Saturday, December 23, 2006

Fear of Success

I've reached the point in my life where I'm more afraid of failure than I am of success.

It feels strange to say that — the last part, especially — but the truth is I've always been one to hold back. Why? The more you do, and the better you do it, the more people expect from you.

And I'm not comfortable with expectations.

I suppose if I had enough confidence not to care what people think ... well, I'm getting there.

But the fear of success is more than that. I won a state-wide award once when I was in high school, and my best friend wondered if I would still hang out with him. Really. That's what he told me. Not at the time, but later.

So the thing to fear, I think, is that success changes people in unpredictable ways.

If I were successful — wildest dreams successful — would I turn into a pompous ass? Would I be too good for my friends. Would they think so even if I didn't?

Would new friends be real friends? Would they tell me the truth or just what I wanted to hear?

Would I lose the spark that drove me to be successful in the first place?

All of which sounds just a little ridiculous when my wildest dreams remain out of reach.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Storytellers

I'm always thinking about stories and how they are told.

A great way to learn, I've discovered, is to read the same story twice. Or read the same story as told by different writers.

The four gospels, for example.

It's interesting to see what each writer chooses to leave in and leave out. How the the order of events gets changed around. How the writers differ in their descriptions of, say, crowd reactions. How they differ in their characterizations of the twelve apostles.

(Hint: Read one complete gospel each day. Otherwise they all blur together.)

Movie versions can be revealing, too.

Take The Passion of the Christ.

I wasn't surprised that it was controversial, but I always thought it was controversial for the wrong reasons. (Old news, I know, but now Gibson has directed another movie, Apocalyto, also not in English, and it got me thinking about his choices.)

To me, The Passion stands as a shining example of how a story changes in the retelling. Even in the hands of someone who believes the story is true. Even in the hands of some one who cares enough about historical accuracy use the languages of that time and place.

Like the Gospel writers, Gibson made certain choices about what to include and what to leave out and, perhaps most revealing, what to add.

Matthew chose to begin with Jesus' birth, Mark with his baptism, Mel with his arrest. I guess he assumed we were all familiar with the rest of the story, though he did throw in flashbacks to a few key events — the Sermon on the Mount, the Woman Caught in Adultery, the Triumphal Entry, the Last Supper.

In the case of the woman caught in adultery ("Let he who is without sin cast the first stone"), he chose to place Mary Magdalene in the role, which would explain why she appears so devoted to Jesus in the rest of the film. Historically accurate? No. But, in Hollywood parlance, the flashback "works." It makes emotional sense and makes for a better, more compact story.

To borrow a phrase from novelist Ken Kesey, "It's true even if it never happened."

The same could be said of this addition: As Jesus falls under the weight of the cross he must carry, we see his mother watching and recalling Jesus falling down as a toddler. Clearly, she wishes she could scoop him up again and comfort him as she did then. It's a touching moment and could even be true. After all, what mother hasn't comforted a child who has fallen? Was that really what Mary was thinking? Doesn't matter. It works, right?

Well, not for me, but never mind.

The most surprising addition, though, was a flashback to Jesus as a young carpenter who builds a table that is unusually high for the time period — he has to explain to his mother how people will sit at the table using chairs he hasn't built yet.

Go figure.

Maybe Jesus was a visionary carpenter as well as a visionary teacher. Maybe his accomplishments as a furniture maker were simply overshadowed by his other insights. The high table forgotten; his admonition to love our enemies remembered.

We all remember that, right?

If not, all the storytellers have failed.

Friday, December 8, 2006

Remembrance


My mother survived a world war and the early deaths of two husbands. Cancer took the first, a passing car the second. Through it all, she retained a steadfast faith in God and showed an uncanny ability to find contentment regardless of circumstances.

Or so it seemed to me.

I cannot claim to have known my mother well. She was not given to talking about herself without prodding. But I learned from her example. (I don't know how else to explain my ability to be happy even when things go wrong. Not that I don't have ups and downs.)

Although my mother was not well-educated (she had the equivelent of a grade-school education), she was smart and talented.

She taught herself to play the mandolin by ear.

She was a gifted gardener — a talent she passed on to some of my siblings.

She made the best apple pies anyone has ever tasted.

She and my father added a wing to my childhood home without the benefit of blueprints.

On the other hand, she had a terrible sense of direction and a fear of getting lost — surprising (or maybe not) for someone who came halfway around the world to start a new life and learn a new language.

When I lied to her, she believed me, which made me want to never lie again.

Her lasting legacy will be the large and loving family she left behind — a family I am pleased to be a part of.

It's been nearly seven years since she died.

I did not cry at her funeral.

Sunday, December 3, 2006

Genesis

Before the beginning there was eternity and emptiness, a vast darkness stretching to infinity. Hidden in this darkness was a mysterious presence. The universe was his never-ending womb, and he was born at the moment he became aware of his potential. He became aware of the emptiness and realized it didn't have to be that way. The universe could be full. Indeed it already was for he was everywhere. By the same token he became aware of the darkness and realized it didn't have to be that way. (An uncanny inspiration since there was nothing else.) And the presence said, "Let there be light," and there was light. He began to play with this idea, taking it to extremes, and an explosion of creativity followed. He created solid and liquid, hot and cold, rough and smooth. The things he created gave him pleasure but then he also knew pain. He created life: birth and death. Comedy and drama. And God saw that it was good, but he immediately recognized the potential for evil, for everything had its opposite.
- Note to myself dated Sunday, March 1, 1987, 1:09 a.m.

Weird, huh? I never stay up past midnight. Well, almost never.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

What She Said


I'll tell you what she said. She said, "If you're really drunk, how come you don't make a pass at me when I turn off the flashlight?"

I was seventeen then, and it was the first time I had tasted beer, but I wasn't drunk.

She said, "Do you remember where you left your sleeping bag?"


Those are the opening lines of a short story called "What She Said" in the Beloit Fiction Journal. The Spring 2006 edition. It just arrived.

The story is mine.

I like seeing it in print. Holding it in my hands. It's been a long time coming.

I say that not because the spring edition arrived in November, but because I wrote the first version of the story, then called "Good Thing Going," back in 1977, when I was fresh out of college.

I hit upon the new title and a new emphasis sometime around 1990. It felt like a breakthrough, and I sent the story to about a dozen magazines in quick succession.

No one wanted it. Not even the city magazine I worked for at the time. My boss wanted to run it but her boss didn't, and that was that.

I gave up. For a dozen years, I did nothing with the story.

Little did I know, all that time, that I was one more submission (and two or three changes) from success.

A small success, I suppose, but a sweet one just the same.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Getting Stronger

Hatred seems so strong sometimes. Overpowering. Unstoppable.

I'm convinced, however, that its power is often overestimated.

People learn to hate when they have been hurt. They're like wounded animals  vulnerable and afraid. They lash out quickly because they know they are weak and may not be able to fight for long.

Love sometimes seems weak. It doesn't have the sudden destructive power that hate displays.

But love can heal. And given time, it will.

Friday, November 10, 2006

Shedding Tears

My wife and I have been married 30 years now, and the last time we checked, our auras were almost identical. And yet we’re very different. Her goal is to cry less; mine is to cry more.

Tears come to her easily and often. Sad movies. Sad songs. Parting from relatives we may not see again for a year or more. Random acts of kindness. All these things bring tears to her eyes.

Me? When I was a boy I cried a lot. Now, hardly ever.

Breathe in, breathe out.

A woman I know said she would choose joy over enlightenment. I can respect that. We know what joy is and it’s pretty cool. Enlightenment is more mysterious.

Beyond emotions?

I don’t think that’s it. I’ve been beyond emotions (or pretty close to it).

The great thing about my wife is that she feels things. Deeply. I know sometimes she wishes she didn’t. But I love her for it. Everyone does. For her, it’s frustrating to have the words she wants to say get stuck in her throat. She’d like to have more self-control than that. But I think tears say more than words sometimes.

Still, no one wants to be a slave to their emotions.

As a young boy I cried over things like striking out in baseball. The ball was small and hard and I was afraid of it. Afraid of failing, too. When it was my turn at bat I would just stand there. Finally a classmate said, “Just take a swing. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Good advice.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I learned not to cry for silly selfish reasons. In fact I learned not to cry at all. Almost.

A few years ago I cried uncontrollably when I thought I was going to lose my job. As it turned out I kept my job while others lost theirs. Then I began to think of them as the lucky ones ...

The most enlightened people I know are not beyond emotions. They feel joy and sadness, but are not controlled by them.

By not crying I appeared to be in control of my emotions, but I was not free. I was controlled by them in a different way.

I cried, for the first time in a long time, during an initial energy checkup at the Dahn Yoga center in our neighborhood. My aura changed dramatically. I don’t really remember what the headmaster did or what all we talked about, but I came out feeling a lot of compassion. For others and, surprisingly, for myself.

Since then I’ve learned that a new friend at the center carries in his wallet a picture of himself as a young boy.

“It reminds me that I need to take care of little Louis,” he says.

At times, Louis explains, he has denied himself things he wouldn’t keep from his worst enemy.

When I finish writing this I’m going to find a picture of little Freddy (my nickname as a boy).

Breathe in, breathe out.

Lately I’ve allowed myself to cry more. I cry listening to Sting sing “Fields of Gold” and watching the romantic comedy “Love Actually.” I cry rubbing my wife’s hand in yoga class.

“While you are crying, watch yourself,” the headmaster tells me. “Ask yourself why you cry.”

Good advice.

“When we purify our emotions we can cry less,” she says. “When we have a deeper soul's connection we will cry more.”

Monday, November 6, 2006

For a Friend

I see you. You're smiling. Sandy is with you. She's smiling, too. You feel so good you're dancing, dancing like you never danced before. You feel free, the way you did before you learned to wonder what others think.

Your pockets are full of cash, and there's plenty more where that came from. Money comes easily to you now. Money is like a pretty woman who finds you irresistible. Like Sandy.

I see you throw your head back and laugh out loud.

Your mistakes are in the past, and the past doesn't exist. There's only now. And now your heart is full of love and forgiveness. For yourself. For everyone you've ever known.

I see it. I see you. You know it's true.

Thursday, November 2, 2006

The Fire This Time

My first thought, after 9/11, was that America should turn the other cheek and refuse to be pulled into an endless cycle of violence.

But when we bombed Afghanistan and sent Osma bin Ladin running for the hills, I admit that I felt a sort of primal satisfaction. I even allowed myself to be convinced (by Tony Blair and Colin Powell) that invading Iraq was a necessary evil.

Now I feel like a fool.

I'm reminded that, as the Messiah, Jesus was expected to be a great military leader who would drive the Romans out of Palestine. But he rejected that role and allowed himself to be killed, even though, if you believe the Gospels, he had the power to summon an army of angels.

It's hard to imagine a more thorough repudiation of war than that.

Was Jesus a fool?

Whatever you think of him, this much is true: In the long run, he brought the Romans to their knees.

Wednesday, November 1, 2006

When Peace Explodes

I've decided I need to assemble a bomb.

Not me alone. I have to have help. Co-conspirators. You.

The parts and players we need will have to come from Detroit and D.C., London and Berlin, Beirut and Jerusalem. All around the world.

As I write this the sky is dark and quiet.

Can you feel it?

There's a charge inside of us.

We're the bomb.

We're the shock and awe.

And everything will change when peace explodes.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

I Wonder ...


At an early age, my brother Harry gave me some advice that would shape my life.

"That doesn't sound like you," he said. "You should write the way you talk."

I was maybe 10 years old and he was reading my homework. God knows why. I thought he was crazy.

More than a year before he died he said to himself, "I wonder if I have cancer." But he didn't do anything about it.

I'm remembering these two incident — unrelated, really, except that my brother shows up in both — because I'm trying to figure out why we listen to some people and not others. To others and not ourselves.

In my case, I didn't really believe my brother because, well, he was my brother. What did he know about writing? Anyway, I didn't really care because, at the time, I wasn't planning to become a writer.

In my brother's case, maybe he didn't trust what his body was telling him or maybe he was afraid of the truth.

I wish I could tell him he was right in my case.

I wish I could tell him he was wrong about the cancer.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Before I Was Born

Before I was born, my family was huddled in a basement praying that the bombs falling above them would not blow them to smithereens.

I don't know how many other families were in their basements praying or what happened to them, but my family survived.

This was in Germany during World War II. My father was in the German army. Suffice it to say it wasn't his idea, but he was German and there was this godawful war.

I came along years later, after the family moved to America, and my parents almost never talked about the war when I was growing up. Only if I asked them something and only enough to answer my question.

All wars are awful but this one was especially bad, and my family had been on the wrong side. I guess I didn't really want to talk about it either.

When I was growing up, America went to war again, this time in Vietnam, where our purpose was less clear, and when I was 18 I was among the last Americans to receive a draft card. What would I do? I waited to see if my number came up. It didn't, and so I didn't have to decide.

My older brother Harry did have to decide. He decided to lie, twice. He lied to the army so they would declare him morally unfit, and he lied to the family so we would think he had flunked the physical.

Many years later he told me the truth and it didn't matter. Either way, I was glad he didn't have to go.

Anyway, he decided and acted, and that took more courage than I seemed to have.

I'm told that one of the first things my nephew Mike learned to say was "Peace in the Middle East." He grew up in a hopeful time and the phrase was on the TV so often he just picked it up.

That was more than 30 years ago.

Lately things have been much worse, from Baghdad to Beirut, and it feels as if the bombs that were falling before I was born will never stop falling.

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Such Small Hands

Where to start ...

Summer 2005. I'm sitting on a yoga mat in a tiny hole-in-the-wall training center  in a strip mall, between a camera store and a post office  and my heart is opening in a way I seldom let it.

In one sense I'm not doing anything I haven't done thousands of times over the past 29 years. I'm simply holding my wife's hand. In this case, however, she is lying on her back and I am rubbing her fingers, pressing each fingertip with my thumbnail  an acupressure technique we learned weeks earlier.

My heart opens as I feel how tiny her hand is in mine. It's like a child's, and I know she has the same innocent spirit she was born with. At the same time, I see the tiny spots on her skin that give away the secret that she, like me, is already 50 years old.

Then, in my head, I hear the words our instructor spoke when she first met my wife: "Such small hands, but they hold so many people."

Now I'm crying because I know just how true that is.

I see us growing old together, older and grayer than we are now. Already we have been together longer than we've been apart. I think about the moment when her spirit will slip away and it breaks my heart.

Yet in this moment I am more alive and more thankful than I have ever been.