An Examined Life

We were sharing the top bunk. Below was a family of five. In fact there were many families and groups all around us, more people than places to put them. Like a church picnic they were all preparing, sharing, and eating meals. Across was the toilet, a hole out to the tracks. The train had been stopped for some undetermined reason. It was 35 degrees Celsius.

Lisa and I had been, when the train was moving, traveling 2nd class across the eastern desert of India toward the border of Pakistan. We were very hot, covered in dust, and just a little bit uncomfortable in our perched position above the humanity below.

“You know,” Lisa said, “I had thought that we were the normal ones traveling among the abnormal, I am now realizing that it’s us who’s abnormal.”

I assume comfort. I assume order. I assume sanitation. Actually, for us in the west it’s beyond assumption – it’s entitlement. Is it any wonder the nickname for our western toilet is ‘the throne’? I am not suggesting it should be different. I like dishwashers, seats that recline, and cordless phones.

But, every now and then, I have the memory of that train ride, leaning on our backpacks, realizing that most of the world isn’t like us.

I can open my fridge at home, full of food, and say to myself – “there’s nothing to eat”. I will find myself buying clothes – even though I have many shirts I never wear hanging in my closet. In comparison with my train riding companions, I want for nothing. But, in truth, I want all the time.

That afternoon, stopped in the desert on the way to Jodhpur in the overwhelming heat, without room to move, and the rising stench from under the train, we watched families share chapatti and lentils, men talk and argue, children play and laugh.

The reason it seemed so different, almost difficult to grasp, was that oddly, for them, it was enough.

Bob was a mailman. He was quiet. He walked everywhere. He acquired little, and accumulated less. Growing up around the corner, from my vantage point, Bob’s life didn’t amount to much. He didn’t really ‘do’ anything.

Bob passed away last week. At his memorial service letters were read that had been written by his two grand daughters. They lived below with their mum and dad (Bob’s son) in a suite that had been built in the family home. In the letters these two young girls expressed just how much Bob had done. He had shaped their sense of wonder and curiosity. He had, through his presence and through his active participation in their lives, broadened their sense of themselves.

Bob’s son and daughter spoke of their dad’s encounters with others. As kids they had watched their dad engage people, his mail delivery customers, his neighbours, or their friends. They learned of his humility, his grace, and his desire to make others important. It became abundantly clear, in that crowded chapel, that Bob’s life had amounted to plenty.

Over my life time I have been on both a conscious, and unconscious, search for meaning. What does my life amount to? I have used as a measurement personal success, recognition, and all that goes with that. I have also used faith and belief, the idea that I count for something in the universe and the Creator of the world loves me.

But now, I’d conclude, success and faith themselves aren’t really what gives life meaning. The real meaning is what Bob discovered. The real meaning comes from stepping beyond myself, and giving myself to others.

These recent economic times have made many reconsider what is important. Acquisition and accumulation, even if still possible, don’t hold the same value. From television ads to magazine articles, the talk now is of a simpler life. A time to slow down. The suggestion is that real importance comes from relationships. Real value comes from what we give.

It’s clear that Bob was very much ahead of his time.

What am I willing to die for? What is worth more than my life?

There are those who put themselves in harm’s way in order to protect others. There are those who stand up for what they believe despite obvious threats and danger. There are those who go to the aid of others in places that are unsafe and unsure.

From soldiers in battle to the volunteers with Doctors without Borders – everyday there are thousands putting themselves at risk on behalf of a greater good. They are making a choice that the idea – be it freedom, human rights, democracy, is more important than them.

We humans are an odd lot. We have ideas that are deemed more important than even the person espousing them. Ideas that cause people to both die and kill.

We honor our martyrs. We see in them the best of what it means to be human. We see in them a selflessness. In most cases they didn’t willfully die, they were killed for what they stood for – but if history is correct, they knew there were those odds, but they didn’t back down.

There are those indelible images and memories of those who have stood up. We remember the day when Martin Luther King Jr. was shot. We can see that young man standing in front of the tank in Tiananmen Square. We watched just last year as the monks in Burma openly protested the oppressive regime, and paid the price.

In a couple of weeks Christians celebrate Easter. Jesus said “there is no greater love than one lay down his life for his friends”. Christianity’s foundation is Jesus dying because He so loved the world.

Undoubtedly, I live the life I do because of the sacrifice of others. I am motivated and moved by the human stories from Harvey Milk to Ghandi. I am challenged by their example. For now, what I have is gratitude and thankfulness. From the comfort of my chair, the glow of the screen and the warm coffee beside me – would I do the same? God, I hope so.

They say you have to do something 28 times in a row in order for it to become a habit. (this is my 28th post). Why is it that it takes all that to form a good habit, when bad habits can happen overnight? Picking my nose seemed to take no time at all.

The fact is I am not a habitual person. I don’t really do anything with any consistency. I not a big fan of routine. Garbage day has been on Wednesdays since I can’t remember when, however I still find myself madly gathering the cans and running for the lane when I hear the truck.

I remember as a kid wondering ‘why are beds always made this way?’ I took the sheets and blankets and lay them at odd angles. Stupid eh?

Why do we form habits? What is the true benefit of a routine? There is an amazing scene in the movie Smoke, with William Hurt and Harvey Keitel. Keitel’s character, Oggy, has taken photographs of the same intersection at the same time, every day, for thousands of days in a row – he says it’s his ‘life’s work’. He is showing them to Hurt’s character, John, who is a writer who three years previous lost his wife. John is hurrying through the albums assuming he is looking at the same thing over and over. Oggy, encourages him to slow down “you’re not really looking”, he says.

All of a sudden John comes upon a photo that shows his wife walking across the street in the morning. “yah, she used to walk to work that way everyday back then”. I saw in Oggy that his routine provided him the opportunity to see subtlety, subtlety that is missed when one is always on to the new.

Athletes, dancers, musicians, contemplatives – all know how much habit and routine affect their craft. Often it’s doing the same thing over and over again that allows the new to emerge. I’ve been inconsistent for so long though, its going to be a hard habit to break.

There is something about a recovering addict. The acceptance of weakness and powerlessness combined with a daily decision to overcome. Courage.

I am not a big fan of the Wizard of Oz. The whole flying monkey thing and that trippy bit in the poppy fields, I am still scarred from seeing it as a child. However, the idea that these three characters ‘lost’ their brain, their heart and their courage does make for an interesting story.

The absence of courage makes the lion a coward – scared of his own shadow. Fear is courage’s replacement. Fear breeds apathy, fear breeds excuse, fear is like anorexia of our soul. Fear starves me and reminds me that it’s not worth it. Fear causes me to give up and give in. With fear there is no hope.

I watched a documentary about philosophy. Cornell West was talking from the back seat of a car driving through Manhattan. “Courage is the enabling virtue for any human being. The courage to think, the courage to love, the courage to hope” – amen brother.

The lion was looking for courage everywhere except where it could be found. AA speaks of submitting to a ‘higher power’ in coming to terms with addiction. The realization that I am not all there is, that I am part of something much more, it draws me into a larger story. That bigger story is the source for my courage.

Each day on the news, or in the papers I am reminded of my own fragility. Tragedy strikes by the moment. Lives well lived are celebrated. My own mortality is a constant theme, conscious or unconscious. But, I don’t think mortality is just about the physical.

As I think about it, I face the potential death of myself all the time. The social equivalent to stepping off the curb into a busy street. Being really alive takes courage. Maybe that’s what it is about recovering addicts, I see in their eyes the courage that comes from choosing life even in the midst of the traffic.

I am out of the closet as a creative person. This is not as easy as it sounds. For years I have fought against this idea. I used to think that all right brained people were good for was to entertain left brained people. I would sit in the audience, acting logical and rational, when all the while, inside, I wished it was me on stage.

It’s not that I was afraid to show my creative side – as long as it looked like a hobby. I thought for sure when I switched from PC’s to Apple I would be found out.

I loved hanging around creative people, discussing things in ways I couldn’t elsewhere. But then I’d be back at the office talking in my business voice acting like ‘art’ is what one buys at galleries on the weekend.

I remember once being out of town on a business trip. I slipped away from the meetings and found an artist supply store. I bought a pad of paper and some Caran d’ache crayons. I spent the evening in my room drawing.

As I think about it, even as a teenager I knew I had creative tendencies. I took a dance class, a ballet class in fact, when I was 18. I told everyone I thought it would help my skiing, and that it was a great place to meet girls (that part was true).

I could be creative in business, but there it’s called ‘problem solving’. My favorite meetings were with our ad agency. I’d always volunteer to meet at their offices. So cool. I’d dress different on those occasions. It felt like a day off. We probably spent more than we needed to on advertising.

But now, I am no longer in the shadows. I can openly say I don’t like analyzing financial statements or looking at stock charts. I like ideas. I like expressing ideas in writing, in art, and sometimes even on stage. I want the application of ideas to be my career – actually more than my career – being creative is simply who I am.

The spoonful of passion fruit rice pudding dessert from that restaurant . The music Christmas night in Liberu Jazz Bar in Ichikawa. The outstretched hand beckoning me to come dance at that school in Rwanda. The grip of my son’s newborn hand around my finger. The line from the David Whyte poem, especially when he recites it. The opening bars of ‘Streets with no Name’. The moment, just before the moment, when making love. Ron Reed in Shadowlands. Lisa being greeted in Bufukula, Uganda.

There are many beautiful things, but confronted with real beauty I am moved in my soul. I know I can’t make it up. I am sure I miss many opportunities when beauty presents itself. I have to be paying attention. Still, it surprises me.

I am watching the opening scenes of a new skateboard movie with my boys. It is absolutely brilliant. I have tears down my cheeks. I am so moved by the creativity of it, the choices the film makers made, the music, the timing. A skateboard movie for God’s sakes.

Last summer my brother and I took a long hike on the East Sooke Trail. Midway there was a small cove. We ate lunch there. Lay on the warm rocks. I jumped in the cold water. We took photos. It was the experience of being there together, in that place. Later that day, finishing the walk through tall grass I was reminded again. The beauty.

I can’t say exactly what beauty is. Is it simply the world offering it’s very best at that point in time? It seems more like a small crack in the firmament and a view beyond, to something other. I do know, that when I experience it, it’s transcendent.

Beauty may present itself in an infinite number of ways, in languages only known to the beholder. Regardless of where it is found one thing is for certain, beauty is food for the soul.

We had a choice. We had been hiking most of the day along a ridge that would lead down to a relatively easy walk back to the water, and our boat pick up. Unfortunately, there was an unexpected large amount of snow that we’d have to navigate. It wasn’t impossible, but there was a fair amount of risk and exposure. The high school kids we were guiding were inexperienced.

The alternative was to go back to our last camp, stay one more night, then hike out the way we came – doing in one day what had taken four days coming up. The group was already tired. The other guide and I took a moment, discussed the choice, and made the call to return to our last camp and hike down the next day. That decision turned a five hour hike into a 17 hour last day odyssey.

It was a choice informed by my experience and training, and yet I was questioned by both the kids and the chaperones that were with them.

The more fortunate one’s circumstance, the more one has choice. Poverty is the absence of choice. I get to choose. I want to be more mindful of this luxury. With my important decisions, the colour grey far outweighs that of black and white. I still find myself at times on the wrong side of even the obvious ones, but the greater challenge is choosing between easier and harder, less or more, better or best.

I can’t believe how many stupid choices I have made, some with grave consequences. These weren’t mistakes or accidents, these were willful decisions. Instead of using knowledge, training or experience, I relied instead on ignorance or arrogance.

In the mountains my job was to make decisions based on a variety of factors and variables – like group ability, weather, mountain conditions. I had spent a lot of time prior learning how to do that.

It isn’t much different down here, or at least it shouldn’t be. I make choices everyday based on a variety of factors and variables. I just need to keep learning how.

Ignorance. It has to be a humans worst trait. The choice not to know, not to find out, not to discover, not to consider another side. It’s the opposite of curious (See Curiosity). I was reflecting today on my worst act of ignorance.

I chose to believe that being gay was against the divine plan. Yet, my best friend, the best man at my wedding, the one whom my middle son is named after – was, and is gay. But, God said it, I believed it, so that settled it.

I remember a week long road trip we took together, he and I. Across Canada we drove. Him clearly confused how I, his closest friend, could be so cold, callous, and unwilling to empathize. I mean couldn’t he just choose not to be gay?

In the name of Love, I hurt him beyond all measure. I devalued him as a person, who he was, was wrong. I had chosen to believe those who told me, rather than understand myself.

The debate may rage on, but I have now come to feel it’s totally pointless. The composite picture of God is someone who loves and embraces – we humans are the one’s who want to play street cop – like the children on the playground so determined to enforce ‘the rules’. What rules? Love your neighbour?

How foolish it seems now to look back on the debate over slavery, the voting rights of women, or the equality of blacks – and know who was on the other side of those debates – determined that the ‘truth’ be upheld.

We live in a culture where we are all involved in ‘ethnic profiling’. There is a paranoia born of ignorance. I was in a taxi today driven by a Sikh man who spoke little English. As we got closer to my destination I was suspicious he was slowing down to increase the fare. What the fuck was I thinking?

I am still in touch with my best man. I am confident we still love each other. I do know though, I have left scars, unholy scars, inflicted because I was too certain – too certain of what I didn’t really know.

I am not a big fan of waiting. Having the attention span of a gnat, the exercise of sitting in one place, for an indeterminate amount of time, can be excruciating. In a word, I get bored.

Medical waiting rooms, airline departure lounges, arriving early for a meeting, or even long red lights all are potential boredom producers. I am left with nothing but myself to entertain me. Teenagers use the word boredom to describe the fact that they don’t like what they are doing. I use it to describe the fact that I don’t like what I am not doing.

It’s not so much that I am looking to be more productive, it’s just that I’d rather be engaged, involved, active. Waiting is so passive. I am wondering though, what is on the other side of boredom? Is it possible to push through the mental inertia, to overcome the need to move, act, or do?

Is there something to be learned by not doing, by just waiting? I honestly can’t think of anything at the moment, I’m just asking.

Time is all we have as humans. I really dislike the phrase “killing time”. We don’t get any of it back, we can’t save it up, we only have what we have right now. Waiting is just that, waiting for something else to happen. It can very easily fall into the category of killing time.

I have resolved before to always carry a book – ‘Catcher in the Rye’ or ‘Mutiny on the Bounty’. Instead, I don’t, and am left with whatever magazine matches the Dr.’s hobby – eg. ‘Quarter Horse Monthly’. I had no idea bridles cost that much.

Waiting is a fact of life – unfortunately the world doesn’t anticipate my arrival and have all that I need or want at the ready. There are those moments in time, those spaces, where the only obligation is to anticipate what is next to come – be it a root canal, or first lift on a powder day. The challenge is to not kill that time, but to live it.