Christmas

Anyone who knows me knows that at an emotional level, the Christmas season is difficult for me. It is among the times I feel most lonely, despite wonderful and loving family and friends. It isn't anyone's fault; it's me, and no one else. Since it is not my custom to hide my feelings, those in my circle of friends and family know that I find the Christmas season rough, and they know why.

Nevertheless, there is something truly magical about this season; for me, it's filled with signs and portents telling us not just how we should be(have) at this time of year, but year-round. And more frequently than at any other time, Christmas time is when I'm most likely to see people at their best, with the divine spark burning brightly in them and illuminating the world with buttery light. Granted, it isn't everyone—sadly, the season brings out the worst in some folk and there's no getting around the the fact that as a species, we humans aren't so good at being noble—but it's more than at any other time of the year, and it's a blessing.

The catch is that, now that I know we can be(have) nobly and generously and kindly and wonderfully, I am left wondering why we aren't like that all the time?

It's like, once you do it correctly once (whatever "it" is), you can no longer excuse yourself with, "I can't," because you have demonstrated that in fact you can, and parents, teachers, and bosses don't forget.

In this season I celebrate the birth of Jesus, who I try to follow. I try to make manifest the word of the angels who, according to the Gospel of Luke sang on Jesus' natal day: "...on earth peace, good will toward men." Maybe they were describing God's perspective toward humanity, but based on what Jesus did in his life, I think that to strive for peace on earth, and to maintain good will toward men (and women), is a pretty righteous thing to do.

So I invite you to spread the love this season as practice for spreading it every season. Do love—act in loving ways toward all your neighbors, whoever they may be, wherever you find them—don't get so caught up in the commercial aspects of this time that it brings out the worst in you when it could be bringing out the best. Let the light of the divine spark warm every heart. And once you've proven, to us and to yourself, that you can be noble and gracious and good in this season, extend it into the next season and the next and the next. As Scrooge said he would do, keep Christmas in your heart the year round. Or if not Christmas (because you have different beliefs than me), keep good in your heart. This old world of ours would benefit from whatever good we can bring.

Poetry

Last night a former student posted "Say something Poetic" on a social network. Being the smart-ass English teacher I am, I immediately responded with, "Poetry is the sword of the soul" (off the cuff, spur of the moment; certainly not a particularly thoughtful or artful response), which led to a series of more-or-less serious exchanges which ultimately led to... this.

You might guess that poetry—in fact, all manner of aesthetic expression and experience—is important to me, and if so you'd be right. "Important" may in fact be too weak a word for what poetry and other aesthetic elements are to me, and not just to me. In my view, aesthetic experience is essential to human existence.

As Vincent and I bantered, my casual comment evolved into something meaningful (at least to me). Vincent asked if maybe the soul wasn't the sword of poetry (since without a soul, words wouldn't be written on paper), and I responded asking if the soul could exist apart from poetry or poetry apart from the soul. For me, posing the question was enough to conjure the answer: for me, poetry and the soul are inextricably intertwined, and one cannot exist without the other.

As with all arguments, it starts with definitions of terms. The soul—for me, in this context, speaking not literally but metaphorically—the soul is that ineffable, intangible, transcendent part of our being that is more than the sum of its parts. Maybe it's the synergistic sum of our thoughts and emotions and experiences. Maybe (and this is part of what I believe) it's that plus a "divine spark" that is the gift of God. Whatever it is, I believe that it needs aesthetic stimulus as much as our bodies need oxygen.

Which leads to my working definition of "poetry." For me, in this context, speaking not literally but metaphorically, poetry is the aesthetic part of us. It isn't just words, spoken or on a page; it is music and dance and art and the wordless experience and expression of awe at the mysteries and commonplaces of life. It is the breath of our souls; when we breathe it in (inspire), our souls take in an essential element, and when we breathe it out (express), we give of our essence to inspire others.

Without breath, I die. Without poetry (in the broad sense), the soul dies, or if it doesn't die it sleeps or hibernates. Breath is life. Poetry is the soul's life.

As an actor I long ago discovered how important my breath was to my performance. Not only is breath literally the life of my craft; it is also (part of) the medium of it. The emotions and physicality as well as the voice of my character are founded on my breath.

So it is with my soul. What poetry I breathe, in and out—and how I breathe it—affect my soul's life, moment by moment. Sometimes I gasp, sometimes I breathe slowly and deeply, sometimes I take shallow sips, and each both indicates of my soul's present state and influences its future.

Grrrrrrr!

I am... aggravated.

Yesterday, I began writing about a subject dear to my heart—one I obsess about; one of my most magnificent obsessions. I was "in the moment"—words like dragon's fire out of my heart and through my fingers and onto the screen. It was the real thing...

And then just as I was ready to post, BlogPress, the iPad application I was writing in, crashed. Crashed hard. So hard, in fact, that it won't even start up.

I shrieked aloud (frightening my cat). I raged. I didn't throw my iPad down on the floor, but I was tempted. What I lost was good. It was important (at least to me). It was cathartic and significant and I really wanted to share it with those interested. And then it was gone.

Today, I'm not as angry, but I am sad. I'm grieving. I'm even experiencing the "denial" phase of grief; I won't delete and reinstall BlogPress because I want to believe that the words are still there somewhere, and that maybe the next time the program is updated I'll be able to recover them.

Sometimes words are just words, and sometimes they're like children, precious and full of promise and potential. These were my children, and I lost them at the moment of their birth. You may say I'm making too big a deal of it and I can't argue, but since I don't have children, only two things will survive my eventual death: the memories of my relationships and my words.

In the Terry Pratchett novel The Truth (and others), the dwarves make a big fuss about things like erasing blackboards and using movable type. For the dwarves, words have a power and identity of their own, and there is something deeply wrong about erasing them or breaking them down into parts (letters).

As a writer, I believe that. I believe that (sometimes, at least) words are vitally important. And BlogPress killed some hundreds of my word-children.

Sure, I should have saved early and saved often (as I remind my students to do), but in the giddy ferment of ideas, sometimes I forget.

That makes it at least partly my fault.

Add guilt to the grief.

Grrrrrrr.

Love (Is a Many-Splendored Thing)

Without a doubt, love is my favorite subject. Love is almost always on my mind, love is something I see a lot of, love is something I try always to do... you might almost say I'm obsessed with love.

I make no apologies for my obsession—I think of it as another “magnificent” obsession—but before you plan an intervention, let me clarify...

I'm not talking about romantic love. Or at least I'm not talking exclusively about romantic love—rather I'm talking about what makes it love (rather than infatuation or affection or good old-fashioned lust).

I wouldn't want anyone to think I have anything against romantic love (or infatuation, or affection, or "good old-fashioned lust"), either. I am passionate about passion, and the passions associated with romantic love go to the root of me; nothing can shake me the way they can.

What I'm talking about is what elevates emotion—fraternal or romantic affection, good will or friendly feeling, liking and appreciation—to love. Love is not a feeling, no matter how closely we associate it with feeling. Love is not something we suffer, something that happens to us, something that we can't control. No, love is something well within our control, something we decide, something we choose.

Three sources inspire my grasp of this "Crazy Little Thing Called Love."

1 Corinthians 13 (NRSV) says, "Love is patient, love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends."

Those aren't feelings—they're choices; things each of us can control about how we behave toward another.

"Sonnet 116 (William Shakespeare) says, "love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds, / Or bends with the remover to remove," and "Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks / Within his bending sickle's compass come, / Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, / But bears it out even to the edge of doom."

Again, not feelings so much as attitudes; things within our conscious influence. We can choose to be steadfast in the face of a beloved who changes over time; we can choose to stay the course no matter what time brings. If love is only one thing (and it's really many things, but there is one thing without which love is not love), it's "commitment."

In other words, the feelings we associate with love are not love in and of themselves; rather, they add savor and flavor to the core commitment that makes love so important. With one kind of feeling we have fraternal or familial love, with another kind of feeling we have Platonic love, with yet another kind of feeling we have Agape love, and with still another kind of feeling we have romantic love, and each of those flavors of love is wonderful in its own way.

In The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran writes On Love. The poetry is beautiful—I commend the entire volume to you—and the take-away is that love leaves you vulnerable, love has a price, and no one unwilling to be vulnerable or unwilling to pay the price can enjoy the fullness of blessings that love can bring.

In a previous post on social networks, I wrote that for me, it all starts and ends with love:

• love makes me vulnerable, and I proudly bear the scars of wounds suffered for the sake of vulnerability
• love makes me trusting, and I proudly wear the motley suited to such folly
• love makes me generous, and I gladly accept the cost when others take advantage of my generosity

Love is choice. Love is behavior. Love is commitment. And love is persistent—it is a commitment sustained through all the weather and all the seasons of life. It isn't about what you get; it's about what you give.

Love does not have to be reciprocated to be meaningful. Unrequited love is not tragic; it's just love. If I had to choose between being loving and being loved—if it was "either/or"—I would choose to be loving.

Happily, it's not either/or—while not all the love I give is returned, I am nevertheless greatly loved—so I don't have to make that choice. But I don't love in hopes of receiving love in return; I love because I choose to be loving, and one who is loving loves without expectation of requital.

I choose to love, and only hope to be loved in return.

Gang Aft Agley

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Robert Burns

or

The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

The best-laid schemes often go awry... even the best-laid schemes. And few of Man's schemes are well-laid at all.

The Founding Fathers had noble intentions. They proposed a government in which one man had one vote, so that each had equal interest and equal representation. Abraham Lincoln called it "government by the people, for the people, of the people," and vowed that it would not perish from the Earth. These grand sentiments were enshrined in well-laid schemes articulated in documents like the Constitution and Bill of Rights, the Gettysburg Address and the Emancipation Proclamation.

But even the best-laid schemes "gang aft agley."

In my lifetime, perhaps despite the best efforts of persons of good will or because of the apathy of the common citizen, "government by the people, for the people, of the people" has been replaced with government by the elite, for the elite, and of the elite. "One man, one vote" has become "one dollar, one vote," and whoever spends the most dollars wins. The wealthy elite have hijacked government "by the people, for the people, of the people," and even in some instances convinced some of "the people" that it was in their own best interests to allow it. The wealthy elite have purchased legislators outright, and the government serves their interests and no other.

The American Dream has become a pipe dream for the vast majority of common folk, even the most deserving and able. The dice are loaded, the game is rigged, and no matter how smart you are or how hard you work, you will be lucky to have as much as your parents did.

Banks and corporations are "too big to fail," so the government uses the contributions of common folk to bail those banks and corporations out. Corporate risk is underwritten by working Americans who receive no corporate profits, while the government dismantles the social safety net that once provided a soft landing for those same working Americans in time of trouble. A bank's bad decisions may land it in the sewer, but the government will ensure that it (and its officers) will come out smelling like a rose. Is the same true for a working American?

In George Orwell's dystopian novel Nineteen Eighty-Four the protagonist, Winston Smith, is told that "Two plus two equals five." He rejects the statement as false, but the assertion is repeated again and again until he begins to doubt his own certainty and finally comes to accept the false as true.

Likewise, citizens are likeliest to believe what they hear repeated most. Since the Supreme Court has granted corporations the same "free speech" rights as persons, corporations may now spend as much as they like in promoting their candidates and proclaiming their messages as often as necessary. Anyone unable to muster equivalent funding will find her or his message buried under an avalanche of advertising. This effectively multiplies the vote of those controlling the corporations in proportion to spending.

One dollar, one vote...

Government by the almighty dollar, for the almighty dollar, of the almighty dollar...

Thus dies the American Dream...

Thus dies America...

Gang aft Agley.

Incidental Finding

I'll admit, I'm a bit anxious right now; anxious to get the CAT scan over with, and anxious to hear what it finds.

Wait, that's not the beginning.

On Saturday, September 24, 2011, I injured myself. It was during the final open water session of my PADI Rescue Diver class and I was acting as a victim for one of my classmates, who was carrying me up the beach on his back. I breathed at just the wrong time, coinciding with my rescuer's step, and I felt a 'pop' in my ribs, accompanied by some meaningful pain.

The pain subsided, I finished my rescues without too much trouble, and all was well (or so I thought).

Within a few days the pain had diminished but not vanished. My students extracted a promise from me that if it hadn't got better by Monday (October 3, 2011), I'd get it checked out; they repeated to me what I've frequently said to them: "Take care of yourself! You're no good to anyone if you're unhealthy!"

Fast forward to yesterday. I got up, got ready for school, and by the time I arrived was in significant pain. Dammit... So I arranged for a sub and went to Urgent Care to keep my promise.

Doctor thought it was quite likely costochondritis, an inflammation of the ribs' junction to the sternum, but ordered x-rays to rule out rib fracture. No problem... until the doctor came in and told me that there was no fracture, but...

But... there was an "incidental finding."

It's an innocuous phrase, but my blood ran cold. An "incidental finding" on an x-ray of the chest region for someone whose dad died of lung cancer not quite 3 years ago is perhaps-understandably frightening. I controlled myself and paid attention as the doctor continued.

She described the "incidental finding" as a "nodule" in the region immediately above the injury site, and probably unrelated. She told me that she wanted to refer me for a CAT scan. What can a person say to such a thing? I said, "Okay."

I'm trying to keep my head about this—I'm aware that the odds are good that it's nothing to be concerned about—but sometimes fear gets ahold of me and I think about the years I smoked, or my exposure to asbestos when I was in the Navy, or the prevalence of cancer in my family. I know I'm a bit of a hypochondriac so I dismiss the worst of my fears as probably unfounded, but "probably" isn't the same as "certainly," and I can't say that they're certainly unfounded.

At any rate, the CAT scan is scheduled for Monday afternoon, and it shouldn't be too long after that that I'll know.

But in the meantime, I am anxious.

Funny thing, though; as I was thinking about writing this 'blog, I thought of a different kind of "incidental finding," one that would be just as disruptive as this one could be, but much more welcome.

People say that when you stop looking for love, that's when it finds you; love happens while you're looking for something else. Love is (or often is) an "incidental finding." You're looking for something else, you're doing something else, and WHAM; love.

It's strangely comforting, thinking of love in the same terms as whatever this damn thing in my chest is. Maybe it's good news.

Remember to Breathe

"The beatings will continue until morale improves" is a quote that has in times past amused me more than anything else. I understand the irony—I am an English teacher, after all—but thought of it as satiric hyperbole more than anything else; I'd never been in a situation where it was all-but-literally true.

Things change, however.

For the last couple of years, I've labored to maintain my native optimism in an environment where the beatings, though figurative rather than literal, were no less humiliating and no less demoralizing for the fact that they were figurative. I'm optimistic by nature and want to believe the best of everyone, so although insult after insult and injury after injury would drive me to the depths of despair, I would rise again and again, optimistic about people and their motives.

I'm still doing it, too. After more than two years of insulting, degrading, dehumanizing, demoralizing treatment, I still haven't learned to stay down; while I can be driven deep, I still pop back up like a cork in the ocean.

I'm not happy about that, though.

I'm tired. I'm tired of being treated the way I am. I'm tired of my comrades being treated the same way. I'm tired of optimism; as things stand I have no good reason for optimism in the short term. A big part of me wishes that I wasn't so irrepressibly optimistic—it would be a relief to give up, throw in the towel, surrender my dreams and ambitions—but in so many situations my optimism is a blessing. Lately it's a bit the worse for wear; it's gotten quite a workout keeping me "up," and I'm not sure how much lift remains.

It's a sad thing when one is so demoralized as to almost wish for an end to optimism.

I'm just grateful that I only feel this way in one part of my life. Granted, it's a big part—so big that changing my circumstances would mean a change in almost everything about my life—but it's still only a part of my life. In the rest of my life, I'm pretty happy and satisfied. My morale is high in other parts of my life.

I have an escape planned, should my ability to endure run out before circumstances change. It'd mean a big change in every aspect of my life, but I'm not afraid of change; I relish it. And knowing I have an exit strategy makes it just a little bit easier to endure the current situation.

In the meantime, "The beatings will continue" and morale will continue to decline. And all I can do is remember to breathe.