Blood and Treasure

Today, a day for so many in my generation significant for its traffic, its barbecues and its extending the length of the weekend, is, I am finally realizing, above all else a day of solemn contemplation and of profound gratitude.

Thank you to the soldiers of today who fight, through hardship and peril, who work courageously to serve the greater good in any way possible - to make improvements, to provide protections, to care for each other - even when they themselves have doubts as to the greater mission. Who on a daily basis, without equivocation, ready themselves to make the ultimate sacrifice on our behalves.

Thank you to the voices -- of dissent, of agreement, of thoughtful observation -- to those who pay scrupulous attention. Those who, in mutual respect listen to one another, and ultimately agree on the goal of resolution, if not the means. Ironic, that the most cohesive dialogue on the current conflict may be borne out in utter silence.

Thank you for the mothers of the soldiers, whose already difficult lifelong jobs -- the protection of their children from all in this world that may harm them -- are made impossible by this war, and yet they endure. They survive the constant vigil that is their children's deployment in places with names like the "Triangle of Death." Only to do it all over again and again. If not for themselves, then in maintaining the vigil for others.

Thank you to all of the soldiers that came before. Our freedom is indeed not free, and it was you who paid the price for the rights we enjoy, and often have the luxury and audacity to take for granted.

Thank you to the journalists who risk their lives to tell us the stories of the war a world away. Even in the face of governmental obstacles and increasing personal jeopardy, for which the pay is meager and the thanks and recognition often less so, they continue on. They are the standard bearers; they bear witness even when it would be so much easier to look away.

Thank you to the one who serves over there now who, at least nominally and for lack of a better description at this point, belongs to me. You have indeed proven to me that "courage" and "heroism" are not amorphous concepts; that you can find yourself, do what you love, and change the world all at the same time.

Thank you to one who is not fighting; though undoubtedly he would have been the first to serve had he had the opportunity. He was extraordinarily kind to me in a time and a place where he had no reason to be, other than the fact that he was simply an extraordinary person. More than a dozen years out, small but significant acts of personal generosity always make me think of him. His sacrifice, though not in combat, is not any lesser than those of the others we honor today. It was, at its root, for the same cause. As was his dream, I hope he is flying somewhere.

I spy

I have commented here, on various occasions, about the Starbucks' "The Way I See It" program which puts blurb quotes from various people on its cups. Originally, it was supposed to be different feted luminaries from various walks of life setting forth pithy caffeinated pronouncements. Lately, it seems to be an awful lot of Joe Schmo customers and baristas rambling on about nothing in particular. Not that there is anything wrong with that, well, other than the fact that it is tremendously boring.

As such, if the various Schmos can do it, I figure we can too. Anyone care to share the pearl of wisdom that they would imprint on the side of America's daily caffeine fix? (I only got as far as thinking up the question, and not thinking through the answer, so my response will be forthcoming).

Do As I Say, Not As I Do

Thirty years ago in a column for the New York Times, Joan Didion discussed exactly why she wrote. Today the Gray Lady (the Times, not the esteemed Ms. Didion) reveals that psychologists have finally caught up to Ms. Didion's way of thinking: The field is now exploring the intrinsic utility of personal narrative in shaping who and what we are.

I do not dare imagine what some mental health professional would posit upon reading the narrative I have constructed within the "four corners" of this blog over the past three years. More than likely the prognostications would be uniformly dire. I would dare say they would see someone making methodically slow progress, but I know that the landscape of circular frustration that I have painted over time belies such a rosy and pat explanation.

It is my history. I cannot defend it. On the other hand, I do not think I have to.

Though it is hard to see at first (squint a little and tilt your head to the right, it should help) this blog is actually the rational and reasoned voice of an emotional mute. (Squint a little more, and maybe step a little closer, or perhaps step farther back. I swear you will see it.) In my three dimensional life, every time I have attempted to express true emotion to someone I care about it has played out like Jody Foster's character in the movie Nell - all screams, tears and guttural cries. Granted that, more often than not, copious amounts of alcohol have been involved, but it is hardly a coincidence. In such situations, alcohol is seductive. It can help me relax and therefore wipe away all the cognitive dissonance, to help me uncover and reveal the truth of me. But the seductive slope is, as is its way, slippery, and, as is my way, in my less than balanced life, I quickly fall down, down, down. Tumbling towards the chaos of the unsorted and un-expressable. The attempts to describe my new surrounding in the primordial emotional soup, always disastrous. One time, I broke a toe. Another, I ran down a street practically screaming. On other occasions, I have broken into uncontrollable sobs. Then there was the unfortunate call I made from a cab.

I always thought the emotions were what I was afraid of, but it is the chaos of them which terrifies me more. They are so unpredictable. So selfish. They serve me and do not account for others. They are. And they are without consideration or concern for the consequences. But those emotions, as lacking a social screen as they may be, are me. Learning to live in a fashion that honors and respects my feelings (as tempering them is certainly far different from tamping them down) is key to growing up.

Ironically, I think all of these years of trying to ignore - to silence and disown - my innermost needs and desires, made me far more narcissistic and self involved.

Ultimately, however, I think that any long range differential diagnosis based on my blog ramblings is inconclusive, because what is here is only half the story.

I have been walking through life with only half a story. In my three dimensional life, I can address the pleasant, the mundane, the absurd, the snarky. Those are safe, they are also fun. In my two dimensional incarnation, the tempest brews and simmers and boils over. The dangerous, the subversive, well, if only the unpredictable. And only occasionally the twain shall meet.

It is in the "twain" so to speak, that I think "me" really exists. It is the balance/counterbalance. It is where my own truth lies. (Odd, and yet perfect, in a life so full of contradictions to be looking for where truth lies.)

This is the instinct. The inner voice. The gut. I am trying to have the courage to listen. The choices it has driven to this point have been the right ones, they have also been the more obvious ones. Leaving the BigLaw job - scary, but a no brainer. It is the details that follow, where hearing the gut requires more rapt concentration. It becomes more difficult to understand. Actually, it doesn't. It is clear, but following it is more frightening, because doing so leaves me in much more of a position of vulnerability.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

The steps that follow are ones which are obvious. They require reaching out and connecting and committing to people. It requires honesty and presence. To do this, I can no longer hide away. The hermitage of body and soul must come to an end. But the big reveal, the act of just "being myself" is more of a process than I thought. It is hard to know where the consummate entertainer - the plate spinner extraordinaire - ends and the "real" me begins.

Mostly it is about saying what I want to say, rather than what I think people want to hear. Sounds silly, but it is a heart pounding endeavor.

I made resolutions about three particular matters and they have to do with three particular people to whom I have a visceral reaction. That sounds pejorative - and it can be sometimes - but in this case it just means that whatever reaction I have to such people, it is always seismic one way or the other. My job with each of them is to take a deep breath, to push past the fears and the potential repercussions, to hold out my hand, extended without reservation or expectations, and to love each of them. Regardless. And then I just have to trust - that in a position of naked honesty and unwaivering acceptance, the answers of one sort or another will come.

I am at the beginning of all of this and, cynical worrying lawerly one that I am, the trust often fails me. I am fearful. It is hard to wave away the clouds of anxiety. I hedge and I second-guess. This is hard. I am not sure that I have ever done anything so difficult. But I am taking deep breaths and looking forward.

For once, facing in the direction of the warmth of the sun.

Again, Listen to Your 'Gut

"I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or
murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what
is.'" -- Kurt Vonnegut