the day my wife called out, “Jim, the turkeys are back. And there are more of them.” I hurried to count them and this time there were seven. I was not too excited. I had already seen six that day and so one more was not a big deal. If there had been ten, then there would have been something to crow, or gobble, about.
An hour later I spotted three swans swimming down in the creek at the end of the street. I had not seen any swans since the summer, and the group of these snow white long necked beauties against the ice floes on the banks of the creek was quite a sight. And then they were joined by two more swans from across the creek and the five glided together. This called for an even closer look.
But there were only five. I had just seen seven turkeys. The turkeys had raised the bar for my sense of appreciation of nature. Even eight swans would not have been enough. If it took me ten turkeys to get excited, then it would take at least eleven swans to reach that level of euphoria.
As you can tell, my sense of appreciation is warped. I require volume. A few summers ago my daughter’s friend Danny exclaimed, “There’s a deer in your yard!” “How many deer?” I asked. “One.” One is not enough. We have deer all the time. It takes a least four deer to get me out of my chair. I demand volume.
I am not the only one who likes volume. Mariah Carey’s boyfriend recently tried to send her ten dozen roses, but there were not enough in the whole city to make up the order. I am sure that the several dozen that were delivered greatly disappointed her. It all depends on what you are used to. My wife is always thrilled on the rare occasion that I spring for a dozen roses. I have set the bar pretty low on the category of roses.
But back to the turkeys. You thought I never left them? I think I know where this volume problem started. It began way back in the middle ages with the publication of the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” You know, that is the one that begins, “On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree.” You will recall that the lover raised the bar day by day, “five gold rings,” “sev’n swans a swimming”… “ten lords a leaping,” up to “twelve drummers drumming.”
Enough already! When is enough enough? Why do I always want more? Is our culture a culture of more? Am I programmed to be dissatisfied with anything less than more? Have you ever seen a partridge in a pear tree? Wouldn’t that be wonderful thing all on its own?
Those questions are too weighty for me. I plan to spend my winter nights deciding just where to plant the pear tree. Or maybe I could plant a whole row. Or even several rows!
February 15, 2000
January 24, 2000
Flicker of Hope
My friend, Pat, is civic minded. Her town had a great idea during its tercentennial celebration several years ago. Every house in town would burn a lighted candle in a front window all day and night during the celebration. Pat liked the idea and she plugged in one of her Christmas candles in the picture window of her living room. She felt part of the celebration.
Time passed, the hoopla of a small town’s celebration died down, and the town moved on to other community issues. Lights were packed away to await the next Christmas season. But the light in Pat’s window remained on.
The light remained in the window for no particular reason other than it seemed like the right thing to do. It was a handy landmark for giving directions to her house. Pat is always giving out directions to strangers. She is known in the area as the woman who rehabilitates injured birds and people call frequently with injured owls, hawks and other birds of prey. She tells them to look for the light in the window.
One day, while dropping off an injured bird, a woman asked, “What is the light in the window for?” Pat had no ready explanation, but being quick on her feet, replied, “Oh, that’s a flicker of hope for the birds.”
The light, with its small incandescent bulb, shines brightly in Pat’s neighborhood. Across the street is an older couple who have had more than their share of illnesses and surgeries over the last few years. Pat and her husband have helped out in small ways when needed. The woman told Pat, “When my husband and I are in pain and just cannot sleep, we look out across the street and see your light. We know that you are always there if we need you. That means so much to us.”
Light bulbs do wear out. Sometimes in the middle of the night Pat awakes with the sense that the light has gone out. And perhaps this is the night that her neighbors need to see the light the most. Invariably her sense is right when she checks the light. A quick replacement is substituted from the important reserve supply.
Recently Pat has had her own medical problems. And she noticed that her neighbor across the street had left one candle burning in the window after the Christmas holidays had passed. She called her neighbor and said, “I see that you have a light burning in the front window.” “Keep smiling, Pat,” the woman said. Their roles had reversed. The light gone out from one house had reflected back. The flicker of hope had returned.
Hope keeps us going. The Czech leader Vaclav Havel said, “Hope is not a prognostication. It is an orientation of the spirit … it transcends the world that is immediately experienced, and is anchored somewhere beyond its horizons.” We could argue forever about the ultimate source, the anchor, but it is clear that we each can be an anchor by orienting our spirit. And the orientation may be not toward anyone or anything but merely out. The recipients, those we somehow touch, will show up. One small flicker of hope will reach another and another and another. My light goes on today.
Time passed, the hoopla of a small town’s celebration died down, and the town moved on to other community issues. Lights were packed away to await the next Christmas season. But the light in Pat’s window remained on.
The light remained in the window for no particular reason other than it seemed like the right thing to do. It was a handy landmark for giving directions to her house. Pat is always giving out directions to strangers. She is known in the area as the woman who rehabilitates injured birds and people call frequently with injured owls, hawks and other birds of prey. She tells them to look for the light in the window.
One day, while dropping off an injured bird, a woman asked, “What is the light in the window for?” Pat had no ready explanation, but being quick on her feet, replied, “Oh, that’s a flicker of hope for the birds.”
The light, with its small incandescent bulb, shines brightly in Pat’s neighborhood. Across the street is an older couple who have had more than their share of illnesses and surgeries over the last few years. Pat and her husband have helped out in small ways when needed. The woman told Pat, “When my husband and I are in pain and just cannot sleep, we look out across the street and see your light. We know that you are always there if we need you. That means so much to us.”
Light bulbs do wear out. Sometimes in the middle of the night Pat awakes with the sense that the light has gone out. And perhaps this is the night that her neighbors need to see the light the most. Invariably her sense is right when she checks the light. A quick replacement is substituted from the important reserve supply.
Recently Pat has had her own medical problems. And she noticed that her neighbor across the street had left one candle burning in the window after the Christmas holidays had passed. She called her neighbor and said, “I see that you have a light burning in the front window.” “Keep smiling, Pat,” the woman said. Their roles had reversed. The light gone out from one house had reflected back. The flicker of hope had returned.
Hope keeps us going. The Czech leader Vaclav Havel said, “Hope is not a prognostication. It is an orientation of the spirit … it transcends the world that is immediately experienced, and is anchored somewhere beyond its horizons.” We could argue forever about the ultimate source, the anchor, but it is clear that we each can be an anchor by orienting our spirit. And the orientation may be not toward anyone or anything but merely out. The recipients, those we somehow touch, will show up. One small flicker of hope will reach another and another and another. My light goes on today.
January 6, 2000
The Fire Truck
"Another funeral,” I said to myself as I turned my car onto the street which runs down to Newburyport Center. I often travel this route which passes the Roman Catholic Church which fills the block. Instead of the usual empty row of spaces the road was filled with cars from a funeral procession. The hearse and the limousines for the family were parked and leading the way. A flash of red struck my eye. The early winter’s day had not yet yielded a touch of sunlight and the cold, hard, gray light blended all of the vehicles together. But one vehicle stood out: a shiny red fire truck.
My first reaction connected the scene to the recent tragedy in Worcester in which six firefighters lost their lives fighting a fire in an abandoned warehouse. Two of them entered the building after a report of homeless people living there. Those two became trapped and four more entered to save them. All fell, leaving seventeen fatherless children.
The funerals for those lost men were large public displays. Firefighters from around the country rallied in support of their fallen brethren. This display in Newburyport was too small to be connected – just one small fire truck. And yet I am sure that someone was rendered fatherless in Newburyport too.
The fire truck was not of recent vintage. It was too small and too rounded. Today’s trucks are large and have sharp angles with boxy noses. This truck I recognized as from the fifties, from the era of my childhood. On most days in the late fifties I walked by the firehouse in my hometown. I never did go inside. My Cub Scout den never did make the trip. I would stop across the street and peer in at the vehicles. Only the front of the trucks showed in the late afternoon light; the rest faded into the shadows of the barn. Those big rounded fenders were perfect for reflecting light and pulsed as shiny as a new red apple. They were safe. They were always there and ready in case there was a fire at my house. My family was safe. I was safe.
At the funeral, the fire truck had been transported from a different time. Here forty years later it stood out as a red marker in the last ritual of life. Black is the ordinary color of death, and yet the deceased, or someone on his behalf, chose red to be his signature.
I know nothing about this deceased. I prefer to make it all up. I believe that this was his antique fire truck. Somehow the love of a child for things big and loud and red was never lost in him. He retained that playful glee and drove his truck in parades to share his childlike feeling with others. It would be only fitting that his favorite toy be at his last public performance.
One other detail must be mentioned: the fire truck was covered with flowers. The incongruity of this splash of colors and softness was shocking. This truck, which in its heyday carried many men on saving missions and perhaps on missions which cost them their lives, was covered with flowers. This symbol of his childhood and of his life was a final resting place for the beauty of this world.
I bet the deceased would have smiled. No, he would have been jumping up and down with glee. His toy had been transformed into something he had never considered. It lit up the lives of all those who drove past it that day – even in death, a serious, playful reminder of the joy of living.
My first reaction connected the scene to the recent tragedy in Worcester in which six firefighters lost their lives fighting a fire in an abandoned warehouse. Two of them entered the building after a report of homeless people living there. Those two became trapped and four more entered to save them. All fell, leaving seventeen fatherless children.
The funerals for those lost men were large public displays. Firefighters from around the country rallied in support of their fallen brethren. This display in Newburyport was too small to be connected – just one small fire truck. And yet I am sure that someone was rendered fatherless in Newburyport too.
The fire truck was not of recent vintage. It was too small and too rounded. Today’s trucks are large and have sharp angles with boxy noses. This truck I recognized as from the fifties, from the era of my childhood. On most days in the late fifties I walked by the firehouse in my hometown. I never did go inside. My Cub Scout den never did make the trip. I would stop across the street and peer in at the vehicles. Only the front of the trucks showed in the late afternoon light; the rest faded into the shadows of the barn. Those big rounded fenders were perfect for reflecting light and pulsed as shiny as a new red apple. They were safe. They were always there and ready in case there was a fire at my house. My family was safe. I was safe.
At the funeral, the fire truck had been transported from a different time. Here forty years later it stood out as a red marker in the last ritual of life. Black is the ordinary color of death, and yet the deceased, or someone on his behalf, chose red to be his signature.
I know nothing about this deceased. I prefer to make it all up. I believe that this was his antique fire truck. Somehow the love of a child for things big and loud and red was never lost in him. He retained that playful glee and drove his truck in parades to share his childlike feeling with others. It would be only fitting that his favorite toy be at his last public performance.
One other detail must be mentioned: the fire truck was covered with flowers. The incongruity of this splash of colors and softness was shocking. This truck, which in its heyday carried many men on saving missions and perhaps on missions which cost them their lives, was covered with flowers. This symbol of his childhood and of his life was a final resting place for the beauty of this world.
I bet the deceased would have smiled. No, he would have been jumping up and down with glee. His toy had been transformed into something he had never considered. It lit up the lives of all those who drove past it that day – even in death, a serious, playful reminder of the joy of living.
November 7, 1998
The Healing Service
I drove up to the church in the evening darkness and it came upon me quickly. A huge stone structure, first hiding in the trees, imposed from the hillside. The service was to be in the adjoining chapel and I was happy for the promise of a more intimate setting. But the chapel was bigger than many churches and it too had a high, sweeping vaulted ceiling. In the dim light I could make out a small circle of chairs. My heart seized and I wondered if I had made a mistake in coming here.
The phrase “healing service” had whispered in my ear and lured me here. I had never been to a healing service and I had no idea what it was about. Something in it suggested an intimacy and an intensity not normally part of a church service. That was the draw for me.
As I sat in the circle, preparations were made for the service. The leader warmed up at the piano which was part of the circle. Candles and more candles were lit and the room began to glow. A large crystal bowl of water reflected the light and the unknown. Slowly the circle filled.
We began with a hymn and then went around the circle telling why we were there. I had come out of curiosity. I had come to add to my repertoire of church experiences. But as the circle came round, it became clear that I had come to be healed.
The addition of school into my life has been difficult. School has been a succession of stressful events: papers and tests. Some I have handled well, some not so well. By “well” I do not mean the end product. I am referring to the process of writing the paper or studying for the test. Sometimes the process did not go well.
When it did not go well, I paid the price. Life became narrowly focused – focused on the project at hand. Everything and everyone else would fall by the wayside. I could feel the stress in my body. I felt like a balloon stretched to near breaking. If only I could release some air, some pressure. I worked with stress reduction techniques like hot baths and exercise. They brought only temporary relief.
Stress is just a sanitized word for fear. I do not like to think that I am fearful, so calling it stress puts the locus of the problem outside of me. I fool myself into believing that fear is not the problem. The problem is that thing out there that is stressing me. But the true locus of stress is internal and it is fear. I worked on my fear. I thought a lot about it, trying to figure out what was at its root. But that was just another dead end mind game.
My fear-full self sat with others in the circle. We did not talk about our problems. We did not talk about our fears. We did not talk about anything at all. Instead, we sang. We followed an enchanted woman who sat at the piano and drew us out of ourselves and into the circle. We sang of faith, wisdom, fear, trust, love, rage, despair, hope, sorrow, healing, freedom, joy and compassion. We sang of ourselves from our hearts.
Somehow that night I healed. But my healing was not a releasing event; it was a replacing event. During the service my heart opened – it opened to the world. The stress of school focus and self focus was replaced by a movement out into the world toward others.
The shift in focus diminished the impact of the fear on me. So maybe relieving stress does not mean doing less of the stressful activity, but means living and acting from a different place. A call to a loved one, a hug offered to a partner, or a note to a friend in need, may do more than any stress reduction plan.
It was hard to leave the candles and the glow of the circle that night. But leaving was made easier by knowing that something unneeded was to be left behind and something new had been gained. I left with the song of my heart.
The phrase “healing service” had whispered in my ear and lured me here. I had never been to a healing service and I had no idea what it was about. Something in it suggested an intimacy and an intensity not normally part of a church service. That was the draw for me.
As I sat in the circle, preparations were made for the service. The leader warmed up at the piano which was part of the circle. Candles and more candles were lit and the room began to glow. A large crystal bowl of water reflected the light and the unknown. Slowly the circle filled.
We began with a hymn and then went around the circle telling why we were there. I had come out of curiosity. I had come to add to my repertoire of church experiences. But as the circle came round, it became clear that I had come to be healed.
The addition of school into my life has been difficult. School has been a succession of stressful events: papers and tests. Some I have handled well, some not so well. By “well” I do not mean the end product. I am referring to the process of writing the paper or studying for the test. Sometimes the process did not go well.
When it did not go well, I paid the price. Life became narrowly focused – focused on the project at hand. Everything and everyone else would fall by the wayside. I could feel the stress in my body. I felt like a balloon stretched to near breaking. If only I could release some air, some pressure. I worked with stress reduction techniques like hot baths and exercise. They brought only temporary relief.
Stress is just a sanitized word for fear. I do not like to think that I am fearful, so calling it stress puts the locus of the problem outside of me. I fool myself into believing that fear is not the problem. The problem is that thing out there that is stressing me. But the true locus of stress is internal and it is fear. I worked on my fear. I thought a lot about it, trying to figure out what was at its root. But that was just another dead end mind game.
My fear-full self sat with others in the circle. We did not talk about our problems. We did not talk about our fears. We did not talk about anything at all. Instead, we sang. We followed an enchanted woman who sat at the piano and drew us out of ourselves and into the circle. We sang of faith, wisdom, fear, trust, love, rage, despair, hope, sorrow, healing, freedom, joy and compassion. We sang of ourselves from our hearts.
Somehow that night I healed. But my healing was not a releasing event; it was a replacing event. During the service my heart opened – it opened to the world. The stress of school focus and self focus was replaced by a movement out into the world toward others.
The shift in focus diminished the impact of the fear on me. So maybe relieving stress does not mean doing less of the stressful activity, but means living and acting from a different place. A call to a loved one, a hug offered to a partner, or a note to a friend in need, may do more than any stress reduction plan.
It was hard to leave the candles and the glow of the circle that night. But leaving was made easier by knowing that something unneeded was to be left behind and something new had been gained. I left with the song of my heart.
September 11, 1998
Leaving Home
The summer is almost over, but it has been a glorious adventure for my wife and me. We had a preview of the future as we practiced being empty-nesters. We took off on day trips without worrying about any child’s schedule. Meal times were no longer written in stone and we ate according to our clocks of the day. We breathed in deeply the silence and the solitude.
We were not alone all summer. Our son Taylor, age 16, was off working in New Hampshire for the entire summer, but our daughter, Meghan, age 20, was home for most of it, working and attending school. She left for New Hampshire for the last three weeks of the summer, and then we were alone.
I was excited when it came time for them to return on Labor Day. Sure, the silence, freedom and flexibility were wonderful, but something was missing from our home. I missed the loving presence of our children. They fill up our house to overflowing, with sounds, voices and emotions pouring out over the eaves. But they are our sounds, our voices and our emotions.
And now I am feeling a loss. This weekend my daughter will be moving into her first apartment in preparation for the new school year. It was bad enough when we sent her off to begin college, but college dorms were always a temporary, nine month arrangement. She would always have to come home at the end. But the apartment is a twelve month lease which will be followed by other leases and then some day mortgage payments. My daughter is leaving home for good.
The truth is that she left home three years ago when she went to work in New Hampshire for the summer after her senior year in high school. She has not lived here regularly ever since. But those events did not grab me. I did not want to believe that she was gone. To me she was always visiting some place else. Her home was always with us.
Now she will have her own home. Of course, this is exactly what she is supposed to be doing. Her future is not under my roof, nor should it be. But I feel the loss. This child who was laid in my arms twenty years ago in a hospital corridor now will walk proudly on her own.
I grab her arm and tell her only half-jokingly not to leave. She says she will be back but what she refers to as “back” and what I mean as “back” are not the same thing. She will not be one of those “boomerang kids” who leave but always move back home. She will be back to visit. She likes to visit her old parents and she always brings joy into the house with her. But visiting here and living here are not the same thing.
Change is upon us. Change is good, or so I have read. I am learning a new way of loving a child while saying hello and good-bye. They did not tell us about good-byes at childbirth classes. But I have learned that good-byes are just preparations for hellos. I will practice. I will learn. And I will love.
We were not alone all summer. Our son Taylor, age 16, was off working in New Hampshire for the entire summer, but our daughter, Meghan, age 20, was home for most of it, working and attending school. She left for New Hampshire for the last three weeks of the summer, and then we were alone.
I was excited when it came time for them to return on Labor Day. Sure, the silence, freedom and flexibility were wonderful, but something was missing from our home. I missed the loving presence of our children. They fill up our house to overflowing, with sounds, voices and emotions pouring out over the eaves. But they are our sounds, our voices and our emotions.
And now I am feeling a loss. This weekend my daughter will be moving into her first apartment in preparation for the new school year. It was bad enough when we sent her off to begin college, but college dorms were always a temporary, nine month arrangement. She would always have to come home at the end. But the apartment is a twelve month lease which will be followed by other leases and then some day mortgage payments. My daughter is leaving home for good.
The truth is that she left home three years ago when she went to work in New Hampshire for the summer after her senior year in high school. She has not lived here regularly ever since. But those events did not grab me. I did not want to believe that she was gone. To me she was always visiting some place else. Her home was always with us.
Now she will have her own home. Of course, this is exactly what she is supposed to be doing. Her future is not under my roof, nor should it be. But I feel the loss. This child who was laid in my arms twenty years ago in a hospital corridor now will walk proudly on her own.
I grab her arm and tell her only half-jokingly not to leave. She says she will be back but what she refers to as “back” and what I mean as “back” are not the same thing. She will not be one of those “boomerang kids” who leave but always move back home. She will be back to visit. She likes to visit her old parents and she always brings joy into the house with her. But visiting here and living here are not the same thing.
Change is upon us. Change is good, or so I have read. I am learning a new way of loving a child while saying hello and good-bye. They did not tell us about good-byes at childbirth classes. But I have learned that good-byes are just preparations for hellos. I will practice. I will learn. And I will love.
September 4, 1998
The Leak
A recent book about life on the PGA golf tour is titled “A Good Walk Spoiled.” My recent day could be called “A Good Day Spoiled.” It started out innocently enough and then it erupted.
My wife and I were driving to the neighboring city of Gloucester to have lunch. The subject of “the leak” came up. I do not blame this on my wife. I probably brought it up. Our sunporch has had a small leak since we bought the house a year ago. It has not been bothersome until recently when we installed a new carpet. Now it must be fixed.
Now you need to understand that I am not a handyman. There are few things around the house that I am qualified to do. Moving dirt is one. Putting it back is another. So any kind of projects fill me with dread. I know enough not to take them on. You will not find many unfinished projects around my house. I just never start them.
Fixing a small leak sounds easy enough. I bought some caulking and I think that I know the source. But the source is hidden by an awning which covers panels of glass in the ceiling of the sunporch. The awning must be removed and replaced, a job normally done by the awning company and a job which I cannot do alone.
We are driving along and I can feel my stomach knot up as the subject of the leak comes up. Most guys would be able to do this job alone. I know they could. And I feel bad that I cannot. I feel really bad. I continue driving, but now in silence. I have ended the conversation and turned onto the highway, but I did not want to get onto the highway. I will get off at the next exit. I am thinking about the leak. I miss the next exit. I wrestle the car off onto an alternate route and we drive on, still silent. My hands are squeezing the steering wheel into a different shape. I stare straight ahead with blinders on blocking out my wife sitting next to me and the rest of the world.
We reach our destination and my wife is the first to speak. Thank goodness, because I am locked into silence.
“What’s the matter?”
“The leak, I can’t stand thinking about the leak.”
We talk about it and she offers to help by making some phone calls to find someone to fix it. The anger erupting inside me is diffused. We move ahead together.
But this whole thing is really not about the leak. It is about the general level of stress in my life. I have a lot of new, big things about to start in my life and I am anxious about them. A few months ago conversation about the leak would not have bothered me at all. Today, it is a convenient flashpoint for my fear.
This is an old pattern which drains energy from my life. I can feel the energy being sucked out by fear. I used to lose days, weeks and months to this pattern, but now I recognize it earlier. I can counteract it. After our little trip I needed a nap. That is my reaction to stress. Others eat or drink, I sleep. But after the nap I went to an energy source, running. A good run restored the energy and got me moving again in my life.
So I am learning to live with my fears. We all have fear, but often it operates unseen below the surface. Recognizing the fear is the first step. But then I have to deal with it. I cannot think or reason away my fear, now matter how irrational it is. My taking action in spite of my fear is what diminishes it. I need to fight to continue to do what needs to be done. I need to fight to stay present and not tune out everyone and everything around me. I need to take proactive steps in the struggle. "A Good Day Spoiled" becomes "A Few Hours Spoiled." Progress.
My wife and I were driving to the neighboring city of Gloucester to have lunch. The subject of “the leak” came up. I do not blame this on my wife. I probably brought it up. Our sunporch has had a small leak since we bought the house a year ago. It has not been bothersome until recently when we installed a new carpet. Now it must be fixed.
Now you need to understand that I am not a handyman. There are few things around the house that I am qualified to do. Moving dirt is one. Putting it back is another. So any kind of projects fill me with dread. I know enough not to take them on. You will not find many unfinished projects around my house. I just never start them.
Fixing a small leak sounds easy enough. I bought some caulking and I think that I know the source. But the source is hidden by an awning which covers panels of glass in the ceiling of the sunporch. The awning must be removed and replaced, a job normally done by the awning company and a job which I cannot do alone.
We are driving along and I can feel my stomach knot up as the subject of the leak comes up. Most guys would be able to do this job alone. I know they could. And I feel bad that I cannot. I feel really bad. I continue driving, but now in silence. I have ended the conversation and turned onto the highway, but I did not want to get onto the highway. I will get off at the next exit. I am thinking about the leak. I miss the next exit. I wrestle the car off onto an alternate route and we drive on, still silent. My hands are squeezing the steering wheel into a different shape. I stare straight ahead with blinders on blocking out my wife sitting next to me and the rest of the world.
We reach our destination and my wife is the first to speak. Thank goodness, because I am locked into silence.
“What’s the matter?”
“The leak, I can’t stand thinking about the leak.”
We talk about it and she offers to help by making some phone calls to find someone to fix it. The anger erupting inside me is diffused. We move ahead together.
But this whole thing is really not about the leak. It is about the general level of stress in my life. I have a lot of new, big things about to start in my life and I am anxious about them. A few months ago conversation about the leak would not have bothered me at all. Today, it is a convenient flashpoint for my fear.
This is an old pattern which drains energy from my life. I can feel the energy being sucked out by fear. I used to lose days, weeks and months to this pattern, but now I recognize it earlier. I can counteract it. After our little trip I needed a nap. That is my reaction to stress. Others eat or drink, I sleep. But after the nap I went to an energy source, running. A good run restored the energy and got me moving again in my life.
So I am learning to live with my fears. We all have fear, but often it operates unseen below the surface. Recognizing the fear is the first step. But then I have to deal with it. I cannot think or reason away my fear, now matter how irrational it is. My taking action in spite of my fear is what diminishes it. I need to fight to continue to do what needs to be done. I need to fight to stay present and not tune out everyone and everything around me. I need to take proactive steps in the struggle. "A Good Day Spoiled" becomes "A Few Hours Spoiled." Progress.
September 2, 1998
Obsession
I need to tell you that I cannot write an issue of ZIGZAGS this week. I simply do not have time. You must understand that I want to write it. I want to do a lot of things. I want to eat, sleep, read the paper, watch TV, skim a novel, take a walk, talk to my family, be a friend – and that is just the beginning of the list. But I do not have time. I am busy studying theology.
I started divinity school last week and one of my courses is Systematic Theology. I love it. No, that is not enough – I really love it. How about I really, really, really love it. I am so excited about it that it has taken over my life, with my permission of course. If only I could read theology twenty four hours a day – that is my goal. All of the other stuff of life is stopping me and I resent that.
I have figured out how to read theology while eating, but I am still working on the sleeping time. There should be a way to make sleeping more active so that I could synthesize the study of theology with it. I recall the now-ancient suggestion of listening to tapes while you slept, but that never really caught on. My temporary solution is to be so wound up that I cannot go to sleep. I eventually do have to sleep, but I jump into theology mode at the first sign of any consciousness, thereby cutting short my sleep and making my day start way before dawn.
I know, you think that I am exaggerating – and you are right. I am still interacting with my family, seeing clients, and reading the sports page. But I am not exaggerating as much as you think I am. The stuff above is much closer to the truth than I would want to admit. It feels like an obsession, an addiction. Addiction can be defined as a repeated process which interferes with your life or the life of others. And right now theology is interfering in my life and the life of others.
I am working on balance. Oh how I hate that word. Instead I like to use the word priority. What are my priorities? Everything is not equal and in balance. Priorities shift, as they should. Right now, divinity school is a priority in my life, but its level of priority is out of whack. The excitement of this new study swells the priority. It just feels so good to study theology. So what do I do?
The answer is not to dampen the excitement, to put a lid on it and make life safe. This excitement is full of the best energy of life. I need to keep the excitement, keep the energy. But at the same time I must attend to the other areas of my life, even if I have to force myself to do it. Over time, the tension of the pulls of the different parts of my life will ease, but I must make sure that I do not do any damage in the meantime.
After all, I am just starting a big zig. When you start a big zig you are leaving the status quo, you are stirring up the pot, you are going into unfamiliar places. It will be messy for awhile. I had worked very hard to build my life just so. It was a life I knew. Even if it was boring, it was safe. This step out into a different life will never be easy, but it will always be exciting. At some point, taking the step is not a choice. I was at a place where I could not stay where I was. To keep the status quo would have caused a step back in life, and I want to move forward.
There are different kinds of zigs. Some zigs take you into excitement, but many take you into the land of pain. The zigs after a divorce or death of a love one will not be full of excitement. Most of the zigs that do not happen by our choice are painful.
Voluntary zigs, the ones which we initiate on our own, tend to be the ones full of new energy and excitement. Zigzaggers learn the terrain of this transition and are not surprised by the shake up of life caused by the zig. Sometimes they need blinders to just get started and they focus only on the one new thing. But soon they take off the blinders and look around. Life is everywhere. Opportunities to love are everywhere. And now they have this wonderful new energy to share.
Now if they could just get some sleep.
I started divinity school last week and one of my courses is Systematic Theology. I love it. No, that is not enough – I really love it. How about I really, really, really love it. I am so excited about it that it has taken over my life, with my permission of course. If only I could read theology twenty four hours a day – that is my goal. All of the other stuff of life is stopping me and I resent that.
I have figured out how to read theology while eating, but I am still working on the sleeping time. There should be a way to make sleeping more active so that I could synthesize the study of theology with it. I recall the now-ancient suggestion of listening to tapes while you slept, but that never really caught on. My temporary solution is to be so wound up that I cannot go to sleep. I eventually do have to sleep, but I jump into theology mode at the first sign of any consciousness, thereby cutting short my sleep and making my day start way before dawn.
I know, you think that I am exaggerating – and you are right. I am still interacting with my family, seeing clients, and reading the sports page. But I am not exaggerating as much as you think I am. The stuff above is much closer to the truth than I would want to admit. It feels like an obsession, an addiction. Addiction can be defined as a repeated process which interferes with your life or the life of others. And right now theology is interfering in my life and the life of others.
I am working on balance. Oh how I hate that word. Instead I like to use the word priority. What are my priorities? Everything is not equal and in balance. Priorities shift, as they should. Right now, divinity school is a priority in my life, but its level of priority is out of whack. The excitement of this new study swells the priority. It just feels so good to study theology. So what do I do?
The answer is not to dampen the excitement, to put a lid on it and make life safe. This excitement is full of the best energy of life. I need to keep the excitement, keep the energy. But at the same time I must attend to the other areas of my life, even if I have to force myself to do it. Over time, the tension of the pulls of the different parts of my life will ease, but I must make sure that I do not do any damage in the meantime.
After all, I am just starting a big zig. When you start a big zig you are leaving the status quo, you are stirring up the pot, you are going into unfamiliar places. It will be messy for awhile. I had worked very hard to build my life just so. It was a life I knew. Even if it was boring, it was safe. This step out into a different life will never be easy, but it will always be exciting. At some point, taking the step is not a choice. I was at a place where I could not stay where I was. To keep the status quo would have caused a step back in life, and I want to move forward.
There are different kinds of zigs. Some zigs take you into excitement, but many take you into the land of pain. The zigs after a divorce or death of a love one will not be full of excitement. Most of the zigs that do not happen by our choice are painful.
Voluntary zigs, the ones which we initiate on our own, tend to be the ones full of new energy and excitement. Zigzaggers learn the terrain of this transition and are not surprised by the shake up of life caused by the zig. Sometimes they need blinders to just get started and they focus only on the one new thing. But soon they take off the blinders and look around. Life is everywhere. Opportunities to love are everywhere. And now they have this wonderful new energy to share.
Now if they could just get some sleep.
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