The Year of Living Authentically

Two mornings ago I woke up with these words on my mind: Transformation is not about becoming something else, but about becoming more completely what you are in the moment. (Kierkegaard and Kant would not feel threatened by the profundity of that waking thought, but I liked it anyway.)  For so many years I have felt uncomfortable in my own skin; in response, I have tried to change my skin. Always the urge has been to reach out, to grasp at, to quest for, something different, something better, something more meaningful. I've wiled away years of my life in this way, and I have to admit that this very fact is the source of much of the melancholy that is my frequent companion.

Over the last decade I've engaged in counseling, "men's work" (through the ManKind Project and otherwise), and inner work, and have joined a very satisfying spiritual community, the Unitarian Universalist Church of Greater Lansing. I've developed a personal mission and learned to measure my actions in terms of whether or not they support this mission or keep me from living it. As an alternative to looking for new "skin" out there, hoping that I might be more comfortable in it, I have been drilling down into the very deepest part of myself and attempting to live my life more authentically.  From time to time now I actually do.

What does it mean to "live authentically"?  Perhaps it's one of those concepts that is easier to spot by its absence than by its essence.  2008 was chock full of examples of inauthentic living.  Take a look at headlines for any day of the year and you'll spot more than one example of dirty politicking, financial shenanigans and outright fraud, corporate profligacy at the expense of the environment, greed run amuck, celebrities (with and without underwear) acting poorly, religious zealotry resulting in hatred and death, murder (even in a Santa costume), mayhem (literal "door-busters" and death on Black Friday), and on and on.  But examples of authentic living are there, too - they just take a little more digging to find and make a little less of a splash when you do.

In a by no means exhaustive list, I believe people live authentically when they:

• treat both themselves and others with respect and compassion;
• are less anchored in the past and less worried about the future, but live in the moment;
• eat and drink healthy food and beverages mindfully, ethically, and sustainably;
• take care of their bodies, minds, and souls by exercising each;
• don't eat, drink, use drugs, shop, have sex, or engage in other addictive behavior in order to try to heal psychic wounds or holes in their souls;
• heal psychic wounds by doing necessary tough inner work, by grieving what needs to be grieved, and by forgiving themselves and others;
• don't use narrow understandings of ineffable matters (God, for instance) to harm, marginalize, hate, or judge others;
• engage in work with a purpose of higher good, a purpose that is not solely amassing as much wealth as possible;
• are grateful for the abundance in their lives and are willing to share it;
• remain curious and open to learning and new experiences; and
• love easily, frequently, and cosmically. 

And so this New Year's Eve I choose not to make "resolutions" that relate to behaviors, even good ones, that are without context.  (Will the world really be a better place if I lose 10 pounds in 2009?)  Rather I resolve to (A) make 2009 the year of living authentically and (B) be gentle with myself when I slip up, mere (good-hearted, well-meaning) mortal that I am.

Learning From Old Drivers

The other day, as I approached a busy intersection, I was conscious of myself quickly checking things out - car in the left turn lane, car in the opposing left turn lane, car to my right turning right, no one in the crosswalk, light still green, no cars running red lights to my right or left.  In a very quick instant I realized that it was safe to proceed, and I did.

But then I wondered this:  would I be able to take the same quick read on the intersection stimuli were I 74 or 84 instead of 54 (indeed, was I better able to do so at 44 or 34)?  I'm sure I'm not the only one who can "feel" the right speed of a road while driving.  For instance, one country road near my old home town twists and turns, has no shoulders, has hidden drives galore, trees near the road, and so on.  It sports a speed limit of 50 - too fast by at least 10 miles an hour (or at least that's how it feels).  A five lane commercial trunk line runs near my current home.  It has wide lanes, few trees, set back buildings, no hidden drives and, at least for a stretch, a speed limit of 35 - too slow by at least 10 miles an hour.

I'm sure the driving speed that feels right to me has slowed down some over the years.  How else can I explain the increasing number of drivers who speed around me, blow through yellow lights next to me while I am stopping, or (especially in the case of 20-something young women talking on cell phones) tailgate me?  How else can I explain that the number of pokey old drivers that I speed around has decreased?  There is a reason, I suppose, why my insurance rates at at all-time lows; I'm driving slower and safer than a lot of younger people and quicker and more alertly than a lot of older people.

In this world where technology has made instant communication of words, documents, and media so prevalent, where finding an answer to most routine questions is never more than a Google away (from a computer, a cell phone, or the latest must-have hybrid of the two), and where the "fast lane" no longer refers primarily to the left lane on a highway, but, rather, to the preferred lifestyle for working, playing and getting more stuff, there is little room for living life slowly, or at least slower.  But many people are unhappy with this state of affairs and are "slowly" (sorry) pushing back.  In preparing a talk on this subject a while back, I read a book called In Praise of Slowness: Challenging the Cult of Speed by Carl Honoré, a Canadian journalist.  In the book, Honoré uses “slow” and “fast” not in any absolute sense, but in the sense of being balanced versus unbalanced, in control of your life versus out of control.  He writes:  

"What the world needs, and what the Slow movement offers, is a middle path, a recipe for marrying la dolce vita with the dynamism of the information age.  The secret is balance: instead of doing everything faster, do everything at the right speed.  Sometimes fast.  Sometimes slow.  Sometimes somewhere in between.  Being Slow means never rushing, never striving to save time just for the sake of it.  It means remaining calm and unflustered even when circumstances force us to speed up..."

So the question I find myself asking myself, over and over again, is this:  should I do this or that faster just because I can?  More and more the answer seems to be no.  And more and more, as I find a speed for living that feels right, I am enjoying the drive a little more.  Now when I notice people blowing by me, on the road or in life, I am less inclined to be angry and more inclined to smile.  Their journey, after all, is theirs.  I just want mine to be mine.  

In the Morning Hours

For years my daily morning routine consisted of popping out of bed, showering, dressing, getting in the car, stopping for a bagel and coffee on the fly, and plopping my butt behind my desk at 7:00 or 7:15.  One hour, plus or minus a few minutes, from eyes open to eyes reading or writing legal documents.  Admittedly, one of the reasons I got to work early was so that I didn't have to stay late - nights were chock full of personal and family activities that were far more interesting.  It wasn't that I was ever a total workaholic.  But still, anxious as I was each day to get work started so I could get it over, I never learned the art of beginning a day with grace.

For the last year or two I have embraced a very different routine.  I set my inner clock to wake around 6:00 (not hard since my inner kidneys are pretty active causing my inner bladder to cry for relief often during the night).  I get up, throw on chef's pants, wool socks and a sweatshirt, greet the cats outside our bedroom door (Bentley pauses for a quick head rub on the stairs but Mufasa runs as fast as his fat belly allows to wait by the food bowl), make tea while the cats whine (as a simple exercise to remind myself that is okay to take care of myself as well as others), feed the cats, and sit in my favorite reading spot.  I start with a Sudoku puzzle, then spend time with three or four books that I have by my seat.  One relates to spirituality, one relates to psychology or science, one relates to history or current events, and one is poetry (novels I save for night time reading).  I make more tea as needed.  Around 8:00 I wander upstairs to get ready for work (if it is a workday) or to wake Cary up (if it is not).  I am very pleased to have spent this time with myself and very grumpy when I have to cut it short to get the car in for an early appointment or leave for an early business meeting.

My new routine was born in part out my early morning insomnia (and a desire to let my poor wife sleep in peace without my tossing and turning), in part by time freed up as a result of a conscious decision to work fewer hours, and in part by my growing fascination with the "integral vision" and the "integral life practice" being continually developed by Ken Wilber and his friends at the Integral Institute.  With age I have come to see fewer absolutes and have developed a heightened appreciation for the interconnectedness of beings, things, thoughts, and phenomena.  The Integral Vision provides a fascinating and stimulating framework within which to explore this interconnectedness, with direct application to the way we relate to ourselves, our cultural and personal relationships, our political and social structures, the world and, indeed, the universe.  Were I Supreme Benevolent Dictator of the Universe, I would make "Integral Life Practice" a required course for all the myopic politicians, religious zealots, corporate profiteers, and despots in this stressed out world.

That I am drawn to integral studies shouldn't surprise me.  Beginning when I was about ten I devoured "Doc Savage" adventures and longed, deep in my heart, to be just like him.  Doc Savage was a normal man who had, from his  childhood days, extensively trained his mind and his body so that he was very strong and agile and outrageously good at almost everything.  Like Superman, Doc could have used his extraordinary powers for personal gain, but chose to devote himself to righting wrongs.   I wonder if Ken Wilber read Doc Savage adventures, too, when he was a kid - Doc was, truth be told, the original integral life practitioner. So even as I drill down into the depths of this exciting new way to learn and grow, I have to smile when I think of little buzz-cut Brad wanting to save the world and believing (at some level, at least) that he could if only he were as disciplined as Doc.  These days, sipping tea in the early morning with a fat, temporarily sated cat stretched out by my side, I am content to understand the world a little better and to make things better in the modest ways I can.

The Grinch, the Elf, and Me

Three years ago my dad (on the left, circa 1966, in the photo), newly diagnosed with lung cancer, went into the hospital with pneumonia and nearly died.  Christmas of 2005 was dominated by his illness, yet perspective about what is important in the season, and in life, was made all the clearer when my daughters, son-in-law, wife and I huddled around his bed as he ate the Christmas food we brought him.  Ten months later he was gone for good.  And this Christmas will mark the third one without him.

I miss my parents and my grandparents all the time, but most intensely at Christmas.  In my formative years Christmas served as a sort of emotional "cease fire" in our family.  My mom and dad took a break from their normal bickering to gleefully work together on holiday planning and to overspend on presents (especially for my sister and me).  My dad, too anxious to let my sister and me sleep in on Christmas morning, would play the mischievous elf and shake sleigh bells to wake us up.  My grandparents (dad's parents) came over later in the day, laden with presents, and shared the immense meal my mom made (with the exception of the cranberry-walnut-jello-cream cheese salad my grandma always brought).  My normally sullen grandpa (on the right in the photo), who worked a dirty job in a foundry most of his life and seemed somehow numbed by the direction his life had taken, was full of smiles and laughs and stories, a sort of post-epiphany Grinch.  My sister and I were the princess and prince in all of this, and could not have felt more loved.

After I married and had daughters of my own the dynamic shifted, but it was still fun.  They were the new royalty, and I loved being tucked in the middle of it all.  Then things got crazy - the divorce of my parents in the mid-80's, my mother's untimely death followed by my divorce in 1992, and so on.  Through all these latter changes, while my girls grew up, I had the steady presence of my dad.  He didn't always go the extra mile to stay involved in my life, he didn't like to attend my or the girls' various events, his visits were always too short, and he rarely called me (even though he loved to chat).  But he was there and he loved me unconditionally.  I miss him acutely - he was the last of my ancestors to die and, more than that, he was a hell of a good guy.

  

The Napkin Dispenser Fallacy

It's happened to you, too - I know it has.  You're dining in your favorite lunch spot or snagging a donut on the fly in a coffee shop.  You go to grab a napkin or two, only to discover that some enterprising soul has stuffed the dispenser so full of napkins that it is impossible to pull one out.  So you pick up the dispenser, shove a finger or two in the edge, and pull out upwards of a dozen napkins.  What you do with the extras once you've pulled them out is another blog altogether (use each of them, throw them out, leave them for the next poor bastard, etc.).  But for now I'm interested in the thought process of the minimum wage worker who stuffed the dispenser in the first place.  You can almost hear the dialogue and ensuing thought process:

"Larry, dammit, the napkin dispensers are empty again!  I thought I told you to fill them up!"

(Whining.) "I did!  I swear.  I did it like two minutes ago."

"Well, do it again."

"All right, all right, Josh.  Give me a break, Dude."  (Thinking.)  "Man I wish I was high.  Who needs this s**t?  Where are the stupid napkins?  Oh, here they are.  Now I'll just stuff some in.  Hey, wait a minute.  If I push this spring thing back a little more I can fit another wad in.  Yeah, that's what I'll do.  Then I won't have to fill this frigging thing up so soon and Josh, the big butt-wipe, will stop hollering at me."

Ah, poor Larry.  The fallacy in his thinking is that he will achieve a better result by cramming the dispenser with napkins beyond its functional capacity.  No sooner has this hapless stoner made his feeble attempt to improve his lot in life than you or I come in, dig into the dispenser in frustration, and unwittingly pee all over his perfect universe.

I've been thinking about this for years but only decided to blog about it a couple of days ago in connection with Thanksgiving (which is now merely a speed-bump on the superhighway between Halloween and Christmas, as evidenced by the paltry Thanksgiving display in the superstore - a few cans of pumpkin, sweet potatoes, green beans, mushroom soup, and onion rings).  Perfect: "stuffing" ourselves with food, and football, and shopping lends itself so well to the "napkin dispenser fallacy" analogy.

And then the world spins just a little further out of control as "Black Friday" shoppers crush a temporary Wal-Mart employee after pushing the door off its hinges and surging through the frame in the wee hours of Friday morning.  Even Dante would have trouble figuring out the right ring of hell for the members of this herd.  My sadness and disgust at this story tell me that analogy is a woefully inadequate response - so I will let it go.  (Feel free to noodle it over yourself if you are so inclined.)  I will, however, spend a little more time contemplating my own relationship with greed, gluttony, fear of scarcity in a life of plenty, and the thought that "more" is always better than "less."  What else can I do (except maybe go shopping to forget)?

Round and Round With the Bard

Basking in the afterglow of Obama's victory and a stunning performance by Christopher Plummer in Shaw's Caesar and Cleopatra the night before, my daughter Taylor and I found ourselves in Statford, Ontario on November 5 heading to the Festival Theater to catch a matinee of Romeo and Juliet. Knocking around town earlier that day we kept bumping into middle school and high school students buying souvenirs and bad food. So we weren't surprised when we got to theater and discovered that school groups comprised the lion's share of the audience. Past experience had taught me that the behavior of a school audience depends entirely on the play being performed - the kids are mesmerized by funny, plot-driven plays and are bored to tears with heavy, poetic dramas. We had nothing to worry about that day. Despite a few snickers when one of the actors dropped his trousers to change on stage and later when Romeo was all dopey over Juliet, the audience was, for the most part, rapt and well behaved.

The whole experience took me back 40 years. It was, if I'm remembering right, the fall of 1968 when my freshman English teacher took a group of us to the Stratford Festival to see Measure for Measure. I went on the trip, despite the prospect of yawning through a stuffy play, because, well, what high school kid wouldn't rather spend a day on the bus flirting with girls instead of sitting through classes? But when the fanfare played and the lights went down and the play began, I was totally sucked into a world of passion, intrigue, and language I never imagined when I was plodding though the lengthy speeches in Julius Caesar as my first exposure to Shakespeare. The play was bawdy, funny, and thought provoking. As always the acting and the staging were superb. So thanks to Ruth Friedman, my teacher, this small town, white-bread, skinny kid was ushered into a life-long love affair with theater, literature, and the Bard. I'm not sure I ever thanked her, or thanked her enough.

Over the years I've supported the Festival financially, but more importantly I've shared this experience with my first wife, my friends, my sister, my daughters, my current wife, Cary, and, in the late 1980's, with a group of kids from Highland Park Schools. After this year's experience I've decided it's time to "pay it forward" a little more and pass the experience along to another generation of school kids (if I can arrange financing with some of my business cronies and work out border issues). Maybe that, more than anything else, is a way I can finally give Mrs. Friedman the thanks she deserves.

Still basking in the the afterglow of Obama's victory and waiting anxiously for his term to begin, I find myself believing, once again, in the power of one caring person (not just the POTUS, but a teacher or a lawyer) to make a difference.