Dear followers

When I decided to move to Hawaiʻi, I started a new blog (Renegade Reflections) to chronicle the experiences and lessons accompanying that move. My thought was to maintain this blog (One Foot On A Banana Peel) for my nominally “deep” thoughts and big ideas, with Renegade Reflections reserved for things specific to the move.

What I’ve discovered is that I can’t separate my thoughts and ideas from the context in which they’re formed. Time after time I’ve had an epiphany leading to a big idea or deeply affecting realization, and when trying to decide where to post it I’ve chosen to post it in Renegade Reflections almost every time, because living on Maui has been integral to the narrative.

I haven’t altogether neglected this blog—I posted a few months ago when I emerged from my chrysalis, a new creature—but even those posts really belonged in the other blog.

I’m not committing to blogging frequently or regularly—it’s seasonal for me—but when I do post, it’ll almost certainly be “over there,” rather than here. So if you’re still interested in the nonsense I over-share (and you’re not connected to me through Facebook, Google+, or Twitter), you may want to follow me there.

Mahalo!

Transcendence

Religion, Philosophy, and Determinism

If you’ve ever talked religion or philosophy with me, chances are you’ve heard my views on chance and fate—on the premises that:

• Everything happens for a (non-causative) reason
• There’s no such thing as coincidence
• God rewards righteousness and punishes sinfulness in the material world (the “piety-prosperity” hypothesis)
• Your (one-and-only) “soulmate” is waiting for you
• You have a (singular) destiny

My beefs with these premises can be boiled down to these: they suggest that someone (or everyone) lacks free will, and/or they suggest that (a presumably “good”) God is responsible for some terrible things, like drought, famine, all manner of natural disaster.

In rejecting these ideas, I’ve argued that free will (or “agency,” as it is sometimes called in churchy circles) cannot be reasonably reconciled with any kind of determinism and that if God gets credit for the good things that happen, then God must also get the blame for the bad things that happen. My theological/philosophical position is that each of us is completely sovereign in our own lives and that God does not manipulate us or the world; rather, God (if any—I believe, but it isn’t the only perspective) is present with us and empathizes with us as we encounter everything an impersonal world has to offer. These principles—that each of us is completely free to choose as we wish, and that God is “good,” thereby morally constrained from manipulating us and for some good reason constrained from manipulating the natural world—aren’t always comforting, but I take comfort in the belief that we are all equally subject to the world’s vicissitudes and all receive equal consideration from God (if any).

The Dilemma

Now, I find myself trying to reconcile my position which I still think largely correct with recent experiences which suggest that the universe is more orderly than I ever imagined.

On the one hand, my reasoning is as sound and as valid as it ever was. If the universe is deterministic—if we don’t really have free will or agency, if our decisions aren’t really decisions at all, but are rather manifestations of a clockwork universe—even assigning blame becomes the action of an automaton and not the choice of a free creature. If God acts directly in the universe for the good of anyone, then God must be held responsible for anything he has the power and knowledge to affect. Since I cannot accept the premise that we lack autonomy and cannot accept the premise that an omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent, and good god would allow the innocent to suffer, I continue to reject ideas that suggest either to be true.

On the other hand, I find myself suddenly, embarrassingly convinced that in some ineffable way I can (and do) change what happens—change the very course of creation—according to how I look at it. If I can’t reconcile what I have in each hand, I have to let one go, and giving up either does violence to my nature.

On the gripping hand (thank you, Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle; without a third hand, I’d have been screwed), maybe my reasoning and my experiences aren’t as antagonistic as they seem. Maybe, just maybe, the problem is with my model of the universe. Maybe what I really need is a different metaphor.

Skepticism and Mystery

Posit a universe mostly as I’ve always thought of it: observable, with consistent behavior that can be described and predicted with some accuracy. The better our understanding of the “rules” that “govern” its behavior the more accurately it can be predicted. This is how science approaches the universe, and it’s a useful model, particularly for the “mechanistic” bits—what makes things move, how things interact, what energy is and what it does, etc.—but it isn’t perfect even for that and for the intangibles—feelings and relationships and passions and such—well, for them it falls quite a long way short.

I’ve always attributed the human parts, particularly the magic of human relationships, to choice, to taste, and to luck. Likewise, I’ve always attributed the vagaries of the physical world (those things that can’t be predicted or explained mechanistically) to mere chance. Statistically, somebody has to be luckier and someone has to be less lucky; it stands to reason. Reason, however, is not always intuitively satisfying; sometimes, our (for lack of a better word) “spirit” rebels against that which is “reasonable.”

I tend toward skepticism; I generally distrust that which is unseen. It has made my development as a man of faith—as a “believer” (and I do consider myself a believer)— “interesting,” to say the least. In matters where immaterial, intangible, “mystical” reality cannot (or should not) be disregarded, I generally find a perspective—I think of it as an expanded understanding—that encompasses both the explainable and the unexplainable without requiring I dismiss that skepticism (which I consider a healthy leaven) altogether.

A Digression

In writing this, I’m realizing that among the myriad lessons of the last week is one about skepticism needing a leaven, too. Skepticism by itself is not enough; some things cannot be doubted away. I’ve already accepted that truth in many areas and aspects of life, and now I’m ready to acknowledge its truth even in the areas where I have the most to lose.

And that last sentence was also a revelation to me. There’s healthy skepticism (which I exercise) and there’s neurotic skepticism (which has also been a part of my repertoire): I have used skepticism to avoid vulnerability, yet vulnerability is prerequisite to that which I crave most, intimacy. To be vulnerable is to be open to the possibility of hurt, and for too long I have let fear of hurt keep me from the intimacy I crave. No more; the transformation I am experiencing has (almost completely) freed me from that neurotic fear that for so long has ruled and robbed me.

Transformation

That transformation is the real topic of this blog; I’ve written a bit about it on The Cosmic Orchestra and Maui 2013 Summer of Love; this entry is an attempt to put that transformation into context and outline ways I can reconcile my scientific/skeptical and mythic/mystical selves (something I started in The Cosmic Orchestra).

Six Impossible Things

The book that catalyzed this transformation, The Vortex: Where the Law of Attraction Assembles All Cooperative Relationships, presented real challenges to my skeptical self. It posits, for example, that we are the corporal expression of “Non-Physical” beings and that we both chose this manifestation and remain connected to our Non-Physical selves. I grant that’s possible, but it seems untestable, and therefore I am skeptical. Examples abound in the book; assertions about “reality” that can’t be verified. I’m not saying that because it can’t be verified it is untrue; I’m simply saying that in the absence of evidence there is room for doubt.

And that’s okay; in fact, that’s awesome! As the Mad Hatter memorably said, “Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” While it’s no virtue to be credulous, I find it enormously useful to be able to at least entertain contrary thoughts, and since this book came highly recommended by a valued, trusted, and admired friend, I reserved judgment. I didn’t dismiss the text out of hand just because I found some of its premises suspect.

It’s a good thing I didn’t, because The Vortex stirred, triggered, catalyzed my transformation, and this transformation is something I’ve persistently courted and not-so-patiently awaited for long years. The authors may believe some things I find it difficult to accept, but they suggest ways of thinking—ways of being—that my intuition finds compelling (or, sometimes, just obvious). And while I’m not convinced they got all the details right, there is something—something powerfully resonant—in their espoused world view.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!

What changed my life in a veritable twinkling—and what I mean is, it changed me: my self-perception, my perception of others, my expectations, my attitude, my behavior, the whole enchilada—is what I understand to be “The Law of Attraction,” which (broadly paraphrased) says that like attracts like, that what comes to you is that on which you spend the most thought energy, that your “Vibrations” (which you can choose, but if you don’t you’re likely to broadcast negative ones by default) determine how the physical universe and other beings treat you.

By extension, this suggests that to a significant degree we “choose our own adventure” by the way we invest our emotional/vibrational energy. For long years, I’ve focused on the lacks in my life and (unsurprisingly, according to the “Law of Attraction”) I’ve experienced lack. Others have focused on abundance and experienced abundance.

It isn’t about being rewarded according to virtue, either; we all know someone who is (by our lights, anyway) undeserving, yet the world is their oyster, and each of us knows someone else, more than deserving, who finds the world stingy or worse. Those who experience abundance tend to focus on it, even taking it for granted, while those who experience scarcity tend to focus on it, likewise assuming it’s their “lot in life.”

Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Did the experience foster the thought, or did the thought foster the experience? I’ve always assumed the latter, until The Vortex led me to question my presumptions; now I’m unsure.

Simply by changing my focus, my intention, my expectations, my “Vibrational” output in accordance with (some of) what’s written in The Vortex, I radically changed my experience of the universe, quite literally overnight. I can’t explain it in purely rational terms—I lack the vocabulary, if nothing else—but I cannot deny my experience. The difference both for me and in me is unmistakable.

If the “Law of Attraction” means anything, it means that despite my negative focus, I also broadcast some positive “Vibration,” or I would never have attracted those who have midwifed my rebirth. I know what that “Vibration” is. It is the primal note, the fundamental note of creation, the genitive “Om” on which is built every other chord. It is love, and no matter how low I got, that note always played in my heart—sometimes pianissimo, rarely forte. Now it plays fortissimo, and that, too is product of the change in me.

The Meaning I Made

Reconciling my (transcendent?) experience with my skeptical self isn’t easy (and it isn’t done, though I’m well along). I cannot deny that when I focused my “psychic” energies on abundance and expectancy rather than scarcity and cynicism, things changed. Where before my expectations (of continued emptiness) were met with...emptiness, now my expectations of...well, of awesomeness are met with an unequivocal sense of awesomeness. It’s as if my old “frequency” matched the resonant frequency of scarcity and loneliness and emptiness, and now I’m tuned to the resonant frequency of abundance and connectedness and joy. I know, without knowing how I know, that the universe and the people around me are responding to this change in me even when my behavior is not very different than it was before.

Maybe the authors of The Vortex are onto something. Maybe in the intangible universe there is a class of phenomena similar to harmonics, resonant frequencies, and sympathetic vibrations in the physical world. Maybe...

In the physical world—in acoustics and radio and light waves—many objects and even empty spaces called “cavities” have a natural, resonant frequency. When something is “vibrating” at any given frequency (literally vibrating in the case of acoustics, less literally so in the cases of radio and light), any nearby objects or cavities that are resonant at that frequency will begin vibrating in sympathy. An object or cavity will also vibrate less strongly in response to vibrations at harmonics—exact multiples—of its resonant frequency. This phenomenon is well known, commonly observed, and generally exploited in everything from musical instruments to radar and lasers.

If some metaphysical analogue operates in the intangible universe as the domain of relationships, we can speak metaphorically of “Vibrations” and make some sense of it. It isn’t necessarily that there are actual vibrations; rather, the universe has been observed to operate as if there were vibrations. It’s a metaphor; a way of grasping some part of something that’s fundamentally beyond our grasp.

I find this notion—that the universe is so constituted that the “Vibrations” we broadcast by focusing our mental/emotional energy on one thing or another awaken sympathetic “Vibrations” (on the same metaphoric “frequency”) in the intangible universe and in the entities we connect with—in keeping with my recent experience, while at the same time being something my skeptical self can swallow. My intuitive self finds the concept empowering and liberating, and cast in these terms I don’t think it necessarily contradicts religion’s traditional teachings, either.

Pure Poetry

It’s also marvelously poetic to talk about the way the humming of my heart strokes the violin strings of the world into song, or how what matters most is how well one tunes and attunes herself to the natural instruments of the universe.

In the end, there’s no knowing what is really real. Maybe we’re all in the Matrix, and every experience we know is a simulation, a shadow play. Maybe the universe is a clockwork automaton, and we are merely cogs in the works, with no more free will than a gear wheel. If the latter, even these lofty thoughts are just the mesh of gears in the great machine. I don’t believe that, and if that disbelief is inevitable, still it is mine.

I believe that we have free will. I believe, too, that each of us has great power to create the outcomes we desire. And my recent experience leads me to think that simply changing your focus can change your world.

The Least it Can Be

Maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe a positive outlook and anticipatory attitude don’t change anything except perception. Maybe people who see the way I do now are kidding themselves into a better experience in defiance of “reality.”

I can live with having this wrong. If all this does is change (for the better) the way I see my life, that’s still a lot; that’s enough and more than enough. But if, as I now believe, there is an underlying reality that responds to the way each of us invests our energy, so much the better. I’m “all in” for good; for the good I do, for the good I deserve (that is manifesting in the world, right now), and for the greater good.

What have I got to lose?

The Cosmic Orchestra

This week I have undergone a “sea change”—“a broad (spiritual?) transformation”—that has, I think, been in the making for long years, accelerating this summer and reaching the tipping point Tuesday, when a great friend suggested I read the book The Vortex: Where the Law of Attraction Assembles All Cooperative Relationships. I don’t necessarily subscribe to the mystic cosmology that underlies the premise of The Vortex—I think of myself as a sceptic (although I’m suddenly reminded of a college professor, Howard Booth, who was both sceptic and mystic at once), and the metaphysical elements of the book don’t necessarily ring my bell—but I find myself powerfully affected by the premise itself: that we inevitably attract the things to which we pay the most attention (whether positive or negative); that the “Vibrations” we broadcast determine to greater or lesser degree what happens in our lives and that we have the power to tune our own “Vibrations” to play a variety of notes. As a nominal Christian, I've struggled for years with the common Christian notion that God is the initiator of all that happens in the world—that God directly acts to bring people into (and take them out of) our lives, that God orchestrates every good thing that happens (and by logical extension, every bad thing that happens, too)—and the reasons I resist accepting this idea are:

• It seems to drastically limit the exercise of “free will”
• It lays responsibility for sometimes terrible suffering on a “good” and “loving” God
• It excuses people who are passive when confronted with injustice, suffering, or wrong: “It’s God’s will,” many say as they shrug their shoulders and avert their eyes
• Many start with “it’s God’s will” and conclude that their good fortune implies their greater worthiness
• ...

I can, however, get behind the idea that the universe is so made that a kind of “sympathetic resonance” plays out, similarly to what is suggested in The Vortex. I can imagine a universe so constituted that everything has its own metaphoric “resonant frequency,” and will “vibrate” in response to other “vibrations” on the same “frequency.” Good things and relationships have particular “frequencies” and will naturally manifest when another person or thing is tuned to and vibrating at the same “frequency,” with the same being true of less than “good” things. For most of my life I have given my attention to that which I lack, “vibrating” to a “negative” “frequency.” If the “Law of Attraction” has any basis in reality—if in fact the “vibrations” we give off do in fact attract (or awaken) similar “vibrations” in similarly “tuned” things and people (and my recent experience supports the premise)—my focus on what is missing instead of on what is present would result in more of what I was focused on. When I began reading The Vortex, previous lessons—“Just show up and breathe,” “Choose your emotion,” “Celebrate what is,” etc.—clicked into place and in a matter of hours I could feel myself vibrating on an entirely new frequency. (in the interest of full disclosure, I must credit the cast of RENT on Maui and our own personal “Summer of Love” for softening my heart and preparing me for this “sea change.”) It amazes me, the speed of this transformation, not to mention its radical nature. There is something different (and awesome) about me; it isn’t that I haven’t always been awesome; it’s just that I didn’t believe it in my heart of hearts, and the universe around me resonated to that disbelief. Now it resonates to a new note, and the universe around me is awakening to that new note. Others are commenting on it (not that I require external validation, although it’s certainly pleasant), but most importantly I can see it, feel it, hear it, smell it, touch it, taste it. It’s real to me; as real as love, as desire, as passion, as joy. It doesn’t matter if the universe works exactly the way this metaphor suggests; this is working for me, and as a practical matter, that’s all that matters.

The Eye of a Needle

I have a problem with what is sometimes called “The Prosperity Gospel”—the notion that righteous believers (usually defined as those who uncritically accept the teachings of a particular minister or the doctrines of a particular church) will be blessed with temporal prosperity (wealth).

I have a problem with this “doctrine” because it seems to fly in the face of things the Bible reports Jesus actually said, and my understanding of what it means to be a Christian is based on what Jesus (reportedly) said and did.

I find it difficult to reconcile trends among many believers to expect their reward in this life with what Jesus said in passages like this one from Matthew 19:16-24 (New Revised Standard Version):

¹⁶ Then someone came to him and said, “Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?” ¹⁷ And he said to him, “Why do you ask me about what is good? There is only one who is good. If you wish to enter into life, keep the commandments.” ¹⁸ He said to him, “Which ones?” And Jesus said, “You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; ¹⁹ Honor your father and mother; also, You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” ²⁰ The young man said to him, “I have kept all these; what do I still lack?” ²¹ Jesus said to him, “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” ²² When the young man heard this word, he went away grieving, for he had many possessions.
²³ Then Jesus said to his disciples, “Truly I tell you, it will be hard for a rich person to enter the kingdom of heaven. ²⁴ Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.”

Jesus says that the wealthy will have a hard time entering the kingdom of heaven, almost impossibly hard, “easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle.” So I have a question for those who subscribe to the Prosperity Gospel: Did Jesus Stutter?

Jesus does not tell the young man that obeying the commandments will bring him wealth. The young man already has wealth; “...he had many possessions.” Rather, he tells the man to surrender what he has and “give the money to the poor,” and if the young man should do as Jesus commands, he will himself join the ranks of the poor.

As I was pondering this scripture today, I got a glimpse of what one of Jesus’ motives may have been. Then (as now) most wealthy young men inherited their wealth. This young man likely had no real experience with or understanding of poverty. So maybe in addition to providing needed resources for the poor, Jesus wanted this wealthy young man to experience firsthand the tragedy that is poverty; maybe Jesus wanted this seemingly good-hearted young man to get a reality check.

It is easy for anyone who has lived a life of relative ease and security (myself included) to discount the horrors of poverty. But without intimate experience with the actual condition, we will get it wrong. Being poor is not a symptom of weak character or morality. Being poor is not always or even usually a choice. And poverty is not something that any strong-willed, determined person can bootstrap out of.

Being poor is not one thing. Being poor is a systemic problem, and those who are poor have the deck stacked against them. A child raised in poverty may be more sick more often than a child of the middle or upper classes, because poor parents often have to choose between food or shelter and medical care. A child raised in poverty is more likely to have an unstable home life. A child raised in poverty is more likely to be educated in a poor school because school funding tends to follow neighborhood affluence. And a child raised in poverty is more likely to have a disrupted education—poor families tend to move often as the parents seek opportunities to lift themselves out of the hole in which they are trapped.

A child educated in a poor school (and having missed more school due to illness) is less prepared to break out of the cycle of generational poverty, and may additionally be demoralized in a culture where a person’s worth is often measured based on the things s/he has.

Poverty disrupts basic health and well being. Poverty disrupts social stability and educational opportunity. Poverty begats poverty, and that is a human tragedy. Poverty is a slap in the face of humanity, and ought not to be tolerated. And Jesus had a heart for the poor.

Time and again in the Gospels we read about Jesus feeding the hungry, healing the sick, speaking for the downtrodden and against the powers that be. Time and again Jesus scolds the rich: for their complacency, for their arrogance, for their neglect of their fellow human beings. And Jesus did not spend a lot of time with the wealthy. He was himself a poor man—it is possible that he turned his back on affluence when he left Joseph and Mary to begin his ministry, but regardless he was a homeless itinerant throughout that ministry—and although he said that the poor would always be with us, nowhere in the Gospel do I get the idea that Jesus thinks that’s cool, or that it’s cool with Jesus if the wealthy lord it over the poor and let them suffer.

So this notion that “Good Christians” are going to enjoy comfort in this life strikes me as strange. Jesus was not a “family values” kind of guy—he told people to abandon their families to follow him. Jesus was not a “free market” kind of guy—those who knew him best established communities of believers where all things were held in common (Socialism if not Communism). And Jesus was not militant—he told people that if they were struck on one side of the cheek that they should turn the other cheek and allow themselves to be struck again.

Following Jesus is hard. Maybe that’s why many choose other paths—easier, more comfortable, more profitable paths—and claim that they’re Jesus’ paths. I don’t know.

Maybe that’s why so many young idealists, looking for something that gives them purpose and identity, are turning away from the Church. Maybe what they’re looking for is the path Jesus actually trod, and maybe they aren’t finding it in church.

That’s certainly why I tend to distance myself from Christians who point to their affluence as signs of God’s approval, or who have a thousand reasons why they don’t feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, or visit the sick or imprisoned. I can make no excuses; in my opinion, Jesus clearly expects all his followers to do those things, and while I am certainly imperfect in my compliance, I will not claim that my failure is somehow virtue in God’s eyes.

Maybe those other Christians are right about this and I’m wrong. Maybe the reason I’m not wealthy is because I’m not a good enough Christian. Maybe I should be more like (many of) them: arrogant, condescending, judgmental, superior, exclusionary, condemnatory... Maybe if I were more like that, I’d be richer.

If so, I’d rather be poor.

Dear Lady Driving the Car Filled With Birthday Balloons

I know you didn't mean any harm. I know you're sorry you didn't see me. I know you were apologetic when I passed you after our little "dance."

I'm sorry I flipped you off, although in my defense, when I did it I'd only just avoided being killed. I was frightened, and that made me angry.

Here's the thing. I was riding in the fast lane right next to you. I was not quite even with the driver's window, but I was only a couple of feet back. I was not in your blind spot. But I had a premonition, so I put my thumb over the horn button, just in case. I trusted that a beep of the horn would alert you to my presence; I could see that your window was down a few inches.

I had a premonition, and sure enough you turned on your signal and began to move into the lane I was already occupying.

So I tapped the horn. Apparently you couldn't hear it, though, because you kept coming over. So I blasted the horn: several long blasts. Still you came over. I finally had to take evasive action and brake hard to avoid being forced into oncoming traffic.

If I hadn't been alert enough for both of us, you'd be looking forward to a lifetime of guilt and I...well, I'd be lying in a morgue.

That's why I flipped you off, lady. Because you nearly killed me.

I'm a biker, and that kind of thing happens fairly frequently. Usually, though, a toot of the horn and the car swerves back into the lane it was coming from.

After more than 37,000 miles on the Harley, I've learned that I have to be alert enough for everyone on the road, because too often four-wheel motorists (who bikers frequently refer to derisively as "cagers") are completely oblivious to the presence of motorcyclists.

Maybe it would have happened even if I was in a car, and maybe not, but even if it had, here's the difference: if you hit someone in a modern car, chances are everyone's walking away (maybe cursing, but still alive and well).

If you hit a biker, that biker's day has been ruined. It's entirely possible that biker's life has been ruined. It is in fact pretty likely that the biker will not survive the encounter (and you will).

So I'm sorry I flipped you off, lady. I'm sorry I wasn't more gracious when you tendered your mimed apology. I believe you meant it.

I know that you came very close to ruining two lives (maybe more; I don't think those birthday balloons were you, and what effect would your guilt have had on your child over the course of a lifetime?)

And I just can't figure out why you couldn't hear my horn. Your window was almost half down, and my horn is not very quiet. For that matter, my motorcycle itself makes some noise. How did you not hear me? What were you paying attention to when you should have been paying attention to the road and the proper control of the 4,000 pound Juggernaut you were responsible for.

No doubt your impression of me, formed when I flipped you off, passed you and glared angrily at you, is not a good one. Maybe after that, you weren't feeling so apologetic any more. Maybe I helped reinforce a stereotype of what kind of person rides a Harley.

So I'm sorry. I'm sorry I reacted badly. I'm sorry I flipped you off. I'm sorry for anything I did that might make you think bikers are perhaps too uncouth, too rude, too violent to deserve the consideration civilized folk do.

I'm just glad you didn't hear what I said.

I'm not sorry I survived, though. Survived to ride another day.

Winning Can Be a Very Lonely Thing

(Disclaimer: While the seed of this entry is a real situation, the conclusions are general, and not specific to that situation or the wonderful people involved.)

I'm not a big sports fan. I don't hate sports—I like to play intramural sports and admire the commitment made by world class athletes—but I'm just not that into them, and can't imagine sitting down on a regular basis to watch professional athletes do their thing. When the Olympics comes around, I might tune infor an event or two, but really, sports isn't that important to me.

I don't think there's anyone wrong with being a sports fan, mind—some of my best friends are sports fans—just saying that for me, sports aren't as important as, say, reading a good book or seeing a new play. I'm entitled to my own tastes...I don't insist that others share mine, and I appreciate it when others don't insist I share theirs.

What brought this to mind was a recent situation where an argument was brewing. In this argument, I held one point of view while others involved held a differing viewpoint. I'm good with rhetoric—I know how to argue—but once everyone aired their perspectives and I saw that a win was unlikely (and more, unproductive), I made a conscious decision to just stop; to concede the argument rather than go for the win. I decided that "winning" wasn't worth what it would probably cost.

I do that a lot, actually. I count the cost of winning and decide that it just isn't worth it. I don't seem to have much of the drive to win that is so common in our culture. Maybe it's in part because I'm not a sports fan.

The sports culture in the U.S. seems to foster a fierce competitive spirit. It isn't a bad thing—it's often a very good thing, providing an impetus for achievement—but it can have negative consequences. We've all heard stories about the Little League coaches (or parents) who get so caught up in competitive fervor that they lose sight of the rest of the story: things like sportsmanship and the character-building possibilities widely touted as a benefit of athletic competition. And most of us adults have at one time or another encountered other adults who "go for the throat," willing to do whatever it takes to win.

My high school athletic career was as a swimmer. Swimming is the red-headed stepchild of high school athletics, and while it's a competitive and scored as a team sport, really it's individual and swimmers compete first and foremost against themselves and the clock. It isn't a sport that fosters the kind of fervor and passion found in soccer or basketball or football. Swimmers swim alone (even in relay events, each swimmer swims her or his own leg), and they often can't see their opponents at all. Your best may not be enough to win, but if you don't swim your best you've already lost the most important competition you face.

I'm sometimes mocked because I don't have much of that drive to defeat others. Some see it as a weakness, and they are of course entitled to their opinion. I see it as a peculiar strength. The person I must first master is myself, and that is the labor of a lifetime. I find no nobility in beating down another, even (maybe especially) if I'm right; I'd rather win against my baser instincts than let them drive me to trample another.

I'm the last choice for the general of an army or the admiral of a fleet. I'm the last choice for the captain of a rugby team or union negotiator. I'm the last choice if aggression is what's needed. That's not who I am.

Although I'm not aggressive, I'm not weak, either. I am strong on defense, I am strong on commitment, I am strong on forgiveness, I am strong on relationship.

My sense of self and sense of self-worth are not determined by whether or not I win or lose, whether or not I defeat (or denigrate, or humiliate) others. My sense of self and sense of self-worth are determined by how well I collaborate, how well I compromise, how well I support others.

Winning can be a very lonely thing, and I'm lonely enough, thank you very much. If winning is important to you, then you win. If defeating me is important to you, I concede the battle. I don't want to be in the battle. I don't want to fight. So mostly, I don't.

Mostly, I don't.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.!

Respect.

You may remember Rodney Dangerfield's trademark complaint: "I don't get no respect!" It's a complaint most of us find ourselves making from time to time. And who can forget Aretha Franklin's "All I'm askin' is for a little respect?"

Respect is a highly desirable, often elusive commodity. In my classroom, students often demand it (although they aren't always good at giving it). In the workplace, supervisors expect it and employees crave it. Mutual respect is a hallmark of healthy interpersonal relationships. Respect is important.

So if it's so important, and pretty much everyone wants it, why don't more people have it? If people know how valuable it is, why don't more people render it unto others? According to popular wisdom, you've got to give respect to get respect...if people really believe that, why aren't they more generous in giving respect? Because if you're paying attention, you've noticed that most people seldom and reluctantly give respect.

I think that, for whatever reason, we humans are under the impression that the intangibles—respect, love, consideration, good will—are limited resources, the way tangible resources are. It isn't true, by the way: the human psyche generates things like respect, love, and good will on demand and to any extent needful. They aren't really finite resources. Yet we tend to think of them the way we do finite resources like oil and coal and chocolate. Because we think of them as finite resources, we only want to render them when they are "deserved." We know that in an economy based on scarcity, it's important to be careful how we spend our finite resources.

I totally get that. I do. I am as much a product of our cultural conditioning as anyone else is.

The problem is, not all resources are scarce. This is a lesson we're having to learn in the digital age. Information used to be scarce; it took enormous time and energy to make a discovery, and then it took more time, energy, and material resources to duplicate it. Ask any college student about the cost of textbooks, and you'll get an earful on how expensive even mass-produced duplicated information (a.k.a. "texbooks") is.

Even in the digital age, it may take enormous time and energy to make a discovery. Once it's been committed to digital form, however, it becomes quite inexpensive to reproduce it for consumption. The information economy is going to have to come to terms with abundance.

When dealing with intangibles like good will, love, respect, we have to come to terms with abundance. When we give someone love, it doesn't deplete our own "love account." On the contrary, it tends to increase the love we have. When we give good will, we don't lose anything, and we often gain good will in return. When we render respect to another, it doesn't make us respect ourselves less; it doesn't cost us anything.

I don't want to say that we should respect all people in the same way or to the same degree. I've actually imagined a hierarchy—a kind of layer cake—of respect. It looks something like this:

1. all people are due a certain baseline respect by simple virtue of their humanity
2. some positions (firefighter, police officer, volunteer military, supervisor, president) are due (a somewhat abstract) respect for the position
3. excellence or competency earns additional respect
4. respect for others when it is due earns additional respect
5. kindness and generosity earn additional respect
6. integrity and honesty earn additional respect
7. "goodness" and selfless sacrifice earn additional respect

I try to render at least baseline respect—the respect due all human beings by virtue of their humanity—to everyone, regardless of whether or not I like them, regardless of whether or not I feel their choices are "good," regardless of whether or not I think they're good at what they do. Anyone who additionally holds a position that I think merits respect gets at least that much additional (somewhat abstract) respect. My highest respect, however, is reserved for those who are "good," have integrity, and are kind. Those who mistreat others (even me) have less of my respect than those who do. Those who don't render to others (even me) the respect they are due have less of my respect than those who do.

Like just about everyone, I crave respect and I am lucky enough to get it. I don't get it from everyone I ought to, and maybe sometimes I get it when I don't deserve it, but I am blessed with respect. Sometimes I forget that—sometimes I say, like Rodney Dangerfield, "I don't get no respect!"—but whether I forget or remember, I am respected, even highly respected.

How lucky I am!