Aug 17, 2017
Come to me, all ye merciless bastards, ye of talon, beak, and feather. Come to me, ye who rip and kill and tear. Come, ye murdering sons of bitches, for I will give ye rest.
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Russia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Taiwan
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Algeria
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
Come to me, all ye merciless bastards, ye of talon, beak, and feather. Come to me, ye who rip and kill and tear. Come, ye murdering sons of bitches, for I will give ye rest.
Can you buy joy? Surprisingly, yes - if you're mindful
Recently, my wife and I returned from a vacation/retreat. By the end of the 2014 we’d crossed a number of thresholds, and felt we needed to think about our lives in new ways. So, we packed up the car and headed to Florida, carrying more than the usual swimsuits and beach reads. Crammed also in the trunk were white boards and markers and a box of books to challenge and inspire deep thinking about the next phase of our lives. Oh - and because we weren’t ready for Christmas to end, we took Christmas lights. Something about Christmas lights on the beach feels right, any time of year.
We just got back, refreshed, and, I think, clarified. We rode bikes and talked deeply, followed by solitary walks to think about what it all might mean. We each worked on individual white boards, but we shared some, too. If this sounds like “work”, it’s only in the best sense; it was thrilling, sometimes amusing, and genuinely rewarding. 1 board that meant much was called Arvin Family Values. What, we wondered, did we as a couple truly value? Maybe, if we could name these things, we could find inspiration to live better, more creative lives - and discover where we were living incoherently. This list, we resolved, wouldn’t be aspirational; it would be honest. Also: we restricted it to baseline stuff, root and vine values from which a life could grow. We could fine tune later.
Here, in my chicken-scratch, is what we got. It’s our roadmap for the next phase of our lives - our true north.
The effect of naming these values was immediate. I recognized my ultimate value: joy. It’s my maximum currency, the thing I’ll pay the most to get. Naming that has already influenced my decisions, both big and small. 1 example (of a list that’s growing):
While at our retreat, we had a shared board for moving house. We’ve entered into a time of greater financial freedom, so we wondered: should we pack up and move to a “better” place? We ran the numbers, but the nagging thought was: is this a prestige move, or a joy move? Our house is far from the most fashionable Nashville zip codes, but we realized we love where we live. Moving, for now, would be nothing more than an attempt to buy prestige, so it’s out. It’s joy or nothing. More and more, I realize that often, we’re not actually buying the thing we think we are; we’re either buying, or failing to buy, joy.
Of course, some people get a fizz from buying things generally. This is different. This is the feeling of genuine well-being, of ongoing pleasure that you can get months later from something. Looking back, I can remember some things I bought not so much for the wrong reasons, but just . . . mindlessly. No longer, I hope.
Of course, there are lots of ways to find joy that cost nothing. Every Saturday in St. Petersburg, there’s a farmer’s market. A band plays swing music, and people (often strangers) spontaneously partner up and jitterbug. Like this fine fellow, who regularly appears in top hat and tux, ready to graciously squire women to the sounds of jive.
He is formal, polite, and damn light on his feet. The line of women waiting to dance with him is long, and seeing their faces, the result of a swing on his arm is joy.
The Single Most Important Scene in Friends
FRIENDS is getting a lot of pub lately because of the 20th anniversary. The show continues to resonate, but there’s a sneaky bit of zeitgeist in the very 1st episode that shows how times have changed. Remember the pilot’s plot: Rachel walks out of her wedding, meets the “Friends” at the café, and moves in with Monica. While there, she calls her father and ultimately declares, “Well, maybe I don’t need your money anymore, Daddy.” Here, it gets interesting: the Friends call her bluff. Rachel’s still got Daddy’s credit cards. Near the end of the episode comes the single most important scene of the series:
(CUT TO THE GANG AT MONICA + RACHEL'S, SITTING ROUND A TABLE. ON THE TABLE ARE RACHEL'S CREDIT CARDS AND A PAIR OF SCISSORS)
MONICA: You ready?
RACHEL: I don't think so.
ROSS: C'mon, cut. Cut, cut, cut,...
ALL: Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, cut, cut... (SHE CUTS THEM ALL UP. THEY CHEER)
MONICA: Welcome to the real world! It sucks. You're gonna love it!
This scene is so essential, the show can’t even begin without it. The adventure can’t begin as long as you’re tethered to the past, to home, to childhood. In this and many other ways, Friends is really a show with 1950’s sensibilities (except for sex).
Fast-forward to today: kids moving back in with parents, school debt, uncertainty about the future. The Z is in a completely different place.
The efficiency experts want you to be more “effective”. Now, they want your sleep, too.
Today’s Wall Street Journal contains a classic of “efficiency porn”: an article titled, without irony, "Sharpen Your Dream Skills" (link below). This one really needs the Stephen Colbert treatment. In the article, Shirley Wang extols the value of so-called lucid dreaming - a sleep state where the sleeper is at least partly aware of the act of dreaming while it occurs - and, in a single headline, sums up much of life today:
Sleepers with Greater Self-Awareness May Have a Cognitive Edge During the Day
Is this what our lives are for? Even our dreams? To get an edge? The Darwinists have won, with good reason, the debate over the origins of the humankind. But the victory places us in ruthless competition with each other, with no spiritual boundaries. There are things valuable in and of themselves. Yes, dreaming is connected with creativity. Yes, great ideas come to us in dreams - occasionally. But the notion of dreaming “skills” is obscene - a crushing of the final barrier between a personal life and endless, Darwinian competition. This mentality is why people take their phones on vacation. Or don’t take vacations. Enough.
Not everything in your life is a tool.
What about the pleasure of creativity for its own sake? Or Dreams? To take an afternoon and play? And not give a damn whether or not it’s making you “better?”
http://online.wsj.com/articles/the-benefits-of-lucid-dreaming-1407772779
Do you feel special? Or just especially anxious?
Hey, girl. Do you feel special? You should, right? God knows, you’ve been told that believing you’re special is central to a healthy identity. Doubting it feels like failure. But here’s the thing: you'll never truly be peaceful inside as long as you buy into the mythology of "specialness".
“Special”, in our society, is not neutral. “Special” conveys specific attributes. It’s corporate, like Coke. Here’s a partial list of what’s implied by “special”:
Indomitable (most important)
Gifted
Intelligent
Beautiful
Independent
Creative
Sexy
Artistic
Unique
In other words, a kind of Beyonce-Goddess. And OK, you're not 12, and you get that there's some hyperbole in it all. But this doesn't make you immune. And you're pretty sure that list is not you (being human, and all).
Still, you get on that. You draw. You take photos. You instagram and Pinterest and Etsy and work 30 hours a week unpaid as an intern for a startup.
The anxiety starts early - certainly, by freshman year in college. Young women dragged into my creativity classes, smiles barely covering a bundle of nerves. They were trapped between these outsized expectations and the terror of being ordinary. Today, there’s nothing worse. Young women hot to the touch, ready to fall apart with any criticism of their work. I didn’t get that while I was teaching. They came in the room with 3 threads holding them together.
But isn't the message to be enlightened and just know that you’re special? Unfortunately, that's not how human psychology works. We are, literally, wired to compare. Which is why so many people use the most glamorous picture possible online.
Katy Perry says she feels you, girl:
Do you ever feel like a plastic bag blowing in the wind?
“Yeah, actually. I mean, that’s a crap metaphor (plastic bags don’t have feelings), but I feel that way sometimes. What should I do?"
Ignite the light! Let it shine!
“Um, that actually makes it worse . . .” Own the night! Like the 4th of July!
"I'm not sure my work is really all that . . .” Baby, you're a firework! Come on, let your colors burst!
“I don't know what I could possibly do that that would . . . ” Make 'em go, "Aah, aah, aah! Leave 'em all in awe, awe, awe!
Hey, Katy Perry! That is terrible advice, especially for someone already stressed about her self worth. Can you imagine a therapist saying this?
You walk into the therapist’s office and say:
“Hi. I’m . . . I’m just riddled with doubt about myself. I mean, I know this is a crap metaphor, but sometimes I just feel like a plastic sack drifting along the street. What should I do?’
Ignite! Shine!
"What does that even mean?"
Let your colors burst! Make people go Ahhhhh!
"You mean let other people determine my worth?"
And don’t you stop until you leave them in awe!
"But isn't that the whole problem? Trying to make other people like me, instead of finding peace inside myself?"
Seriously, Katy Perry. You are a monster.
This isn’t theory for me. I made myself somewhat miserable for years trying to be special. I got defined as “the smart kid” very early - I only went to 1st grade for 2 weeks, for example - and musically, I seemed to start on 2nd base. I got praised. But by high school, being “special” had become my identity. So, by high school I was dancing away from myself and into the arms of the expectations of others. It wasn’t enough to be good. I needed to be a firework. To leave people in awe. Unsurprisingly, this expectation made me unhappy. Not miserable. But nowhere near as happy and liberated and peaceful as I could have been. Talent doesn’t protect you from this misery, by the way. I’ve never met Kanye West, but is there a more obviously unhappy human being? There’s no other explanation for his petulant outbursts. I actually feel sorry for him - to have so much affirmation, and yet still need more.
This expectation is why so many people go on reality TV. Having given up being “special” in any healthy way, they have said, “OK. I’ll be special this way. Because by God, I’m not going to be ordinary.”
Somewhere inside you, there’s a you. You can't possibly love her while trying to be so damn fabulous. Holding yourself even slightly hostage to the expectation of fireworks and specialness is a recipe for unhappiness. It will poison your relationships and your work. It's a recipe for losing yourself. Let it go. Just be you and don't worry about how special it is or isn't. Find some peace.
Sorry for getting harsh on Katy Perry. “Hey, Beyonce, Taylor Swift, and Lady Gaga? See all those girls in your audience dressed like you? Stop exploiting them with your bullshit.”
If the Supreme Allied Commander asks to borrow your hat, give it to him.
Sometimes, it's all about being in the right place. A family story for the Arvins concerns a hat and coat Dad loaned to Dwight “Ike” Eisenhower on the day Ike declared his candidacy for President. Dad, then a staffer for U.S. Senator Frank Carlson, was standing next to Eisenhower when the group left the Sunflower Hotel to make his speech. It was a blustery, rainy day. Eisenhower said, "Son, your hat and coat have just been requisitioned," and Ike wore the hat and coat through the day.
Dad was certainly rewarded. Eisenhower walked off stage, turned over the speech, signed it, and gave it to Dad. Fair trade, right?
While in Kansas laying my Mom's remains next to Dad's, I took a flyer and reached out to the Eisenhower Presidential Library and Museum - did they really have such a hat? And had Ike really given Dad the famous speech?
William Snyder, Supervisory Museum Curator, quickly got back to me. Not only would he retrieve the speech so I could see it, but,: "I am happy to tell you . . . that your father's hat has had a place of importance on display in the Presidential Gallery in the Museum." This, with an invitation to visit.
So, the day before Mom's Kansas service, we arrived in Abilene, KS and were greeted at the Museum's door by Troy Elkins, Ph.D candidate in history at the Kansas State University and full-time display technician at the Eisenhower Museum. In his hands was a plain folder. Troy ushered us to a well-lit area, opened the folder and revealed:
In Dad's description of events, Ike had turned over the speech, signed it, and given it to him. Troy turned to the last page and turned it over.
Troy explained that the previous curator had, in fact, confirmed the contribution had arrived via Dad, together with correspondence between Dad and Eisenhower. Museums are all about physical links with history, so - with some other artifacts and a little creativity - an exhibit was designed in 2002 to feature Ike's speech.
Here's a view of the lit panel:
And Dad's hat:
So cool to think of Dad at Ike's side at that moment - and how he, a former Army man, must have felt watching the Supreme Allied Commander wearing his hat and coat as he walked out into history. Finally: a shot of me, Troy and the Eisenhower speech:
Awesome, awesome experience. The staff couldn't have been nicer or treated us with more respect. After we left, I pictured my Dad on that day, with Ike spontaneously giving him the speech; Dad keeping it until the Museum opened, and then donating it to history. But I'll settle for the signed letter Ike sent to Dad thanking him for the loan of the hat and coat "on that cold, windy day". It's in my office.
"Go Beyond Your Nerve."
Kay Arvin, 20 years old
A great lady has passed away. Kay Arvin was blinded by an accident in 1945 when she was 23 years old. Undaunted, she went to law school. She was the 1st woman to try a case in her state’s Supreme Court and win. She was listed in Harvard’s Best Lawyers in America. She was a district judge. She wrote a book and sculpted in wood and clay. She taught university students in Singapore. She represented the interests of battered women and went to prisons to interview women incarcerated for murdering physically abusive husbands. She was given the Brotherhood Award by the National Council of Christians and Jews. While 1970’s pundits debated feminism, she quietly embodied its best attributes. She scoffed at the idea of “having it all”, and instead embraced difficult choices with intelligence and heart. She raised a family, kept house, loved her man, and was loved in return. She was equally modest, pretty, and formidable - a very rare combination indeed.
The following words are taken from my remarks made at her memorial service, held in Nashville. Goodbye, Mom. I love you.
_____________
I once watched a great spiritual teacher demonstrate a gesture for placing his attention in the present moment. He held out his hands with palms facing and said, “Imagine that everything in the past is here, to the left of your left hand. If you press a little, you can actually feel a little resistance. Now, imagine that everything in the future is here, to the right of your right hand. You are here - in the present, with the past and the future locked away, irrelevant to this moment.” I’ve found this little gesture useful from time to time. But I wish that I could push this barrier back right now. I wish that I could drift into the past, to my childhood, and take 1 more walk with my mother across our fields in Kansas. When I was a boy, we would walk out carrying a basket and a blanket, her hand trusting my arm. We would sit beneath an immense sky and talk about the wide world. But the line between now and the past doesn’t move.
My mother is gone.
What a life. People assume that having lived with her for so many years, that we would somehow have become accustomed to her extraordinary talents and grit. But I remain as astonished as anyone. I am filled with admiration for her and with gratitude to have spent so many years in her company.
So many have and will remark on her accomplishments that I want to speak of her as a mother. She mothered my brother Scott and me in the best sense, meaning, she protected us when necessary yet respected us as thinking, feeling persons. She was the most exquisite, patient listener. It’s true she was unable to read faces. Instead, she read voices.
Because of Mom, I grew up describing the world - not just what was happening, but how some small detail might comment on the larger whole. As a result, we developed a shared understanding of a single language. What I will miss most is the sense that, when speaking with her, everything - every small shade of meaning - was fully grasped. A pause. An emphasis. An irony. No joke was too inside to be caught and often returned with backspin. To be so fully understood, even when we disagreed, was priceless.
Me and Mom, then 84 years old.
The word I’ve heard my entire life in reference to Mom is ‘courage’. “How courageous she is,” people have said to me a thousand times, always offered with generosity and kindness. But I’ve never felt courage was the right word. Can we be courageous for nearly 60 years? The great things she accomplished pale beside the countless thousands of small difficulties she faced without complaint. For me, her professional accomplishments are of no greater significant than the fact that she could so gracefully manage the continuous inconveniences of her life. The paperclips on money to keep the bills straight. The complex system of bottle caps she devised to keep her medications in order. The willingness to search for an hour for some ridiculous item that was in plain sight 2 feet away on a different table. I cannot imagine the internal discipline required to face these absurd dilemmas and never - and I do mean never - complain. Never to say, “It’s so unfair.” I can’t find any particular word to adequately describe this characteristic. She chose to accept what could not be changed and to wade into everything that was possible. And she chose it day after day after day. Emily Dickenson wrote,
“If your Nerve deny you, Go above your Nerve.”
This is what Mom did. She went above her Nerve. This is how a blind woman in the ‘40s goes to law school and ends her last semester living alone, after Dad finished and moved to Wichita to begin working. This is how a blind woman chooses to raise a family. This is also how a blind woman organizes her closet so she never - ever - wears something that doesn’t match. Or how she learns to use a computer in her 80’s. Or, finding herself a widow at 90, chooses to remain independent and live alone. This living beyond her Nerve is how my mother built her life, 1 decision at a time.
She risked everything in the confidence that God was real and would catch her if she fell. So, she became a tightrope artist. While not breaking down barriers for women, she cooked and cleaned and did laundry and made my father feel invincible when he needed it. She grew flowers and sculpted and made lovely woodcarvings, including this little thrush.
I saw this little bird perched on her patio shortly before Dad died. When I asked her where she got it, she said, “I was gardening and came upon this piece of wood. It just seemed to me that it wanted to be a bird.”
As I run my fingers over this little bird, I can’t imagine how she made it in complete darkness. But there are several pieces like this at my house, each as mysterious as the last.
There is a temptation to saint those who struggle. To put a bow on difficulty when we see it redeemed by grace and effort. But Mom, while deeply spiritual, did not pretend pain was anything less than itself. I once asked her if perhaps her blindness had not in some way enabled her extraordinary life. She would certainly not have gone to law school, for example, since she only went because she was bored sitting at home while Dad attended classes. And so on, through many twists and turns, so that by confronting her limitation, she ended up growing into the person she became. She considered this idea for a moment and then said, “That’s true. But I would give all of it up to see your face.”
This kind of faith is the reason I can still call myself a Christian. I distinguish this faith utterly from the kind of “prosperity gospel” nonsense I see on TV. The idea that a Christian life, well-lived, is to be a string of victories. Bad things happen, and sorrow is sorrow. The best of us make peace and grow. But the wound remains.
Mom began every day by repeating a potent phrase. “Rest your head a while on the windowsill of heaven, turn your face full toward God, and greet the day.” For some people, this would be a platitude. For her, it was the choice to trust God to make possible what seemed impossible. Greet a day in the dark. Greet a day nevertheless full of possibilities. Greet it fully, with the mind engaged, open to anything.
Nothing said here can be fully appropriate to mark the end of her story. Tomorrow would have been her 92nd birthday. Looking back on her life, I see an admirable person who chose, repeatedly, to live as fully as possible. She was abandoned by her father but found genuine love that lasted 67 years, until my father’s death. She was blinded by a fateful accident, but built a life in full. Tonight, we will open a very good bottle of champagne and drink to her memory. I encourage you to do the same. A few tears are fine. But then smiles, surely. And a “bucking up” - a stiffening of resolve.
If you want to honor her memory, try something new in your life.
Take a risk. Read poetry. I suggest her favorite, the unapologetically acerbic Edna St. Vincent Millay. Pray fervently and without artifice, as she did. Stare down fear and when fear stares back, go above your Nerve. Swallow the hardships of your life again and again, until you do it reflexively. Never, ever tell a story about “the nice blind lady who was so courageous.” No, no. Tell a story about a great lady who made a trapeze out of life and always climbed back on when she fell. About a lady who traveled the world hand-in-hand with a man she adored. A lady who snuck into a lifeboat with her husband to spend the night while crossing the Pacific. A lady who wore a red, white and blue pin every 4th of July. A lady who practiced the law with grace and dignity. A lady who saw more of the world, more deeply, than most people see with perfect vision. Tell a story about Kay Arvin, my Mom, and one whom so many loved.
Mom and Dad out in Honolulu, 1945. Dad’s slightly in love.
Gaining Creative Confidence
Today, the Wall Street Journal illustrated beautifully (and unintentionally) our societal crisis in confidence. An article by Elizabeth Bernstein (http://is.gd/rdcpkO) touts the benefits of celebrating intimate relationships with little niceties: love notes, compliments, filling up our beloved’s car with gas. The article, in sum, says this: Be nice to your partner. She’ll appreciate it, and you’ll feel better, too. Also: don’t do it so often it becomes an expectation, but often enough for it to count. To support these utterly obvious findings, the article calls on a Professor of psychology and brain science (!), a postdoctoral scholar at the Institute of Personality and Social Research (!), and - rather low on the academic totem pole - a licensed marriage and family therapist. The article - itself a celebration of the current fetishizing of data, includes no less than 13 references to data to support appreciating your spouse, taken in order:
Experts say
Studies show
Researchers call it
The research was
Research shows
Researchers call this
Studies show
Experts say
Studies show
Experts say
Research shows
Do we now need a brain scientist to tell us to be nice? How have we lost our confidence in such obvious things? As a society, we rise and shout, "Give us the data!"
Here’s the problem: We need to trust ourselves - and what we know, deep down - to live, to act, to create. Without a powerful inner compass, we're lost. I know - I've been lost a few times, and had to remember how important this is.
The Germans have a word that’s fun to say: Grenzbegriff - which means, “That which is real but beyond analysis and description.” As a creative person, I depend on this. There have been lots of times people thought I was nuts, but I saw the grenzbegriff - and went forward. Think of the movies that tested poorly but went on to become hits, or significant creative achievements later termed brilliant.
If your motivation is strictly mercantile, fine - but most of us see creativity as something personal, something with human significance. Sometimes, you need to believe in something you can't test, you can't get into data. You have to believe. Faith is a central creative characteristic: faith that something that doesn't exist can exist.
Still, how can I find my confidence in a world where we can't find North without a GPS?
I got good news, people. You gain confidence by making stuff. No tricks. No hacks. No research required. You want confidence? Go make stuff. Keep doing that until you get better.