I know a woman and her husband who have helped me find courage to be more of who I truly am.

A quick follow up from my last post about trying to set our agendas aside to be more present with humans.  Lest you think I have my act together, here is a story about how quickly I forgot the lessons from last week. As often happens, I received an extremely upset phone call from my close-family-member- with-dementia. She was having a fight w her caregiver over a trivial matter that I happened to know did not happen as she believed it did.  My agenda immediately became convey to her that her caregiver is one of the good guys with her best interests at heart, convince her both that she is wrong & this doesn’t matter, and to try to end the call as quickly as possible because emotionally charged calls with this person are draining and make me sad. Her agenda was to express her anger and seek support for how obviously wronged she had been. Although I listened sympathetically, I also pushed back on the “what actually happened” front. She hung up on me.

In the long list of trivial events that annoy us Humans, being hung up on is close to the top for me. I really, really don’t like being hung up on in the middle of an emotionally charged conversation. As we all know by now, I am “nice” and few things make me mad. This is one of them.  And it did the trick of highlighting what a dumb ass I was being. Not listening because of my agenda; hmmm, yes, that sounds familiar now that you mention it.  Sometimes what I need is to be whacked on head in order to be able to remember.  I took a deep breath, called her back, conveyed “You talk, I listen.” and then did my best to really listen to what she was trying to express.  Like a gasoline soaked rag in a Molotov cocktail, her words were soaked with fear; fear of not having her needs met, not being taken care of, not being valued enough to be listened to, being abandoned, being alone. It helped to have me stop trying to fix what the dementia would not let be fixed, and to listen to this Human who needed to be heard.

Many years ago at a family funeral, I witnessed one of the most brave and amazing things I have ever seen.  I believe the family member was in his mid-80s and died after an illness of several years.  His son and his son’s wife had taken care of him for quite awhile until the disease reached the point he needed a level of care requiring a nursing home.  During the funeral, his son got up, as expected, and did an amazing thing, that was not expected.  His son told the truth. He told the truth about his father who was not a nice person, who had been a destructive force in the lives of his family.  This was delivered without vengeance or anger.  It simply was truth of who this man was. It felt to me, and hopefully his son, that this was a powerful moment to be honest.  As I said, one of the most brave and amazing things I have ever seen.

For those of you who lean toward science fiction, there is a character in Orson Scott Card’s book Speaker for the Dead who belongs to a group tasked with attending funerals and speaking the truth about the deceased.  Their task is considered sacred and, once requested, no one can stop the Speaker from completing their work.  These people are tasked with presenting who the deceased truly was as a person, a complex person with faults and strengths, good and bad, beautiful and ugly, a full picture of a real human for all to witness. They are tasked with telling the truth.

I wonder if an even more powerful & more difficult task is for us to share and speak the truth about who we are when we are still alive.

I don’t know about you, but I have come to see that I happen to specialize in not revealing who I am. I probably have a trophy laying about someplace for this. About 10 years ago, I was having lunch with a good friend, we were talking about various challenges she was facing, and out of the blue she said, “You know, I don’t actually know very much about you.”  I realized she was completely right.  In all the years we had been friends, I had never shared much at all of who I was.  I specialized in appearing to be open and sharing when I am not actually doing so, it was a facade. In fact, I used the strengths I have (smart, “nice,” witty and hilarious…..oh, and attractive. Let’s not forget that) as tools to mask how little of myself I am honestly sharing. People got to see the me who was an acted character; not the naked, vulnerable, insecure, frightened me with a pack of demons under the stairs.

That nakedness and vulnerability is frightening, and liberating.  To be that honest about who we are, not even to the whole world (although wouldn’t that be game changing?), but to the people in *Your World*, the people you most cherish, you most love, you most want to see You, you most want to truly know who You are and have them somehow still love You.  Wow. Can you imagine?  How wonderful to be like that in the world; to be that brave, to have people in your life you felt that safe with.

Perhaps you have that, in which case go you (!), and I kind of hate you.  When I was younger, I was terrified of being that open, honest and vulnerable, and so I wasn’t.  I hid completely in plain sight.  Which sucked for everyone involved and messed up a lot of my relationships with the people in my life.  I am no longer terrified. Now I am just afraid of being that open, honest and vulnerable, so I strive to be that way every day even though sometimes I wet my pants from fear (Let’s pretend that is a hyperbole, ok?).  It is all part of that being Fearlessly Frightened thing.  So I try, and it often feels really awkward and weird, like I am just rambling, stuff pours out of my brain which I suspect makes absolutely no sense to the people in my life (which would explain some of the looks I have been getting lately).  Feels more like I am naked and oozing crazy than expressing honestly who I am and what I am thinking…..although I am certainly open to the idea that oozing crazy may in fact reflect the truth of who I am.  My goodness, that does sound attractive and like it will lead to closer, more intimate relationships with the people in my life. I mean what friend or potential romantic partner isn’t gonna want to signup for some oozing crazy? I cannot imagine that not being a great way to find love.  Bartender, another round of oozing crazy over here for me to share with those I care most deeply about!

I suspect that I am not alone with the challenge of being an authentic self in the world.  Again, this may not be you, in which case go you(!), and I still kind of hate you.  For the rest of us, what if we really are oozing crazy? What if the flaws we work so hard to hide are in fact unacceptable to other people? What if letting people, especially those we most ache and long to be with, know who we really are means we will be rejected, abandoned, and alone?  What if it is not even about being rejected? What if being honest about who we are is used against us as a weapon?  What if the people in our life use our revealed truths to hurt us? Of course, we might not really be oozing any especially crazy crazy, just standard crazy, but being authentic seems like a terrifying risk with high potential for being seriously hurt.

And (there is always an “and,” isn’t there?) what if we don’t take that risk? What if we hide who we are? Maybe this strategy will work well for you.  For me, hiding who I really am lead to me still being hurt, rejected, abandoned, and alone, and on top of that hiding who I am lead to me feeling isolated, misunderstood and unseen, which in the long run might hurt worse….emphasis on might.  I have been trying to do this Fearlessly Frightened, share-who-I-am strategy for a couple months. Mostly is still scary, although I don’t wet my pants as often (It is a hyperbole, people!). The main change I have noticed is I can’t go back to hiding like I used to do so well. Lots of days I wish I could.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

 I know a woman and her husband who gave me the chance to change how I interact with an important and difficult person in my life.

On a recent plane flight, I saw an airline staff person escorting an “unaccompanied minor” between flights, a boy of maybe 10 years old.  She double checked the paperwork with the other staff person and the boy when he was transferred to her to ensure that they all agreed he was going to the same destination (that would have been awkward to get wrong, huh?). She then waited with him, alternating between letting him zone with his phone and chatting with him.  Finally she took him down the jetway, waited until the crew confirmed he was seated.  My random act of kindness for the day was to thank her for taking this responsibility so seriously, telling her that my daughter flew many times as an “unaccompanied minor” and I was sure this boy’s parents would be especially grateful for how well she handled what is for parents a nerve-wracking travel adventure. The woman gave me back one of the biggest smiles I have seen in quite awhile.

When my daughter was a wee lass, I used to take her to zoos filled with amazing animals. Her favorite animals were squirrels and pigeons. I used to take her to botanical parks filled with amazing plants.  Her favorite part was the pigeons and squirrels. I used to take her to aquariums filled with amazing fish. Her favorite part was…. I don’t remember but it was not the fish.  I would love to be able to say that I was a wise enough parent to recognize that these outings weren’t about appreciating the animals, plants and fish.  The truth is I was not. Not that I ever discouraged her from appreciating the squirrels and pigeons because let’s face it squirrels and pigeons are Fun with a capital F, but I never stopped trying to “refocus” her onto the whatever bit of nature we were supposed to be admiring and “learning about.”  That is what I thought we were doing, that was my agenda. I don’t remember ever having done this but it wouldn’t surprise me if at some point on some outing I actually said something like, “We are here to enjoy the (insert activity) and damn it we are going to enjoy the (insert activity)!”  Sigh.  Talk about completely missing the point of our father-daughter outings.  On the bright side, we did pretty much always get ice cream.

I spent a few days recently with a close family member who has Alzheimer’s disease, and a “complicated history” spanning decades with all of us to whom she is a close family member.  When I interact with her, it sucks the marrow out of my soul (Do souls have marrow? Well, if they do, post interaction: soul marrow = gone). When I interact with her, it is the tangled roots of that complicated history which bring me stress, anger, and frustration & sadness both to the point of tears; and compassion, empathy, and a heartfelt wish to be something providing a measure of peace in her life.

The symptoms of her dementia are boulders which are becoming larger and more frequent in the stream, but the core difficulty lies in those tangled roots.  I was recently reminded that Family is often simultaneously the best and the absolute worst of the challenges we face in trying to navigate the waterways of human relationships, and that I seem to have really been “rewarded w a particularly complex matrix of familial bullshit.” I laughed really hard at that, and also recognized the wisdom it contained. I have indeed been “rewarded w a particularly complex matrix of familial bullshit.” Of course, I know I am not alone.  I also know, without being too much of a Damn Hippie about it, that I am lucky to have been given repeated opportunities to learn how to swim in the rapids and troubled waters. I am a much better swimmer because of it.  The matrix of our familial bullshit is a huge part of the murky waters that shape the kind of swimmers we are.

My close family member has significant cognitive impairment, but still a long way to fall down the nightmare well into nothingness that comes with this dementia.  During my visit we went to the zoo.  We went to the botanical park.  We went to the aquarium.  Although she attended to more than the squirrels and pigeons (which are still Fun), it was instantly apparent after we were only a few feet into the zoo this was not really going to be a trip to the zoo (or botanical park, or aquarium).  Unlike when my daughter was a wee lass, somehow from my initial annoyance and frustration (We are here to zoo! This is NOT how people are supposed to zoo!!), a tiny bubble of awareness rose within me and I was miraculously able to step back and see this was not about us enjoying the zoo.  It was about spending time together, me being gentle, me being tolerant, me setting aside an agenda of what it meant to “go to the zoo,” and instead just be with her, wherever that took us.  Weird, right? I suspect performing daily random acts of kindness across the last months had some thing to do with it, but who knows.

This pattern repeated itself multiple times over the 4-day visit, and each time it took recognition that I had an agenda and a conscious effort to set that agenda aside in order for the interaction to go well.  Sometimes my agenda was based on wanting to share something that was special to me, something I hoped would bring some happiness if even for a moment to her day.  Sometimes my agenda was driven by me wanting to control her behavior to avoid embarrassment (not to herself but embarrassment to me).  Sometimes my agenda was a smoke screen to avoid discussing topics of conflict (things she wants to do but cannot because she has Alzheimer’s disease), topics which elicit from her rage, frustration, sadness and fear, topics which leave me feeling defensive, sad and powerless.  Sometimes that setting aside of my agenda felt centered and coming from a “wise” place.  Sometimes it felt more like, “Fine, do whatever you want. I give up” which did not so much feel like it was coming from a centered or “wise” place.  All this wrapped in the context of a long history of playing narrowly defined roles on the grand stage of family dynamics, roles not based on being genuine but on “a particularly complex matrix of familial bullshit” (which still makes me laugh).

Whether my agenda was loving or self-serving, my setting the agenda aside was from a place of strength or helplessness & apathy, the interactions went better.  By “better” I don’t mean we had more fun, or she discovered the wonders of nature as I would have liked to share, or we had moments of healing family closeness.  For me, there was less frustration, less stress, less crazy making, less hopelessness. On her part, she was less resistant, less negative, less angry, and was a bit more engaged.  Hardly a series of moments from a made-for-TV Family Special, but most certainly less aversive for us both which was nice. Plus, I had plenty of time to enjoy the pigeons and squirrels, which continue to be Fun with a capital F.

I know a woman I wish I had heard play in her band. I could be wrong but I like to think heavy metal with a real edge.

I feel like the telling of stories is an important part of understanding this bizarre and confusing experience of being human. (I guess this comes as no surprise given the nature of the blog, huh?) It’s like the stories help to mark edges in the constantly flowing stream that is our life, and are a way for us to say, “Hello, fellow monkey-creature, I share with you a tale from my stream that hopefully you will recognize from your stream and will help us to understand and relate to each other.”  A platform for expressing what can be hard to directly state, whether a joy or a deep-water sadness. Sometimes though there are pressures from within us that contort the stories such that the only ones we tell are those where we are always the good guy, even though shared history suggests these stories are…… not necessarily an accurate portrayal of events. Let’s face it, the stories where we are the good guy are the easiest to tell (And then I saved the babies from the burning building. That’s where I got this scar), but sometimes telling the truth where we weren’t so awesome, even a modified version of the truth where we were only 60% awesome, becomes impossible.  I think those types of stories leave us feeling more alone, more isolated, more like no one knows who we really are.  

I recently performed a random act of kindness that involved listening to a string of stories told by someone I know quite well.  This person was the good guy in all her stories. Our shared history suggests none of the stories were “necessarily an accurate portrayal of events.” I don’t think the accurate portrayal of events was the important piece of that interaction, but there was a cost to her.  Yes, she left feeling heard and cared for, and she left with the same fears and sadness and aloneness that she came in with.

For me a core piece of RAK, with good & bad elements, is about wanting to be meaningful in people’s lives (in some cases wanting to be far more meaningful than I currently am, but that is another issue).  Working hard to be fully present no matter what the moment brings. Sometimes those moments bring a lot that is difficult to stick around for, and, on our best days, we do stick around. There are times when those “I would rather have a cookie than be here for this” moments stack up. After awhile you may find that you are swimming hard in heavy seas without a solid place to grab hold of and rest.  You can get tired in those heavy seas. You can struggle to keep your head above water. You can start to ask why the hell you are doing this, being supportive and fully present for others and their pain?  Why feel all the feels that arise within you? Wasn’t life better when those feels were locked up under the stairs? The news that most catchs your eye is about violence, random and targeted, to the most vulnerable and innocent.  Perhaps you despair at the size of the waves, the pull of the current, the intensity of the gale.  You can forget.

And so, for those of us out in the waves, here is a story to share.  It is from the Field Museum so you know it is sciencey, and not just some Damn Hippie tale: A tale from archeology in the American Southwest in the mid-1200s-1300. A bit of background, starting ~700CE the civilization of the Ancestral Puebloans expanded across the Four Corners region of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah, building cities, roads, trade and sophisticated art.  Ultimately this all collapsed as the result of a 300 year cycle of drought, which you could see would pretty much take you down, no matter how glorious you were civilization-wise.  When the environment changed and crops began to fail as the region entered into the drought cycle which became increasingly severe, people’s first response was to cooperate. The 2nd response was to cooperate even more. Next they developed complex systems to expand their ability to cooperate on larger scales. It was only when the pressures from the crop failures were severe with wide spread starvation that the humans went to war….. and even then, humans sought ways to cooperate in response to raiding parties and escalating violence.   Violence is not inevitable. It is certainly not the first option most humans choose to pursue. That nasty shit on the news is on the news because it is not what most of us do. Remember this is science, not Damn Hippies…..well, it might be Damn Hippie science but still. Go, Humans! 

Being human means being covered in goop, not just covered but gooped into the marrow, gooped between the synapses.  I am not really sure why we aren’t called Goops instead of Humans….but maybe the original meaning of “human” was goop. Maybe our pets do call us Goops. Maybe that is why they are nice to us, “There, there, Goop, I will stay with you even when other Goops leave, because, even though you are a Goop, you are my Goop.”  

The truth, for me, is that goop is often hard, and painful, and scary, and is something we have in common, something that helps us to find ways to be meaningful in each other’s lives, strangely maybe it is something we can hold onto in heavy seas and find a quiet harbor within which to rest.  I would rather not have the hard, painful, scary, but I am guessing then it wouldn’t be goop, would it? Well, fuck it. I’m in. Let’s go, Goops!  Viva la Goop!! 

Sent from my iPhone

I know a woman who I wish I had known better.

It has been a crazy last couple weeks.  A tsunami of work deadlines, bad shit in my family, and stuff, the ubiquitous stuff that oozes into all the cracks of our lives, making it difficult to move through our day. When my life spins this direction my attention becomes narrow and laser focused on What Must Be Done and my ability be present in, hell even aware of, the external world becomes small.  As my outer world shrinks, my inner world becomes cluttered.  I have continued to do random acts of  kindness but the time that I am fully present narrows.  I get a lot of things done, that is one of the skills I specialize in (I really should put that on my resume: Expert in Getting Things Done), but this morning I am wondering if I am really more productive as I spin in my hamster wheel inside my head.  The hamster says, “Yeah we are!  Let’s run!! This is awesome!!!”  I am no longer sure….but I digress and am probably avoiding talking about what I want to talk about today (You: “Probably avoiding?  Shaah.”)

At first I thought I was going to have to quote  the great philosopher, Kindly Uncle Ben from Spiderman but it turns out this quote actually belongs to Voltaire, which is way more intellectual and educated. So let’s pretend I encountered this quote by reading Voltaire, and not from a Spiderman movie.

Voltaire: “With great power comes great responsibility.” I think this matters.  I think this matters a lot, at least to who I want to be and who I want to do a better job of being.  I suspect Voltaire, and Kindly Uncle Ben for that matter, had something different in mind, but they are both dead so how are they going to argue, right?  Where this statement has been rattling around inside my brain for the last few years is as I think about my actions in the world specifically toward the people in my life. In particular people I in any way feel I have some responsibility for and to: my trainees, friends, family, partner….. I carry a lot of responsibility because I CAN carry a lot of responsibility.  There are so many things I don’t do well and never will, and there are things I do well, sometimes even prize-worth, outstandingly well….on a good day.  The things I do well, where I have “great power,” that matter most to me are the things which touch other people’s lives: my trainees, friends, family, partner….. Because I know I can do these things, that I have “great power” through my ability to bring kindness, generosity, empathy, attention, I feel that I have “great responsibility.”

And, of course, it gets complicated.

I have been increasingly struggling with the following question for last several years without finding any resolution. And as my “kindness” becomes increasingly volitional and mindful, as opposed to automatic, this question has become more important and urgent. I have no idea what “urgent” even means in this context, but yeah urgent. No clue. No f-nig clue.

The question? Where does the line of our responsibility to others lie?

Let’s not be too Damn Hippie about this and not go all Love the Whole World, kumbaya, and all that. Let’s think about the people who are truly in our life. Not too hard a question for people who are barely in your gravitational pull, recognizing that we are each obviously the Sun that everyone else rotates around (right?), but who are distant asteroids. Also not a difficult question as the astronomical units shrink and we encounter celestial objects more central to our solar system that we delight in having bask in our brilliant light. Yea, people in our life! Yea, people we care about & love!!

But what about those celestial objects close to the center of our brilliant light and warmth who have toxic atmospheres, and perhaps even space monsters? How about those who, through no fault of their own, cannot support life?  Those who still NEED our light and warmth, but reflect nothing in return, indeed if their orbits pass too close to even us as The Sun, we are diminished, perhaps even to the extent our ability to shine on other objects is eclipsed.  Where does our responsibility lie for those who are defined by society as orbiting so close we “should” help, care about and care for, but the harsh reality is that closeness is not the truth?

“Should” takes a beating in much of clinical psychology and related traditions. Truthfully, “Should” becomes a great way to trap ourselves into roles and actions that are not healthy for us to do, and so much of the beating is well-deserved (Take that you should-of-a-bitch (kick, kick, kick)).  And, at the same time, one of the many things that sucks about being an adult (None of which were in the informed consent form!!) is there are a lot of things we do because we “Should” do them.  And, as we highlighted a couple sentences ago, there is a whole class of things we think we “Should” do, but don’t really “Should” do. Anybody else getting a bit turnaround and woozy?  No?  OK, back to people….I mean celestial objects…..or was it people after all? 

Where do we draw the line of our responsibility to others when those others are people who have caused you harm or damage? Those whose current life is so destructive and chaotic that the shrapnel flies randomly, taking innocent bystanders down? Who are drowning and desperately grab at anyone to try to stay above water even if it means taking that person down with them?  (These are vague and rather extreme metaphors that I will leave for you to consider how to fill in with whatever may (or may not) reflect the reality of the streams you swim in.)

Common sense and a little push from survival skills shaped by a rich evolutionary history suggest the answer is a simply, “Cast them out! Banish them from your solar system!”  But, of fucking course, the people alluded to above are the people who are most likely to need our help, and be the people we “Should” support, both because society expect us to, and also because there may be a space in our hearts that wants to…..maybe.

Random acts of kindness, the seeking of connections with others, and the glimpse it offers into other worlds places us in a difficult space sometimes.  We have the opportunity to see that “fault” becomes a meaningless word but still….. There are hurts that roll back and back across generations but….. Maybe this person did their best but still…. We can understand and pardon AND act to protect ourselves from [insert hurt here: Betrayal, Neglect, Abuse, Manipulation, Lies, Disavowing,…..]. And its not about a black and white decision; reject vs. embrace, cut off all contact vs. welcome them into your heart.

What a gooey mess. Does it seem like RAK leads us here often?   Probably means it is “important” and “valuable” to grapple with.  Sigh.

So where is that line of responsibility for those we “Should” help but for whatever reason don’t want to, are wary of helping? The people we “Should” help; and then there is You, you bright amazing sun, you, you deserve love, and respect, and to be able to shine your light and warmth where you want to, on to objects that can reflect it back to you.  And, as Uncle Ben said, “With great power comes great responsibility.”  I don’t yet know how all this comes together.  I hope somewhere in all that, there is a balance. I wonder if part of finding that balance is trying to listen to what your heart says about who you “Should” support, rather than what society says you “Should” do.  I don’t know.  I still got this question rattling around in my brain.

I know a woman and her husband who have encouraged me to stop and really pay attention, even when I would rather not.

Before I forget, I thought of a word I like better than “forgive.”  It is “pardon.”  Maybe we can talk about that more down the road.

I recently did a kind of weird random act of kindness.  I had dinner with a friend in one of the cooler parts of downtown where we had mussels in a spicy sauce with plenty of beer of the Belgium variety, and lets not forget lots of bread to soak up the last drops of the sauce.  Bread: I am a fan. Bread, bread, bread,…  We split the check and my friend paid their half in cash, which I took and paid the whole with a credit card because I wanted to have some cash. We have had some intense, dangerous weather during the last 6 weeks or so with repeated series of nights when the temps plummeted well below zero when you factored in the windchill.  This was one of those nights; dangerously cold, and the night was still young. My friend and I, bundle against the wind, waved awkwardly goodbye from beneath our protective layers, and waddle off in our own directions like Michelin Tire Men.  As I approached the Metro, there was a man, inadequately Michelin-ed against the cold and wind, selling the Street News (newspapers some organization gives them to sell, which I am sure has some logic I have never bothered to truly think through).  I gave him a couple dollars, said “stay warm” in a serious but compassionate voice, and got on the escalator.

As I rode those magically moving stairs down, I thought about what had just happened (because that is part of the point of RAK, right?), and paid attention to how I was feeling.  How I was feeling was stupid, hopeless, and was freezing my ass off. I am totally Michelin-ed up and the wind is taking bites out of me…nom…nom…nom… “Stay warm?” Are you fucking kidding me? Could I have been more disconnected from that actual interaction?  “Hey, there, good buddy, I feel ya. Sure is nippy tonight, huh? Here’s a couple bucks that are sure to change your night from one of facing possible death from hypothermia to one of blissful warmth. Oh, and can you sign this receipt so I can write this off on my taxes?”  Damn it.

Stupid, and freezing, and hopeless.  Despite being a Brooding Swede, I am generally quite a hopeful person….which may surprise you given all my existential angst as we navigate a year of random acts of kindness.  Lately my world has been feeling a bit shaky and a bit more fragile than usual, which has probably affected my general Pollyanna-like nature (Yes, I know that existential angst and Pollyanna-like nature are a strange mix, but I believe we have established that I am complicated, glorious complicated at that).  I am sure the hole that Elly, and her completely accepting dog-ness love, has left behind is contributing to that sense of shaky but I have drifted from our story….

Hopeless.  Random acts of kindness is not about changing the world.  Its about making genuine connections with people, being in the moment, the genuine, heartfelt gesture.  My interaction did not do these things.  It was forced and artificial because I felt hopeless, hopeless to make any difference in the world as it seemed especially filled with hate, violence, intolerance, indifference, loneliness, isolation…. How could any act matter?  What could I ever do?  Why even bother to try? It only hurt and highlighted how little it could ever matter. I had forgotten what the point was.

By the time I reached the bottom of the escalator, I understood what had just happened.  I turned around and got back on the up escalator.  And not just because I like to ride escalators, which I kind of do.  I reached the top and swallowed my embarrassment, and approached the man from a more humble place.  I said hi and we talked about how cold it was.  He was initially suspicious but warmed to our conversation (Pun intended. I am hilarious). I gave him $60, all the money from dinner.  I said that I hoped it would help him get out of the cold sooner.  He said, oh yes, it would.

Of course, I have no way of knowing what he did with the money.  Maybe he got out of the cold, bought food.  Maybe he bought drugs, or alcohol, or dancing girls, or Kanye West CDs.  Of course, I hope my “kindness” made a small but positive difference, but I can’t assume it ever does. That doesn’t matter.  Ultimately, that wasn’t the point. At least in that moment, he knew another person was seeing him as a person. That was the point.

As you know, although I am “nice,” I am no saint and there is no way for me to feasibly to do this except on the most rare of occasions. I also openly acknowledge that a huge driving force of my doing this was because of my own sense of hopelessness & helplessness, and wanting to do something that eased that feeling in me.  I wish I could claim that this was some sort of exceptional RAK, but I don’t think it was.  I scored myself for full credit, but know it did not qualify for bonus points. It doesn’t qualify for bonus points because it is not about the size of the act, it is about the quality, the genuineness.  The quality definitely improved on round 2, but that Hopeless is what pushed me back up to the street level.

I have been paying attention to that Hopeless, who always seems to be loitering about lately, smoking cigarettes, drinking cheap liquor.  I probably should blame my stupid dog for dying, but I suspect there is something important to be learned.  I am trying to listen.  I haven’t heard yet what story it needs to tell.  I hope it is a story with a happy ending, but I am ready to listen where it takes us.

I know a woman who has shone a spotlight on how hard it is to say goodbye.

My random act of kindness associated with the post that follows was that I called a family member who I know is having a number of horrible things happen in her life. I listened to her pain and tried to be fully present with her. We did not talk about me.

One of the many things that suck about being a grownup is that you have to be responsible for making decisions and acting on them when you don’t want to (Although you can have ice cream for breakfast. Which is awesome).

Elly at 6 months

I said goodbye to Elly, my favorite dog of all time, this member of my family who I deeply love. As when Etta was put down (See “Dogs Again” from October), Haley and my two friends who know and love my dogs were there, but this time I was not on the other side of the world. I canceled a number of Very Busy, Very Important work activities and other trips over the last two months specifically so I would be here when it came time. I owed this to all involved including Elly, and myself.

Elly at 7 months

It was Valentine’s Day. A friend told me that this was a gift of love from me to Elly. I understand what my friend was saying, and it didn’t feel that way to me. I wanted Elly’s suffering to stop, but I so did not want to say goodbye. I did not want to be in that moment, did not want to be pressed against those feelings. But I did. I wanted to honor the love this dog had given me for her whole life. I owed it to Elly, and myself, to fully be with her when she passed. I cried. A lot.

Etta (Annoying little sister), Raisin (Mom), Elly (Favorite Dog)

Elly died being held and touched by people who had been with her her whole life. Elly died being held by people who loved her, and knowing this was the group she belonged to. I hope I die that way. I fear I will not.

Shortly after she died, a huge winter storm hit the DC area. Not much snow but the winds howled with gusts over 50 miles per hour. It brought a smile to my face that the passing of such a gentle creature was accompanied by such ferocious weather.

I have not lost sight of how lucky I am to have people in my life, including my amazing daughter (but don’t let it go to your head, Kiddo, you are still a pain in the ass), who were so willingly to be present with me, and people who genuinely care from afar. I know how lucky I am….. and I am grieving intensely. I am embarrassed and feel more than a little stupid at how deeply I am feeling this pain and to be sharing it so openly (I come from a stoic people after all, Brooding Swede that I am). But when I started blogging about a year of random acts of kindness and where it would take me, one of my goals was to try to be honest about what came up/what I learned both to myself and also to you. So here we are.

Setting aside my embarrassment and angst, my grief has given me an opportunity to experience and think about something which may be valuable to us both……or not. It has given me the opportunity to think about goodbyes.

For most of us, or maybe just me, our lives are filled with many different flavors of goodbyes, and the frequency of those goodbyes accelerates as we move through our life; relationships end, breakups, divorces, job changes, illnesses, deaths,….. I am sure there are people who are Saying Goodbye Champions. I know I am not one of them. In fact I would say I am out and out bad at goodbyes. I am so bad I should win a medal for being so bad at goodbyes (At least a bronze, although I would be a contender for gold). It shows up in small and big ways. I typically don’t go to colleagues’ goodbye parties (oh, shit, my dogs were frequently a good excuse not to go, now I need a new one. Better start planning.) I joke with the talented team I lead that I have “abandonment issues” and that when they leave “they are dead to me.” Although in fact I nurture them specifically to leave (being the awesome mentor I am) and I am joking when I say those things, there is also an undercurrent of truth. And these are minor goodbyes.

So why? Not why am I like this, as that is just a tale of how I came to be on this path at this point, which is not that valuable a question to be asking right now. Instead, I am interested in a different question that (hopefully) is more valuable for all of us….or not. I am trying to frame this as a more useful question… ummmm….. yeah…… This is a sucky way to try to put this into words, but it’s the best I got: What is underneath that sadness? Is the sadness being amplified  by something deeper?

Here is what I got. When I stopped to really listen to my grief about the loss of Elly there is something under the searing sadness. It is small and softly spoken, hard to hear over the intensity of the sadness, but is there, hard-edged, sharp, and pushing the grief beyond where it might flow naturally.  It is a voice of Fear. Under this loss, and many others I have struggled with across my life, is the hidden voice of fear; fear of being left behind, fear of not belonging, fear of never being good enough, fear of never being really loved. Every goodbye, in addition to its own genuine sadness, fans the fires of those fears, is held up as “proof” those fears are true.

It’s the kind of deeply rooted anxiety that makes me want to check the fridge to see if there is cake left. How would something like that ever go away? I don’t think it can….. but maybe trying to make it go away isn’t the point. If those fears will never go away, I think we are left with a couple options. One; wrap myself back up in a suit of amour, seal all that pain & fear, even if a lot of cool stuff goes with it, behind a brick wall under the stairs. A nice tidy package. Sure that whole “be connected to other humans, live life fully, be open to experience stuff because it might really matter” journey is finished, but fuck that, right?

Bad dogs on the bed

Or Two; be open to that fear, maybe even embrace the fear as part of me, allow it to be, knowing it will always be delighted to join me wherever I go (Erik’s Fear: Yea! Road trip!!). Which totally sounds like it sucks, except for the possibility of “being connected to other humans, live fully, open to experience stuff because it might really matter.” I guess that would involve welcoming the fear to come along (Erik’s Fear: Yea! More road trips!!) and still be vulnerable and open, a “fearlessly frightened” sort of thing. Hmm, that has a certain ring to it. I kind of like it. Fearlessly frightened! That seems like a reasonable (and hilarious) way to go.

Ok, going to give a try. I think I will have t-shirts made: Fearlessly Frightened.  I bet they are a big seller.

Goodbye, Etta and Elly.  You are loved.

I know a woman and her husband who have inspired me to be a better traveler.

The other day I was on my way into a metro station (DC’s mass transit train system) to head downtown for a Fancy Pants meeting of Great Importance…at least to the people leading said Fancy Pants meeting. As I approached the turnstile, I saw three women (most likely a grandmother, mother and adult daughter) with roller suitcases talking to the station manager. The mother turned to me and asked if I had change for a $100 bill. I politely said no, but inside my head laughed and said to myself, “Guess I look like someone who walks around with $100 in small bills. Go, me.”

This was one of the deepest underground stations, accessible only by elevator. It is also one of the creepiest stations and every time I go to that station I am reminded of those frightening and violent (and awesome) video games like the Resident Evil series. As the elevator dropped into the depths of the station, the part where all the zombies are waiting to kill or be killed, I thought about the women and I realized what a dumb ass I had been. The women obviously were looking for change because the Metro system doesn’t take $100 bills and they needed 3 tickets to one of the stations that accessed an airport or train station. Realizing my mistake, I abandoned the life-or-death hunt for zombies and rode the elevator back to the zombie-free surface. I went over to the station manager and the women, who confirmed my now brilliant detective work. The station manager and I split the costs of three tickets to the train station. RAK complete, I returned to facing my obstacle course of zombies and, even more frightening, humans who attend meetings of Great Importance.

You may have stumbled across this quote in various forms: “If you stop to be kind, you must swerve often from your path.”  I have read and heard similar in a number of places. According to the definitive source (a Google search of the inter-web), credit for this goes to Mary Webb (1881-1927), an English romantic author.  Although she had some success while still around to be there when they handed out prizes, it was within a year or two of her early death that her works became best sellers…..which seems tragically appropriate given the content of her novels…..but I digress.

Whether small or big, a sizeable number of the random acts of kindness I do require me to swerve (which is a funny word when you say it out loud. Swerve. Swerve. Swerve. Sorry, digressing again).  It is hard for me to put into words the sensation of swerving.  Walking along, happily wrapped up in my head, juggling multiple (brilliant, I am sure) streams of thoughts, then through what feels like a physical effort, everything slows waaaayyyyyyy down (insert a deep elongated bass voice), like emerging from hyperspace in some scifi film, the world becomes real, vibriant with colors, sounds, sensations. In all honesty not always pleasant, but real and a much different place then the moonscape in my head.

I am quite comfortable inside my head and spend a good deal of time there (It is after all part of what they pay me for), even when I should be somewhere else. Yes, it has its ghosts and demons, but the fear and pain they inflict is familiar, predictable, a well grooved track that is easy to stay in. Plus it can be a pretty cool place too and provides a nice playing surface as I scheme to take over the world…..for its own good of course. Being out of my head and face-to-face with events in the here-and-now is much harder (perhaps for just me?), especially when I am trying to be present for whatever comes and not assume I know what people want when they interact with me (See the three ladies above). Plus, outside of my head is where unpredictable & uncontrollable things happen. Some of these outside-my-head-happenings are beautiful, funny, and filled with joy. Some of these outside-my-head-happenings are ugly, painful to witness, and filled with sorrow. And yet all these outside-my-head-happenings are “real” and there is something important about that, even for the ugly, painful, sorrowful happenings.

Ah! I have a metaphor for us to try. In honor of the three women at the Metro station. Getting out of our heads is sort of like being a traveler (Work with me here).  The best travelers I know see everything that happens on the trip as seeds for a great story down the road, and let’s face it the best travel stories are ones that include things like; “after sitting on the tarmac for an hour in a storm with the toilet backed up, the priest sitting next to me, who had had a couple drinks by then, started to teach me how to swear in Latin”; Not “Oh the flight was fine. They ran low on snack mix, but otherwise it was a good trip.”

Of course the most amazing travelers I have every known have been my dogs. God, I wish I could truly embrace travel as they do (and I am a pretty good traveler, if I do say so). I think pretty much all my dogs have been good travelers, although two especially come to mind. First, Tewa, a dog Haley’s mother and I had many years ago. Tewa was a small to medium sized mutt who was rescued from the side of the road after being hit by a car, who walked with a pronounced limp from a shattered elbow that never healed. My God, that dog LOVED to go on car rides. She would jump into the car (broken elbow and all), ride for 4 hours, be delighted to greet whomever we were traveling to visit, and then jump back in the car for another ride while we were trying to get the bags out of the car. The second is my dog, Elly. Elly LOVES to go for a ride and embraces every trip with a fully open heart, even though she never knows where we are going (Someplace fun with dog treats or the V-E-T) or for how long (5 minutes or 8 hours). She doesn’t care. She just wants to go for the ride. What makes this especially inspiring is that Elly is a shy dog who is most definitely NOT a fan of new and unpredictable situations. And yet, she travels with the most amazing attitude of being in the moment with no concern of what monsters we may face at the end of the journey. I wish….I wish I could do that.

And here is Elly. Almost at the end of her journey. She sits a few feet away from me (where she can keep an eye on me and make sure I stay out of trouble), basking by the fire, occasionally coming over to lay so she can touch me. She has only a couple of days left. Her cancer symptoms have reached a point where I have to make a decision. That is not true. I have made a decision. I just am not ready to say it out loud, although I soon will have to. And Elly will “go for that ride” as she always has, even though neither of us know where it goes. I wish….I wish I could be like that, but I don’t believe I will ever be that good a traveler.

I know a woman whose “belonging” continues to be demonstrated by the many ongoing random acts of kindness her friends still do in her name.

Warning, I am going to get all Hippie on you here for just a bit.
You: Sigh…..
Me: Just for a bit
You: Right….., Damn Hippie.
Me: I heard that!

The classic interpretation of the Sanskrit word “Namaste” (You know that thing our yoga teachers always say at end the of class (Damn Hippies), and that a huge chunk of the world uses as a greeting) is “I bow to the divine within you.”  Nice.  But the interpretation that was taught to me by a friend/colleague who happens to be a truly amazing yoga teacher (Damn Hippie) is “I greet you from the place where we are equals.” This understanding of namaste seems to tap into a core feature of that “something” I have been trying to find through sustained efforts at random acts of kindness; seeking a place from where we can see these other glorified monkeys as our equals AND where we also believe we are equals to them. Both of us equally valued and worthy of being seen for who we are.

OK, I am done with the Hippie bit…..for now.

Many of the random acts of kindness that I do are small and simple; holding a door, letting someone merge into traffic, a sincere thank you with eye contact to a cashier.  To count as a RAK, in accordance with the rules (See the post in September “The Rules of RAK”), I must be as present in that moment as I can be. Making a connection, no matter how brief, with another human-like creature is a sought after achievement, but not required. I guess it is being open to the possibility of a connection, no matter how brief, that is required.

A Pack

Last week I was at a meeting where my role was to sit at the Children’s Table and observe, speak only when spoken to. My vantage point as a Meeting Minion provided a wonderful opportunity to watch the interactions between the Important Flesh Puppets seated at the horseshoe-shaped Grownup’s Table. On this particular day, as the meeting progressed and the committee was drawn deeper into its task, one of the members became increasingly cranky, sullen, and defensive.  In the words of a dear friend of mine, he was being an Ass Hat.  (I love that description.  I also love “fucktard”; working on a way to use that in a conversation soon). In watching the nature of his growing defensiveness and obnoxiousness, his Ass Hat-ness, it became apparent that he felt he was not receiving enough acknowledgement for his contributions.  My guess was that underlying his behavior was a strong anxiety about not being valued, not being seen as important, not being recognized by the rest of the committee as belonging at the Grownup’s Table.  My random act of kindness that day was a small one. During a coffee break, as he walked passed my humble location at the Children’s Table, I thanked him for his service on the committee and let him know my organization (the sponsor of the meeting) appreciated his time and participation.  He gave me a curmudgeonly response, but he also melted a smidge in response to my comment.  A small interaction, but maybe it mattered (and I got credit for that day’s RAK. Winning!).

A Herd

Belonging is a core human need, and a crucial need to have met. Lots of good stuff comes from us tightly belonging to groups of other humans. It is unfortunate then that we encounter so many events in our life, especially growing up but not just, that lead us to question if we really do belong. Given this, it should come as no surprise that many of us (me making another assumption here) get a little nutty around needing that belonging. Hell, that nuttiness is probably in itself a core human behavior. What we do with that Little Nutty can range from amusing to horrifically destructive.

Family

A while back we talked about how the answer to the simple question “Do you believe there is enough?” could have profound implications for how we were in the world (See “Enough?” Posted back in November). I suggested that believing there was not enough was a fundamental source of some of the truly awful ways we humans treat each other. Having carefully watched and analyzed the behavior of a Fascinating Specimen over many years (who is most certainly not myself….), I have arrived at the scientific conclusion that responses to fear of not belonging can also lead to awful treatment, both to others and to ourselves. Whether we go with judging and tearing other people down to bring ourselves up, or become a whirling dervish of trying to prove just how much we do belong, both approaches can be destructive to all involved, especially in relationships.

A School

I am going to share a secret with you. I can so related to Mr. Ass Hat and the powerful fear of not belonging (Surprised, right?). I have spent a lifetime of trying to prove to fellow students, teachers, co-workers, bosses, girlfriends/partners, friends, acquaintances, that I was of value, worthy of inclusion, that I belonged, all the while harboring a belief that I did not. On the plus side, this means I worked super hard in school, am a massively productive employee, attentive and sensitive boyfriend/partner, friend who goes the extra mile, great mentor, Champion of the Little People, and a generous, kind, “nice” person. Go, me!

A Flock

On the downside, I can be anxious, insecure, overly ingratiating, and follow you are around like a needy puppy that you keep tripping over every time you turn around (Attractive, right?). When I am struggling with being in this space of fear of not belonging I feel small, and, in a patheti-sad kind of way, try to be even smaller, squeezing any sense of self into the smallest space possible in order to make room for the needs of the Belongers in the hopes that I will earn the right to become a Belonger too. I sense that the roots of this particular weed wrap around my vital organs and run deep.

A Tower

To give myself some credit in the Personal Growth Department, I am not the child/teen/man I was. I have come a long way and I am on a path I choose to be on (even if I have no clue about where it leads), but those insecurities can still be triggered by what amounts to a small ripple on the pond’s surface. It is amazing that I can be so respected and so competent, and feel so confident, and how the smallest of events creeps up on me, I am pantsed in the blink of an eye, and off runs all my sense of being a creature with personal power and agency. Amazing to be so aware when that happens and be helpless to stop it. Really quite the circus viewed from inside my head.  I have gotten quite good at noticing when this happens and being able to not act on it, and I have not reached a point where I can stop it from happening…..I believe I never will.

I do think I can continue to reduce the probability I act like an Ass Hat when insecurity ambushes me, and I can continue to try to be sensitive, and perhaps even occasionally kind, when others blossom into Ass Hats. That’s all I got. Hopefully that will suffice.

Namaste.

I know a woman who went somewhere else but her presence is still felt by many.

A story.  Tara Brach (http://www.tarabrach.com/audiodharma.html) has used this story several times. I am not sure who to credit for its original telling. Imagine you are walking out of the grocery story, hands full with your heavy bags of yummies and supplies when someone runs into you.  You are knocked to the ground, groceries scattered, breakables broken, you hurt your knee.  God damn it!  As you sit up, you feel the flash of anger rising in you and you are about to say, “You dumb ass, are fucking blind??!!”, when you look up and you see the sunglasses on their concerned face, the cane in their hand, the guide dog by their side.

Forgiveness. Monolithic Tar-Baby #2. Do you remember back in Part 1, where I said these ideas were complicated, hard to untangle, and this blog will fall short?  Well, keep that in mind as you read the last (for now) of the Anger and Forgiveness posts.  I do think I have something of value here, but the picture in my head is still far from captured. Perhaps while I continue to be on the confused side, you can make progress in whatever direction is progress for you.

Forgiveness. A gazillion billion things have been written and said about the importance of forgiveness, how healthy it is, and how it is a sign of moral strength. It is what good people do, and not doing it is a blotch on your permanent record, you unhealthy, morally weak, bad person you. I could be wrong but I think people even win prizes for forgiveness. Sign me up!  Let’s do some of that forgiveness thing and win us some prizes!  Ok, so, we just…… uuummmmm….. well….. first we…… huh.  Forgiveness is talked about pretty much any place humans are working on becoming something more, or are being lectured to on the importance of becoming something more.  But to quote one of the greatest lines from the Princess Bride: “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

What are these people talking about? What does it mean to Forgive? On the surface this sounds like a silly question (You: We expect that from you so no surprise here) because everyone knows what forgiveness is, even if we don’t do it well. As RAK has required I bring my attention to being present with the various strange creatures, known and unknown, I stumble across during my day, as well as to myself, it has become apparent that “I do not think it means what you think it means.”  Or what I thought it meant either.

I used to think I was super good at forgiving.  I truly wasn’t Really Angry, or even angry, at anyone, not even people who had Really Hurt me. People would ask me if I was angry at this person or that; heartbreaks, mistreatment, even bigger things.  I would say, no, I had forgiven them.  I didn’t feel any anger toward them. It didn’t matter.  Wait… It didn’t matter?  Where did that come from?  Huh…. reaching a point where someone else’s actions toward you did not matter.  Is that the same as forgiving?  Feeling no anger, is that the same as forgiving?  I guess it might be, or is that something else?  Is that more like apathy or just feeling numb?  If we don’t care that someone hurt us what are we not caring about? Oh, look!  Monolithic Tar-Baby #2. Ooowwwhhh, sticky tar-like substance oozing down the back of your shirt. Because that sounds more like we are saying hurting us doesn’t matter, more than Real Forgiveness.  I am going to take a moment to sit in this stickiness (eech, now it is running down the back of my pants) and feel what that would mean.  I don’t recommend you do this. It is gross.  Important perhaps, but gross.

So many wise sources tell us that Forgiveness is expected, a sign of having healed, being a strong person, there is even research on forgiveness, but what if forgiving has nothing to do with these things? What if you can be a  strong healthy person who does not “have to forgive,” but does fully recognize the Real Human in the Other that did the hurting and treats them with compassion? What if you reached a place where you fully feel & understand that the person who hurt you is not to blame, the person was blindly responding to their history, trauma, rules which shaped all the injury they have done such that you have sincere empathy, perhaps even bring nurturing & kindness if you have to interact with them, AND you do not forgive them? Maybe it is not just blame vs. unblame, unforgiven vs. forgiven. Maybe it is multifaceted: anger, compassion, acceptance, empathy, forgiveness; each its own separate task. I don’t know.

Maybe more important than Forgiveness, given that I don’t know what that even is, is allowing whatever feeling there is to simply BE while not letting that feeling drive the bus. Finding a space where the Event(s) of Real Hurting does not define who you are, where you do not navigate using that Event as your North Star. The hurt no longer tacks you to a time & place like a butterfly pinned to a board, you are free to swim, to move in response to the currents that swirl around you NOW, not in orientation to a past tsunami.

What might this space look like?  How might we get there?  OK, that seems bit overly self-important of me and like I think I know what the hell I am doing….which I don’t.  Let me put this a different way that is more honest.  I have been thinking about Anger and Forgiveness for a while in the midst of this RAK gig, mostly taking a lot of dead ends as I traverse this maze (I could write an entire blog on that: A Year of Being Hopeless Lost in Search of Something That I Don’t Even Know What It Is), and have made some progress….. emphasis on “some.”

Here’s what I got: Some fundamental stuff that might be helpful to us (or not) with finding that balanced, at peace space. 1) It has to matter to you that you were hurt. 2) Part of the reason for #1 is that is a way to truly value ourselves, recognize how precious we are, how worthy and deserving of kindness and care. You see the hollowness in people’s actions that lead you to believe anything less. 3) It is OK to feel whatever you feel about that hurt and about that person; hate, love, confusion, anger, sadness. 4) How you feel can change. In fact that is part of the fun…that “part of the fun” thing is a lie.  That is actually part of what seriously sucks, but, in my stumbling around in the dark, allowing all this crap to bubble and be all gooey seems to be important. 5) The anger or sadness or both (assuming that is in there somewhere about this Event) gets to “BE” but doesn’t get to determine who you are and what you do with your life.

Wow!  Look at me making a list and stuff.

Maybe the only person you have to “forgive” is yourself. And maybe that means simply recognizing that events happened which shaped how you were in the world. You have had your heart broken. You learned you didn’t matter. You have been taught to question if you are lovable. You figured out that hiding how you really felt was a safe way to be. So many variations on a similar theme that burrow deep into who we are, often so deep that we are blind to how it twisted us. Shit happened, and it hurt, and you did the best you could, and you in turn fucked up. That fucking up happened for a reason, and the reason isn’t that you are a horrible person.

Knowing this doesn’t make it go away, but I think it might be a start toward getting past the two Monolithic Tar-Babies. Personally I would be stunned if they don’t take a short cut through the woods and show up again, sticky and huge as ever. For now, I find something comforting in trying to be gentle with myself, knowing I have fucked up and hurt people, sometimes those I loved, because I was lost & confused by hurt caused to me by people who supposedly loved me, as I try to sort through the anger and compassion that I in turn feel for those who hurt me.  Maybe somewhere in this empathy, anger and compassion targeted at these people and at myself is where Real Forgiveness is forged? I don’t know. That would be pretty amazing, but I don’t know.

While I wait to see what emerges, random acts of kindness continue to give me a opportunity to be present, aware and witness. Knowing that tomorrow, or maybe an hour from now, it starts over again.