Friday, March 24, 2017

Operation: "Without Complaint"



Operation:  "Without Complaint"

I found it an odd penance that the priest gave me so many years ago.  I probably had told him that I am guilty of the sin of complaining.  I am sure that all things considered, I am not in a minority in that bad habit.  But the penance was hardly a penance to me.  It wasn’t, “Say three Our Father’s and four Hail Mary’s.”  It was more to the point of my spiritual illness:  “think of three things you are grateful for this week.”  I was in my late 20’s at the time and at least I had the wherewithal to realize I was doing something that was wrong.  Most people get caught in the rut of complaining and don’t realize how destructive it is.

For those of you who may be stumbling over the concept of penance, let me get that out of the way.  Penance doesn’t “make-up” or “un-do” something we’ve done wrong.  The extreme and somewhat frightening monastic practices of the Middle Ages left us with a very distorted view of penance…. And I’m not even sure it was as widely practiced as we were led to believe by secular history textbooks.  I would more readily equate penance with a man who gives his wife flowers after he hurt her feelings.  Flowers don’t make the harsh words un-said.  But they are an important gesture that speaks volumes when presented sincerely.  They say, “I stepped wrongly in the dance of our relationship.  Please let us begin again.” 

When a priest suggests a penance to a person it is with the aim of putting the offense in perspective.  It is well-assigned when it is related to the sin.  For instance, only a fool goes to confession and thinks (as the movies suggest) that he can confess to a murder and somehow get away with it because the priest “can’t reveal what is said under the seal of the confessional.”  You can bet that the penance for murder, the gesture of wanting to make it right, is going to be:  “turn yourself in to the police.”  If the penitent says, “No can do,” then he isn’t trying to make things right, is he?  He’s just trying to make his guilty conscience silent.  Confession isn’t magic – it is helping a life get back on track to someone who sincerely wants to make the change.

Back to complaining.  People complain about a lot of things large and small.  The weather.  The politics of the day.  Families.  Work.  In essence, all the things of our daily lives, including at times the very things that are blessings to us…. like our children and our material things, etc.  So it is very fitting that a person who wants to change should consider what blessings surround them -  “Blessings without number,” as an old hymn says.  Yet, sometimes being asked to do something right doesn’t quite sink-in.  Due to a lack of reflection, which is probably proportional to the speed of life, we often only half-do something we could do better at.  I got my chance.

My family asked me some years after that original scenario in paragraph 1 if I was happy.  And I said, “not really.”  I’m not a glass ½ full person.  Neither am I a glass ½ empty subscriber.  I just think, with all the possibilities, the glass isn’t full enough.  So I was just registering my dissatisfaction.  To be fair, I was dating a miserable, controlling human being that was stressing me out.  I wasn’t feeling like my typical self because I had begun trying to “make things work with us.”  I wasn’t in my zone of fulfillment and I didn’t see anything other than relational (and my emotional) disaster if we made that relationship permanent… as he was pushing for.  He needed a green card.  He kept saying, “It is easy to get married.  Just take the decision.”  I even objected to the word “take” – and insisted it is “make.”  This was very important in that it underscored our worlds-apart perspective:  he wanted me to “take” a decision that would benefit HIM.  I wanted to “make” a decision that would benefit me.  (And I did.  I put him on a bus and sent him back to where he came from.)

Apparently Oprah was on this “Be Thankful” kick for a while too.  So my younger sister, ever eager to straighten me out, said I should make a list of things for which I am thankful.  Sounds familiar to the first story, no?  This time, I intended to turn the tables.  I did not make a list of ten things.  I took a spiral bound notebook and over a period of time made a list of 100+ things for which I was thankful.  And then I began to understand. 

When we realize how great we have it, there is no room for complaining.  When we even look at the unfortunate circumstances or suffering of others, we also realize how profoundly we are blessed.  Even our response of compassion to those who are in lesser straits physically, mentally, or spiritually, can grow good virtues in our own lives.  I like that rendition of the song “You Raise Me Up” by Josh Groban because it reflects our interdependence so beautifully.  Surely there is pain and suffering of various levels for all of us because we live in a world that is fallen and marred by the sins of humanity (including our own).  It is clear that the spiritual law of the universe mirrors the agricultural law of “sowing and reaping.”  If you plant good things, you will grow good things.  If you plant weeds, you will reap weeds, nothing useful.  My list of 100+ things I was thankful for helped me begin scratching the surface of the basics that I so much took for granted.  I began looking at my life with a broader lens and I liked the view.

I think complaining is a vice of the privileged more than an expression of the underprivileged.  I have met people who have lived so simply and have been so very happy.  You just wanted to be around them and have that happy glow rub off on you.  I have also met people who have the best of all circumstances and they do nothing but make lemons out of apples.  I wonder if Gallup Poll or Pew Research has considered doing a National Complaining Comparison Study.  They could send people to a variety of other countries and have them see if they could determine the general mood of an entire country, or if there were groups of whiners in certain cases that were generic across international lines.  It’d be interesting, wouldn’t it?

One of my friends has been doing missionary work in Zambia, Africa for over 50 years, really almost his whole life.  He came for a visit to the States at one point and we went to the Mall together.  I thought it might be interesting for him to see all the new types of stores.  What caught his eye was a kid in a sneaker store whining that he didn’t “like” the type of shoes he was trying on.  He was shocked at the whining.  I really had thought nothing of it, having seen many examples of the American teenager in its prime over the years.  He pointed out to me:  “In Africa, the children are taught a sense of both respect for their parents and gratefulness for anything that is given to them …” It went without saying that the gratefulness was probably naturally spurred on by a position of want or need:  If you have little and someone is generous, you don’t take it for granted.  His observation made me embarrassed for our culture, and it also made me more aware of my reaction to generosity.
There is so much generosity and blessing in our daily lives that most of us are tripping over it.  

The other day a stranger sat at my lunch table and bowed his head before eating his meal.  I thanked him for saying grace.  Really, as someone who owns dogs that practically run each other over to eat their meals – as if they will never see another meal again – I think people can do a little better to thank the Creator for the gift of food.  What if all we had to eat as human beings was like dog food, every single meal the same?  How boring it would be!  Five years ago I discovered Brussels’ sprouts.  They were done really well as they were fried with olive oil and sesame seeds.  I closed my eyes for a moment to focus on the flavor.  If you have eaten regular iceberg lettuce all your life, do that with arugula greens some time.  Just close your eyes for a few minutes and let all your senses focus on tasting.  Maybe in doing this, we have stumbled onto the secret:  slow down & savor and then we will grasp more of how blessed we are!  Of course, let it not go unsaid, that I don’t have to close my eyes to eat ANY flavor of ice cream – I’m one with the spoon and loving every minute of it!

So this is my challenge to you, take a step forward in the Journey of Gratefulness.  Train yourself to operate without complaint.  Perhaps grab a spiral bound notebook and start taking notice of all the things you just have accepted as if they were your personal due.  They are not.  They are blessings and we should feel so happy.  Then let that “happy” glow out of you and help others.  Shut off the evening news and become yourself.  Filter out the negative.  As the sign says:   “Live the life you love; and love the life you live.”

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I dedicate today's writing to Fr. Bill J.  Thanks for the good "penance."  It took 30 years, but I'm "getting it."

Saturday, March 4, 2017

There's Got to be Clowns

There’s Got to be Clowns

Tonight the world-renowned Ringling Bros. & Barnum & Bailey Circus performs its final show in New York City.  When I heard this news on the radio this morning, my eyes misted-over a bit… well, okay, I started to cry.  I have so many happy memories of the circus.  The circus is something you do with someone you love – your family, a close friend, a date.  You can’t be disinterested when you are sitting on the bleachers trying to figure out which of the “rings” of activity you are paying attention to and you remember why people use the expression, “It’s a three ring circus around here.”  I think if I had ADHD, I would melt-down at the circus.  But I don’t, and so I love just letting my attention float from one arena to the next.  I don’t demand myself to absorb it all, any more than a child has expectations of what he/she is going to “get” out of any particular day at the playground.  To use a religious phrase, “you let it minister to you.”  And that it has done for decades.

I take my hat off to the many selfless people who have brought this form of entertainment to us over the years.  They have chosen to live a truly transient lifestyle so that others could be entertained.  They live in trains and trailers, always on the move.  Their off-season homes are something they get used to leaving when the Ring Master calls.  I read a fascinating article once in Catholic Digest that talked about a priest in Florida who devoted his ministry to the circus people.  How cool is that?!  (plus I bet he got great tickets and heard awesome stories!)  My friend Mary once told me that the families of volunteer firefighters are like another layer of a big family.  I pondered that because we say that about our faith communities, too, sometimes.  So I imagine the circus is even more so like that:  you have an understanding of the sacrifices and challenges that are unique to your profession and you can respect and support your colleagues with a level of comprehension that is beyond most of us.  Ie.) I’ve ridden in a train, but never lived in one for months

I think the personal enrichment factor for them is that they get to do what they absolutely love.  Sometimes that thing is bizarre – like putting a flaming torch down your throat.  I can honestly say I’ve never woken up in the morning and said, I think I’d like to soak a stick in some foreign substance, light it on fire, and see if I can put it in my mouth without burning my lips.  In the same regard, I have honestly never longed to get face-to-face with a Siberian tiger or tried to train a grizzly bear to ride a bicycle or the like.  But I honor the fact that someone, somewhere, in fact does wake up in the morning and say:  “this is what I want to spend my time doing.”  All of this has served to bring levity and joy to families and friends, to get our minds off partisan bickering and elections, and to help the beauty of our imaginations remain engaged by wonder.

The word is that “ticket sales are down.”  I do not think that is because, as some have asserted, they stopped using elephants in their performances.  Although I’m sure it was a factor.  I remember when I first moved to Central New York someone told me that back in the day when the circus came to town on a train there was a big parade from the rail yard down the streets into the venue in the city where the circus would actually be held.  I wish I had seen it – the concept of a circus parade of that caliber is so wondrous to me.  And, yes, the elephants would be what I was MOST interested in seeing.  (I could insert here a spirited monologue on my resentment against judgmental, ignorant people who presume that any trained animal is abused.  Frankly, if you’re traveling with the likes of elephants and tigers, etc., you HAVE TO GIVE THEM A JOB by training them so they don’t go all Marley-dog-whacko on you.  It is true for dogs;   they need to be constructively busy or they will make their own negative-busy.  Why wouldn’t that be true with elephants, tigers, bears or even monkeys?  Hence the phrase: “engaging in monkey business” when things go crazy.)

My best guess is that ticket sales are down in the circus in proportion to the raising of interest in other things.  Shall I go off on the over-the-top demands of youth sporting programs here?  Or perhaps we could talk about the explosion of countless forms of social networking for adults and kids alike (twitter, facebook, snapchat, and plain old email, etc.)?  We have so many means of communication it is in defiance of logic that we remain such an underdeveloped generation when it comes to true heartfelt understanding.  Maybe we could interject the idea of the dissolution of the traditional nuclear family as we once knew it (George, June, Wally & the Beaver)?  In the current generation, you only give attention to pretty much three things:  1) what absolutely demands it – like work or school; and 2) anything that is connected to keeping those things going – groceries, parent teacher conferences, soccer practice; and 3) whatever you elect to do to get away from those demands.  Perhaps just as the slogan “The family that prays together, stays together,” was evidently true forty years ago; we could also posit that “The family that PLAYS together, stays together.”  And the latter hypothesis is why I grieve the loss of the circus.

As a child, I was raised surrounded by my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins all pretty much in a 20 minute radius from my home.  I remember one of my uncles taking four of us cousins to the circus when we were younger.  It remains as important a memory to me as that of riding the mini-bike with my younger cousin sitting behind me, helmet-clad, holding on to me for dear life.  She trusted me to drive safely and that is why I am the only family member with whom she would ride double on the motorized bike we all loved so much.  It was in these interactions of leisure and levity that we all built the relationships of love and trust we enjoy today.  And into these relationships, some of the cousins have brought spouses, and then their own children.  I was raised by the village before the politicians even claimed it as their idea.  And I am a better person for that.  If I had my own children, it is what I would want for them as well.  I maintain that events like the circus were an important particle in that mosaic of love.

The other great loss with the finale of the circus genre is the loss of an outlet for some spectacular talent.  It was the place where people of unlikely forms of talent fit rather handily:  trapeze artists, tiger-tamers, motorcycle stuntmen, and so forth.  It was also a place where the unusual variances of animals and humanity could be observed and appreciated without spectators being labeled as bullies or people who were politically incorrect.  Perhaps more than one person who felt out of sync with the larger set of society packed a bag and said, “I think I will run away and go join the circus.”  They had some sort of confidence that there would be a safe haven there with like-minded souls.  Haven’t we all had days we’d like to give two weeks’ notice at work and just go do something that was really, really quite different and, at any rate, far more exciting?!


Now at this point, we will have to rely on local fairs and summer festivals to see some of these oddities of nature.  Even the less odd can be a source of entertainment.  I remember walking by a travel trailer at the State Fair and seeing the advertisement for getting a closer look at bears of the North Country.  I presumed it was some sort of a hoax but curiosity got the better of me.  I kissed my money goodbye and walked into the trailer only to find the venue definitively as advertised.  Holy smoke!  What seemed like a sheet of plexiglass separated me and a few viewing humans from not one, not two, but four or five healthy and very large bears.  And they weren’t sleeping either.  Two of them were rolling and playing with each other – which I am sure was a good occupation as opposed to slamming the glass and eating the PEOPLE on the other side – I examined their detail as they played.  Their fur was amazing and thick, even for the summer.  Obviously the trailer truck was climate controlled for them.  But what made me pause was the length of their claws:  each claw was as long as any of my fingers.  They were probably registered with the FBI as lethal weapons.  At that point I found myself making my way toward the exit, my curiosity was not only fulfilled for the moment, it was abated from any need to see bears again.

Lastly, a word about clowns because what is a circus, if not a haven for clowns?  Clowns have gotten some really bad press lately due to a few college kids having some sport by scaring a few kids at a bus stop.  In our ever-heightened vigilance surrounding Stranger Danger, it set off some community alarm when in fact it was young adults just being foolish and, surprise, surprise, not thinking through the consequences of their actions.   I met a real clown recently.  He sat at the bedside of his ailing wife with a devotion and constancy that is only hinted at in Hallmark movies.   I had the opportunity to talk to him a bit and found him to be an incredible and compassionate human being.  He told me some of his thoughts on clowning which, for him, is truly a ministry to people who need some joy.  I found my eyes brimming up, as I pondered the importance of that particular effort.

Clowns can trace their roots at least back to the court jesters of Medieval times.  Their job was to bring levity to the king and his entourage.  Was the presumption that beyond the obvious entertainment value afforded to the wealthy and sometimes noble, the job of being a good king needed some comic relief?  I wonder if we sent some clowns into the Senate and House of Representatives, they would lighten up at lighter things, and re-focus on what is truly important thereby enabling them to come at their interchanges with others with more civility and respect thereafter?  I know, but I can dream.  Maybe it was The Joker from the Batman series that first combined the role of clown with villain.  That has done us no good, because now we can’t distinguish the good ones from the bad ones when we need to (ie. The college kids mentioned above).  Why can’t we have just ONE thing in our world that doesn’t have a bad-side to it?!  Then there are the men who serve as clowns for the Shriners circus and raise money for things like the Dana Farber Cancer Institute, or the Hospital Burn Unit in Boston.  Suddenly, the comic role yields to nobility:  the clowns have become kings.  This role of humor being their message to us:  search inside to see that beneath the pain, beneath the humor that makes sport of life’s incongruities, you too can become a king in your world.  You can make The Difference.

So if the elephants must go, and the trapeze artists must climb down from their high-wires, and the guys who eat fire and the ladies with beards and triple chins need to go live somewhere in a trailer park to drink root beer and eat chips, I make one final appeal:   please, somewhere there’s got to be clowns.  I don’t think we can make it without them.
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Thursday, March 2, 2017

It's the Thought That Counts




It’s the Thought that Counts
Smart people do not leave young puppies alone and unsupervised for any length of time (like five minutes).  I do not claim to be smart.  I just claim to be tired and wanting just another 45 minutes horizontally before I start my day.  Last year I switched to using my cell phone for an alarm clock.  Because of the laws of midlife mental dissipation and retention, I probably don’t even remember how to set a real alarm clock anymore.  Most recently, I realized that I was getting up due to causes other than alarm clocks… namely:  Bethany Darlin’ Pearl, Madeline Grace Pearl, and Valor Prince of Morning Glory Acres.  (Since they will most likely never make it to the Westminster, I thought I’d use their full names here for posterity.)

Some very wise person once noted that the key to getting up feeling well-rested was going to bed at a decent hour.  I believe my response was along the lines of:  “Define ‘decent.’”  It’s a pretty subjective word.  If I have worked an 8 hour day, spent one hour of daily commute time, and am trying to rustle up some dinner and get the laundry going or scoot off to a meeting, “Decent” looks a lot like 10:30pm.  However, that was when I mostly got to sleep through the entire night.  With the addition of Valor the Prince to my household that changed.

Valor needs to be able to have supper, go potty about four times, play “Monsters” with Madeline Grace, and burn off some steam between the hours of 7-10 in order for him to have a shot at getting up only ONCE in the middle of the night.  And when Valor is UP, we are ALL UP, trust me on this.  The Metropolitan Opera heard him across the other end of the state and has mailed us an application for his solo work.  That being said, our ritual has become: bed at 10pm.  Maybe he permits me to read or play a few hands of solitaire on the ipad without whining, maybe not.  It depends.  I guess the planets need to line up.  The day Cookie Jam crashed on me last week and I got thrown from level 97 back down to level 1 every time I open the game up, I wish he had not let me play that night.  I still get sad thinking about it in a way.  I know that he has accepted the kennel as his fate when I hear the little “huff” of a sigh as he hunkers down.  It is a close relative of teenagers rolling their eyeballs at parents – they know they lost the argument but they still weigh in to make you know they are under protest.

Little Valor decides that he must get up at around 2:30 am or 3:30 am to go outside and chew on the arborvitae shrub…. So we all get up and go out to freeze.    I am waiting for the spring day to come when we will startle the herd of deer that comes to eat from the neighbor’s apple tree which is adjacent to our dog pen.  That will be a panic.  As it is, sometimes he doesn’t get right down to business but engages Madeline in some abbreviated form of their “Monsters” game.  Then I try and corral the three of them back inside and am able to bribe him with a treat to go willingly back to his kennel for Part B of Sleeping. 

At 5:30 a.m. he notifies me again that it is time to be up and at ‘em.  I disagree but the other two dogs break the tie-vote.  I run the three of them out to the yard again and go in and do things people in my coma-like state should not have to do…. I set out the dog food for them and if I have the presence of mind, I clean the litter boxes also.  Then I let them in, set them at the dog dishes, and go very unceremoniously … back to bed.  As noted earlier, I am just seeking after that extra 45 minutes.  This is when the gift-giving begins.

Valor eats half his food and comes up the two doggie steps onto the bed and burrows in next to me …. most of the time.  Unless he comes with Madeline right behind him and then we have a full scale game of “Monsters on the Bed.”  I just try to protect myself from the gnashing teeth.   I have actually learned to sleep through “Monsters” – which most people would not be able to do.  Then – silence -  they vanish.  I drift away.  I kind of find myself not caring…. Then my eyes snap open.  Immediately, I care.

I heard the clunk.  I lean over the edge of the bed.  The old toilet plunger – now with a gnawed wooden handle – lies at the edge of the bed on the rug.  I am too tired.  I roll over again.  I think I hear my junky yard shoes getting chewed upon by razor like little teeth.  No harm, no foul.  I roll over again.  Then, all three dogs are up on the bed.  The silence is almost church-like.

I sit bolt upright.  That is a maneuver which can actually hurt you mid-life so I don’t recommend it.  But there I am, and as I bend forward toward the foot of the bed I see why I should ALWAYS clean the litter box at the 5:30 a.m. run:  The Prince has brought a snack from the Litter Box CafĂ© onto the bed.  The other dogs are so proud of him:  he has learned another of the Dark Dog Ways. 

For a moment I wonder if me having an empty stomach is better or worse than seeing and breathing these next few minutes.  I grab a Kleenex and remove the offense and cry out, “Dogs OFF THE BED!”  They have achieved their goal of getting me up and moving for the day.  I don’t resent it.  It’s all in good fun.  Except the smell.
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