Some You Win ... And Some You Lose ... And Some You Get Rained Out

Long, long ago I lived in a quiet city called Atlanta. I moved there in 1990 after landing a job with Turner Broadcasting. I lived in a cute, historic, in-town neighborhood and drove my car to work everyday. If I ran into traffic, it took thirty minutes (tops) to get from my driveway to the Turner offices in Midtown. At the time, there were just under three million people living in the metro area (including suburbs.) Today, there are more than five million Atlantans. Suffice to say, a lot of things have changed.

Turner Field in all its glory.

Back in the 90s, when I worked for Turner, I spent many a happy summer evening cheering on the Braves through regular season and championship games. I even attended a few World Series games. At a particularly close and emotional World Series game in 1993, I fondly recall hugging complete strangers when the Braves won in overtime. At age 12, my son Jack had yet to experience the joy of a live Atlanta Braves game, so this summer, we made plans to rectify the situation. 

Finally, the big day arrived. I imagined arriving at the game, finding our seats and looking out over the beautiful emerald field. We would sit in the stands and cheer the Braves on to victory over the Philadelphia Phillies. I thought about how much fun it would be to watch Jack chant the "Tomahawk Chop" along with thousands of fans. Of course, to attend a Braves game, you have to get to Turner Field, but I didn't understand the reality of what that meant in 2014.

Since we were staying with friends in the suburbs, I thought it best to drive to a nearby MARTA station and take the train downtown where a shuttle would carry us on to Turner Field. We could avoid the stress of gridlock traffic and hassle of event parking. Before we left the house, I studied the rail line and discovered that, like most metro transit systems, Atlanta changed over from using tokens to a refillable credit card. No big deal. I'd used these cards in NYC and LA and they were simple enough to purchase. All good.

When we arrived at the MARTA station, we marveled at how quiet it was. On Saturday afternoon in the suburbs, we seemed to be the only passengers in the station. We were standing in front of the kiosk that dispenses transit cards, reading through the instructions when a man appeared nearby.

"You know what you're doing?" he asked. "You need some cards?"

I looked at the man. He was probably in his late 50s and from his clothing and general demeanor, he looked as though he might have had a hard life. He had one lazy eye, which gave him a benign appearance. He smiled and held up some transit cards.

"Here, you can use these," he said.

Before we knew it Lazy Eye was shepherding us to the turnstiles, insisting we use his cards. I actually thought he was being generous. In hindsight, I'm not sure why I had that thought, but I promise you I did. He didn't strike me as a panhandler. We were in the middle of a very affluent suburb. It just never occurred to me that we might encounter subway scammers here. Before we knew what happened, the three of us were inside the station and the man was standing on the other side of the turnstiles with his hand out. He wanted cash for the cards.

"I just need to get some food," he said.

Too late, the reality of the situation hit me.  I had one dollar in my purse, and we were already inside the terminal. The man expected to be compensated. It was an awkward situation. We could have just walked away from the guy, turning the tables on him. But we had taken his cards now and we owed him some money. I asked Jack if he had any money and he produced three more dollar bills.

"So we have a round trip on each and can use these on the shuttle to the game?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," the man said. Of course he would have told us that the cards would take us to London and back if he thought that we would pay him.

I was dubious by now, and offered him the four dollars. Lazy Eye made a sour face.

"Aw, man!" he said. "C'mon! I got you three cards!"

Jack had more cash in his wallet, which he reluctantly handed over to me. In the end, we shelled over $15, which is what we would have paid for the cards if we had purchased them from the kiosk. The man thanked us for the cash and hurried away.

"How do we know that guy was telling us the truth?" Jack asked as we proceeded downstairs to catch the next train.

"We don't," I said. "But it's okay. We're safe and we're on our way now!"

Jack had never experienced anything like this before. On our trip to NY a few years ago, he saw panhandlers in the subway, but we had never been approached. I'd forgotten what an unsettling feeling it is when you realize you've been ripped off.

As we rode downtown, I tried to convince myself that the man had done us a service. The kiosk was confusing and he'd helped us, right? We got the passes we needed. But I had an uncomfortable feeling in my gut and as we exited the station at Five Points to catch the Braves Shuttle, my fears were confirmed. We'd paid a roundtrip fare for one-way tickets.

I wanted to believe the man was doing us a kindness, but he had taken advantage of us. Of course, I did try to barter him down, but let's face it, I was a pushover. I just felt crappy anyway I sliced it. A wave of "I shoulda known better" caught up with the sick feeling and began to wrestle with it. There would be no winner. How stupid and naive could I be?! This was Atlanta, not Candyland. In a city of five million, some people are desperate and do desperate things. Lazy Eye was probably getting high right now with the $15 we gave him. Ugh.

We found another kiosk and began the process of reloading the cards so we'd have the proper fare to get onto the shuttle and return after the game. While we stood there, the man at the next kiosk began to instruct us on how to reload the card. At first we tried to ignore him, but he gently walked us through the process. When we were done, he asked us if we could spare some change so he could buy a fare. Without hesitation, Jason swiped his credit card one more time and loaded one ride on the man's card. We thanked the man for his help and proceeded onto the game. 

It was only later that I began to wonder if Lazy Eye had started out like Kiosk Man. Had he helped a confused out-of-town-family load up their MARTA cards and received a free fare for his trouble—when he really wanted cash? Had we just started the cycle of deception again?  My head started to spin when I considered all the karma we were generating on this innocent trip the ballgame. I allowed myself to believe that Kiosk just wanted to ride MARTA home and left it at that.

We made our way through the terminal and out to the street to meet the shuttle, and after a brief ride, finally, we arrived at Turner Field. The glowing stadium lights cheered me, but it wasn't until we arrived at our seats and saw the bright green field and flashing Jumbotron and heard the nostalgic strains from the old ball field pipe organ, that I could shake off the residue of yucky feelings. Jack, who was also disturbed by Lazy-eye's rip off, perked up too. Jason bought us peanuts and popcorn and Cracker Jacks, and soon we were all enjoying the game.

I hated that Jack had a negative experience before his first Braves game. But then again, what we experienced was rather benign in the scheme of things. The lazy-eyed scammer may actually become one of Jack's most valuable teachers. Through him, my son learned that not everyone is well-intentioned and honest. He may be more alert when traveling in the city. (I still can't believe how naive I was about this situation!) And—thanks to Kiosk Man—Jack also saw that strangers could go out of their way to be kind. And—thanks to Jason—Jack learned that regardless of what has happened in the past, you can respond with generosity.

Although it wasn't exactly what I envisioned, Jack certainly had a memorable first major league game. It wasn't what I had in mind, but maybe, just maybe, it was what Jack needed and what Jason and I needed, too—or maybe it was about what Lazy Eye or the Kind Kiosk Man needed. I rather like it think we all given what we need.

Perspective from the Dark Side

I love summer movies. There's nothing better than entering a cold, dark theatre on a hot summer day, settling in with a big tub of popcorn and a cold drink and being transported to another place or time. But last week, Jason and I went to see Maleficent, a movie that was less of an escape and more of a reality check. 

As a kid, I was given the Big Golden Book Sleeping Beauty, which featured illustrations from Disney's 1959 film by the same name. Malecifent is painted as nothing less than pure evil, so I was curious to see the sorceress' side.

Disney portrayed folklore's "bad fairy" as
a horned menace with too much
purple eye shadow.
Image from Walt Disney's Sleeping Beauty

Of course, the tale of Sleeping Beauty is an ancient one. It existed in oral tradition long before the father of the fairy tale genre, Charles Perrault, published it in his Tales of Mother Goose in 1697. Perrault's telling was informed by Gambattista Basile's collection of fairy tales the Pentamerone published in 1634. There are distinctions to these old tales—which in Basile's telling includes the rape of Sleeping Beauty—but the premise of a princess being cursed to sleep remains a consistent thread.

According to the Charles Perrault tale, the upon the birth of their longed for child, the King and Queen invite seven fairies to their daughter's christening party. They hope the magical creatures will bestow wondrous gifts upon their baby. The King and Queen spare no expense to please these special guests and commission custom-made golden place settings for the seven fairies. But when the big day arrives, they find they've made a royal faux pas. An old fairy shows up at the castle without an invite. According to Perrault, the oversight wasn't intentional, but due to the minor discrepancy that—because she hadn't been seen in a long time—everyone assumed she was "dead or enchanted." Seems like an understandable mistake. But the Royals are at a total loss of what to do. To their credit, they try to accommodate the senior citizen as best they can but she's pissed about the "sorry we thought you were dead" excuse. Maybe she's suffering from dementia or maybe she's just hurt over being left out. Regardless, she chooses to bestow her own gift on the baby—and it ain't a sterling silver binky. We don't know much more about the old fairy or why no one bothered to find out if she really was deceased. And, after her curse is bestowed, we don't hear from the old fairy again.

The Disney 1959 film version of Sleeping Beauty gives the old fairy a bad name—literally. Maleficent is the embodiment of malice, which according to Merriam Webster is the "desire to inflict injury, harm, or suffering on another, either because of a hostile impulse or out of deep-seated meanness."  Disney also gives the storybook villainess a facelift and the ability to transform into hideous creatures, like a dragon. Resplendent in horns and purple-black attire, Disney's arch-villaness, like her haggish precursor (pun intended,) Maleficent crashes the christening of the little Princess. Her appearance is much more overtly foreboding than that of an elderly woman (although let's face it, most of us are terrified of aging,) but her malicious baby gift is borrowed from Perrault, who apparently had a textile aversion. 

Enter the 2014 Hollywood version. The villainess (portrayed by Angelina Jolie) is front and center and provides us a new perspective on the making of the evil curse. And as it turns out, her story is far more lively than that of the dosing princess.

We meet Maleficent as an orphaned fairy child. She is the protector of her magical land. Grant you with long, pointy horns and dark wings, she isn't your classic good fairy type. Indeed she is a creature who is much more of the earth than are the trio of candy-colored sprites who end up as bumbling babysitters. As the tale unfolds from her perspective, we discover that Maleficent was betrayed. Suddenly we're rooting for her to take out King Stefan, the asshole who violated her trust and stole her wings. As the saying goes, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

The film also reveals the perspective of the innocent princess, Aurora, whom Maleficent has cursed to a fate worse than death (ie: waiting for eternity for unconditional love.) Aurora, being pure of heart, doesn't judge Maleficent as evil just because she has huge scary horns, impossibly sharp cheekbones and ultra-thin arched eyebrows. Because she's met with acceptance, the child's goodness and compassion warm the cold-hearted fairy. Transformation happens. True magic manifests. Hatred and resentment melt into—yes!—true love.

What happens to our long-loathed stereotypical villains when we begin to understand what turned them to the dark side? We start to understand that perhaps there is no abject evil in this world. We see that villains—like heroes—are made not born. 

Accepting that we are collectively the authors  of our world's unhealthiness and suffering is not always easy. I want someone to blame, someone to pin my hurt upon, because I think that it will make me feel better or relieve me of the responsibility for my own actions. When I can open my eyes and see that everyone responds to life based on their experiences and their perception of those experiences, I come closer to realizing the truth. So if someone is treating me badly, I can bet my silver binky that she has experienced the same treatment (or worse) from someone else. And I can generate compassion for that person rather than hatred and fear. This is so much easier said than done! But seeing a movie like Maleficent reminds me of to consider more than my own limited point of view. I'm still wrestling with this final piece, but I know in my heart that everyone—even villains—deserves to live happily ever after.

Of course, Maleficent is just the latest Hollywood offering that shifts the plot line to the villain's perspective. The Star Wars series was perhaps one the first and most lucrative of these explorations of the nature of "good and evil." The Harry Potter series is another great example. In recent years, Hansel and Gretel, Alice in Wonderland, Jack and the Beanstalk have all received a revisionist approach on the big screen. On TV, ABC's current series Once Upon A Time has created an ongoing drama that explores the stories behind beloved fairy tales. Revisionist fairytales obviously has financial appeal or Hollywood wouldn't keep turning them into movies, but I wonder if the outcome extends beyond entertainment value. 

Will these perspective-shifting tales blow the lid off the stereotype that bad guys are 100% pure evil? Will Jack and his generation begin to realize that evil is indeed made, not born? If so, our media-saavy kids just might be inspired to stem the tide of suffering. I doubt that's Hollywood's aim, but it might just be a very happy ending.

What I Learned in Obedience School

Rocky at 3 months.

Somehow I managed to avoid dog ownership until last year when Jack finally wore down his dad with requests for a puppy. He picked out a mutt from the Human Society shelter and named him Rocky. He was a mixture of God only knows what breeds. The vet's best guess is that he is part Australia Cattle Dog. He's a sweet pup with boundless energy.

Rocky took up residence in my ex-husband's backyard and I agreed to help out as needed. He is "Jack's dog" but of course, as is typical for kids, the ownership is only in name. Since I knew next to nothing about dogs when Rocky reached about 6 months old we signed up for obedience class at the local Petsmart. From the first class it became apparent that Rocky wasn't the only one who needed training.

Over the course of our six Saturday morning classes, we learned—with help of dog treats and a blue plastic cricket clicker—how to sit, stay, shake hands and walk on a loose leash. But one of the most useful commands was "Leave it!" This is an all-purpose directive can be used whenever a dog shows overly enthusiastic interest in anything you don't want them to approach. The idea is that whenever a dog goes after something really desirable, such as another dog, or another dog's poop or a baby with an ice cream cone, or whatever, that you condition the dog to leave that desired thing and come to your side and sit. This repeated action of returning to their person's side resets the dog's urge to compulsively run after anything and everything of interest. Of course, favorable behavior is reinforced by providing treats each time the dog leaves the coveted item and sits down beside you. The idea is that—eventually—the dog learns to overcome his distractions by merely being reminded via vocal cue.

Jack with Rocky at Puppy School!

After our instructor explained the exercise, she set us loose  in the aisles of Petsmart to practice. I thought she was insane. Have you seen the aisles of Petsmart?  It's a fantasy land for dogs! We could only walk about two steps before Rocky tugged at the end of his leash. My arm was already growing tired from holding him back from shelves of chew toys and stacks and stacks doggie delights. At first, I was very frustrated. How could Rocky ever learn when there were so many wonderful scents? Rocky tugged this way and that, trying to get at all the wonderful dog stuff. He didn't want to "Leave it!" 

When the instructor stopped by to see how we were doing, she could tell I was a bit miffed—to put it nicely. 

"Can we go to aquarium supply aisle?" I whined. "There are just way too many distractions here! He'll never learn."

"He'll get used to it," she said, smiling patiently. "There are going to be even more enticing smells when you take him for a walk outside. Keep working with him. He's a smart dog. He'll learn."

I was dubious, but to my surprise after a few false starts and stops, Rocky began to catch on. As it turns out, Rocky's love of treats far outweighed his desire to sniff stuff. After walking up and down the aisles a few times successfully, Jack set out an entire obstacle course of sexy-looking chew toys. Rocky was able to navigate around them all without getting distracted. 

Each week, we worked on these skills and after the six week course was complete, we graduated from Puppy School with honors. Okay, we graduated. Okay, we completed the course and for that we received a diploma, but as the trainer warned us, the real work was ahead of us—out in the real world. 

Leaving a rubber, squeaky bone lying in the aisle of a bright, sterile pet food store is one thing, but a stroll through the neighborhood supplied an infinite number of opportunities to challenge Rocky's obedience degree. Every two inches there was a new distraction. We didn't get but a few feet down the street before he tugged the leash longingly as he lusted after the neighbor's azalea bush. "Leave it, Rocky!" I said sternly and clicked the plastic cricket.

As we rounded the street corner, he tugged to sniff a mound of monkey grass laced with the scent of a countless dogs, cats, rodents and God only knows what, but finally he came back to my side to gobble down his treat. After the first few blocks, we strolled along nicely until he encountered the one temptation that no amount of kibble could prevent Rocky from lunging after: grey squirrels. 

There must be a million grey squirrels living within a mile radius of Jack's dad's house. Every one of them came out to taunt and tease our poor dog. "Leave it, Rocky! Leave it!" became my mantra. Rocky wanted to run after them so badly, he almost launched himself into the air. Of course, he was tethered to  me by his nylon leash, but that didn't seem to matter when it came to all things squirrel. He needs more practice for sure, and the only way to break him of this habit of chasing after these teasing, fluffy-tailed distractions was to spend more time reinforcing the behavior to leave it—no matter what.

Of course, Rocky is not the only one who is easily distracted. My mind is often filled with "grey squirrels" that I desperately want to chase. I am easily side-tracked by chattering discursive thoughts. Some days they lead me to—quite literally—bark up the wrong tree. I can observe this tendency whenever I sit down to meditate, but when I'm not on the cushion, the squirrels in my brain can be much more damaging as they compulsively gnaw away at my positive mood and serenity. I'm going about my day and suddenly a negative or worrisome thought scurries across my mind and I lunge for it. Unlike Rocky, my mind is not on a short leash, so I can chase after that negative idea all day if I don't recognize my thought process and tell myself to "Leave it!" 

Setting aside anxiety is not easy. Even though there is nothing I can do about a situation—I know I have no power over the person, place or thing—I still want to race after it. My only hope of finding peace is to take my mind to obedience school and learn some new strategies for letting go. Like Rocky, I must  replace my habit of chasing squirrels with the desire to sit patiently and be rewarded. This takes effort and practice and it can't be accomplished unless I am willing to experience life on life's terms. In other words, I can't stay in the aquarium section.

If I want to improve the way I respond to life, I must be willing to experience the real crap that triggers my negative responses. What's my reward? Something much better than kibble. When I refuse to chase that miserable squirrel across the yard and up a tree, I gulp down a little peace of mind and the satisfaction. Good girl!

Threadbare and lovin' it

"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby."

Recently I was invited to join the faculty of an organization called the Institute for Conscious Being. At first I thought they had the wrong number. I found myself teaching a writing course and surrounded by an incredibly brilliant group of people. Faculty members include an Episcopal priest, a Catholic nun, an Harvard-trained clinical psychologist and a New York Times best-selling author. (Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, right? As in, "A priest, a nun and a psychologist went into a bar...")  I have to say it's a dream come true. Four years ago, I was an unemployed editor struggling with divorce and some very difficult issues. How in the world did I end up here? I believe I arrived at this very wonderful destination by owning up to my true self.

The Institute uses the principles of the Enneagram as a method for discovering one’s true spiritual self.  And no, despite it's odd-sounding name, the Enneagram has nothing to do with witchcraft or the occult and it's not a parlor game. (Read more about it here—and take the free assessment.) 

The idea behind the Enneagram is that we all are born in divine perfection and over the years, we put on all sorts of armor to shield us from the crappy things that happen to us along the way. For example, I'm six years old, and my beloved cat runs away and I'm inconsolable. Boom! Up goes armor. My dad has to work and misses my performance in the school play. Armor up! My best friend puts a preying mantis in my Snoopy lunch box then makes fun of  me while I scream my head off in the lunchroom. Armor! After my first date, I make out with the boy and then he tells everyone that I'm the worst kisser in the world. You guessed it—up goes the armor! 

These are minor offenses, of course. You can imagine (or know) what happens when really terrible things happen, when family members die, or you're abused or abandoned by a parent. The armor goes up and we learn to respond to life in a manner than seems to relieve the pain. Of course, this armor is ego. And ego is not an all-together evil thing, but often in the process of trying to protect ourselves, we buy into the ego self and set aside healthy and true aspects of our personality. Then, at some point in our lives (a-hem! often around middle age) when the old, unhealthy responses no longer bring relief—and in fact may be causing more harm—we finally look for a better way to live.

Returning to my authentic self seemed scary at first. I mean, I looked sorta cool in my armor. What if I'm just a big nerd beneath it all? And yet, only when I remove that hardened shell can I know what it means to be truly alive.

Last night, I was reminded of a beautiful story that encapsulates the concept of finding one's true self. This wisdom comes from a beloved children's book, The Velveteen Rabbit. In this passage the story's hero, the Velveteen Rabbit, is chatting with the Skin Horse, another toy/resident of the nursery where they live. Rabbit asks Horse what it means to be real.

“'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit. 

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.' 

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?' 

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.'” 

In her book, Daring Greatly, author and researcher Brene Brown describes this passage from Margery Williams' classic as "a beautiful reminder of how much easier it is to become real when we know we're loved." I respectfully submit the converse is also true: 

It's easier to be loved when we know we are real. 

Being real may not feel easier at first, but only when I'm my authentic, honest self am I truly lovable. Anything short of really real and you may love me, but your love will be on condition of my ability to keep up a facade. When I am 100% myself, I know I am loved unconditionally.

Maybe this is why people in mid-life (like me) tend to have identity crises. We are finally ready to get real. Certainly, at this point in my life, my hair is thinning, my eyes are getting weak (must get bifocals!), my joints creak and I'm a bit shabby, but my sharp edges have been worn smooth and I can no longer be broken quite so easily. 

Birds of the Air

At the lake this weekend we found a nest on the dock set up by a dutiful mother bird. The tangle of grass and sticks was built right on top of the receiver in a cabinet that holds the stereo system. With great care, my friends who own the lake house gently removed the nest and the four chicks inside and placed them in a cardboard box on the dock. We were told (by someone who rescues wild critters and nurses them to health) that the mother would come for them. Although we all doubted the ability or the probablity of a mother bird to swoop down and carry off her young ‘uns, we had hope that this might happen, and yet, on that first night, there was no sign of momma. 

Jason cradles one of the funny-looking chicks.

My friend Janet fed the chicks ground beef leftover from the hamburgers we grilled for dinner and we tried not to think about the fate of the babies. Already these little lives touched our lives and life of their mother and the environment in so many ways. Of course, I don’t know how these little creatures will affect us each of us, but they will and have and will continue to. (You're reading this blog, so you'll be affected too.) That’s just the way life works. 

When I say that we are all interconnected, I don’t mean in a woo-woo, supernatural, New Agey way. And I don't even mean that our fate on this planet is all bound together in a ecological manner, which I believe it is. When I say we are all interconnected, I believe it means that every life touches and influences every other life in some way great or subtle. And every great or subtle nudge moves me and you and that dude in a bow tie who's walking down 5th Avenue,* in some way and gently prompts us to look up or down or see things we haven’t seen before—or shut down and refuse to speak at all.

Nothing is wasted. Every action is essential. No life is insignificant.

Saturday passed, and there was no sign of the mother bird. Again, my dear friend poked hamburger into the gaping mouths of the hungry babies. Only two were still alive. I wondered if the effort was futile, but I loved my friend for trying. We were all saddened by the sound of the baby birds' cries. After she fed the chicks, they quieted down for the night, stomachs full. My friend worried that she did not have a dropper to give them water. Would they die of dehydration?  Fortunately, God—in the form of Nature—provided what we could not. Sunday arrived with thunder and rain showers. We watched movies inside my friend's snug house and played cards on the covered porch. The cardboard box that held the fledgelings grew damp, but at least the chicks' thirst was quenched. 

By mid-afternoon the clouds began to clear and the sun came out. The children ran outside to play and everyone followed. As my friend and I sat on the dock and talked, we heard a commotion coming from the box on the far edge of dock. I turned my head in time to see the shadow of a bird dip down into the box and then fly away. We cheered, "She's doing it! The mother is feeding them!" Sure enough the mother bird returned with her beak filled with wriggling dinner for her surviving children. Their fate was still not certain, but the babies were being cared for, this we knew—and it was a relief for many reasons.

In this world, we want to know that mommas will return to care for their young and that the weak will survive. We want to see signs of compassion in the natural order of life. If we do not see these signs in nature, what hope can we have for ourselves? I'm reminded again of that verse from Matthew 6 in the New Testament that I love so much. (Yes, I'm quoting the Bible. Get over it!)

"Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they? And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life? ... So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself." 

* Even from my Alabama home, I rest assured that there is almost always a dude in a bow tie walking down 5th Avenue at any given time. And if not, there'll be a bow tie-wearing dude coming along soon enough.

Sum of the Parts

Sixth grade algebra isn't just about finding the variables.
(image from The Things We Say)

I love math. Yes, this card-carrying English major has a definitive  math jones. I love math's logic and black and white answers. In a world of words where meaning  shifts with context, the constancy of math is refreshingly straightforward. An answer is right or wrong. As much as I try not to judge, having one area in my life that I can rely upon to be absolutely correct or incorrect is a relief.
   This year, Jack studied the basic principles of algebra and my math-geek heart was soothed with remembrance of the thrill of discovering The Answer. (I warned you. I'm a math nerd.) I used to make excuses for my penchant for logical equations but now I realize why I love math so much. Math is cause and effect. If this, then that. Math is karma, except the Buddhist principle of karma (cause and effect) is not quite as straightforward or predictable.

   In the karmic equation, there are far more variables  but the principle is the same. My accomplishments and actions in this life are the sum of every experience I've ever had, every person I've met, every emotion I've felt, every response I've given to every emotion. Buddhism prescribes that this moment is born from the previous moment. Think about it. This moment in time (10:42:01.51) could not exist if not for the moment directly before it (10:42:01.50) and so forth.
   Sure there's debate about whether or not time is a concept/illusion created by the human mind/condition, but let's just accept for now that there is some measure of continuum. Not that time is fixed or fluid, matter or anti-matter, but strictly speaking, there is a measure that we will call time to describe the passing of the present moment.
   The present moment passes and begets the next present moment. In so far as I have knowledge, there will always be the next present moment. Just as we know numbers can continue on into infinity, we can see that present moments may continue. The only moment; however, that I have any control over is the present and fleeting one. The present quickly becomes past and thereby, illusive.
   My life consists of an unbroken chain of moments strung together like a (Buddhist) rosary without a definitive beginning or end. Therefore, the person who you know today as Brigid is the product of every moment that happened in this life—and Buddhists would include every moment that happened in my past lives too, from beginningless time. The Brigid you know today is the sum of a whole lotta parts, all of which are in constant flux. This sense of impermanence is a comfort to me because it helps me have compassion for my ego and grants me much-needed humility.
   Although I am responsible for my actions, I am not solely to blame or to praise. Knowing that I do not exist independently from the rest of the world, I am less likely to grow too proud of my accomplishments, nor too ashamed of my misdeeds. Pride and shame are self-centered responses anyway. These feelings can only keep me stuck in the past. For example, although I typed this blog entry from the thoughts that entered my head, all of these thought impulses were informed by experience I've gathered over the past decades. Nothing that I write is 100-percent free of influence. If you've spoken with me or I've experienced or read it within the last 51 years, that knowledge is woven into every word that comes out today in this blog.
   I take great comfort in this knowledge as a writer and a person. I also tread a bit more softly as I go about my work and my life. This is where my karmic equation and the laws of math differ, because even though I know that what I write, say and do will affect other people, I can never predict exactly how. One plus one will equal two, but I cannot know for certain if the answer will be positive or negative—or both. But I do know that every action yields affects on the world around me, and with this in mind I now take a little more time to consider the variables and the outcomes before I begin to cipher.

The Devil Made Me Think It

That devilish voice whispering in my ear may 
not be my enemy after all.

Self doubt can feel like the enemy. Doubt can certainly be a fearsome foe. Perhaps you never experience it. Chances are you do.

Self doubt can cause what is known in my profession as writer's block, a type of sneaking feeling that I am a no-talent sham. In other situations and occupations, self doubt causes all forms of stuckness. Doubt causes the inability to make a decision or move forward for fear that we might make a mistake. Ultimately, doubt causes us to suffer.

More than 2500 years ago a young Indian prince named Guatama Siddhartha wrestled with self doubt—and won. Siddhartha witnessed suffering in the world around him and vowed to find a way to put an end to it. Many people believe he was successful. His tale of enlightenment holds truth to how doubts arise, their value in our lives, and the way to dispel them— if we have the mind to try. Here's my interpretation. I don't believe the tale literally, of course, but it does hold a wonderful psychological perspective into the power of thought. 

On the night of his enlightenment, Siddhartha vowed to meditate until he achieved pure awareness. As night fell, Mara, a powerful demon, entered Siddhartha's consciousness and did his best to distract him from his purpose. Knowing the weaknesses of men, Mara sent his sexy daughters to dance for Siddhartha and seduce him. But the holy man maintained his concentration.

Next, Mara send an infinite army of hideous creatures to attack Siddhartha with poison arrows. But as the arrows flew through the air, the holy man saw them for what they really were. The deadly weapons turned into young sapling shoots and flower blossoms, which perfumed the air around him. 

Frustrated, Mara resorted to his last and most deadly of weapons. He crept very close and whispered in the Siddhartha's ear, "What makes you worthy of enlightenment? Do you think you're better than everyone else? I should be the Enlightened One! I am the rightful heir. Look at all my witnesses!" 

Mara's army stood beside him, attesting to his claim.  And Mara went on and on about how great he was and how Siddhartha was stupid and inept, but Siddhartha remained centered and focused on what was real and present. "You are just a fake and a phony! Why should you become enlightened?" shouted Mara. "Why are you so special? Even if you did become enlightened, no one will know and no one will ever believe you! You have no witness! You've achieved nothing! You are a nobody!"

All this time through temptation and threat of death, Siddhartha remained in deep meditation. But now, as Mara stood before him gloating, he reached forward and touched a single finger to the ground in front of him.

"The Earth is my witness," Siddhartha whispered. 

With that, the Mara disappeared and Siddhartha attained the state of full enlightenment. He became known as Shakyamuni Buddha, The Awakened One.*

But the story doesn't end here. Mara doesn't just descend into Hell and Buddha, into Heaven. Rather, Buddha and Mara continue their relationship on earth. It seems Buddha could not exist without Mara's test and Mara could not exist with the challenge of the Buddha. In his teaching entitled The Mara and Buddha—Embracing Our Suffering, Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh relates the moral of this story.

Years later, Mara visited Buddha and asked that they trade places. Mara was tired of always being the bad guy. He didn't want to be feared and loathed anymore. You'd think Buddha would say "Be gone demon!" but he didn't. He greeted Mara as his dearest friend. He embraced Mara and listened to his problems. The Buddha explained that it wasn't all fun and glory to be the Enlightened One either.  He told Mara of all the crazy things people did in his name and how difficult it was to practice compassion and love all the time. Mara saw his point. "The best thing is for each of us is to stay in his or her own position and try to improve the situation and enjoy what we are doing," Buddha said. 

Hahn explains that it's easy for us to think of Buddha as a flower, fresh and beautiful, and compare Mara to garbage, that is unwanted and stinky, but this is a limited point of view. "All flowers become garbage," Hanh says. "Although garbage stinks ... if you know how to take care of the garbage, you will transform it back into flowers ...  Flowers and garbage are of an organic nature because both ... are living realities. Buddha and Mara are also organic, and they need each other. It is thanks to the difficulties, thanks to the temptations, that the Buddha has overcome his suffering and his ignorance and become a fully enlightened being ... That is why the people who suffer a lot now should not be discouraged. Suffering is their garbage. If they know how to take good care of their garbage they will be able to make the flowers come back to them, the flowers of peace, of joy."

Just as Buddha needs Mara, I need those negative thoughts to challenge and help me perceive the truth. Of course, sitting with my negative thoughts and not responding to them takes effort and self awareness. But ultimately, if I take good care of my garbage, I can turn my doubt into roses.