Escaping Orbit

As I gaze out the window of my oft-times harried life, it seems to me that I often see the same landscapes.  Over and over again.  And planted in those larger scenes are the faces I’ve seen before with voices echoing the same messages I’ve heard before.

Face pressed against the window pane of my existence, I marvel, perhaps even delight, in seeing the replay of my most frustrating moments.  I see the anger and injustice that I perceive grows from others.  And I, almost unknowingly, reach over to hit the rewind button.  I feel justified in my own anger and malice toward those who do things to complicate my life.

I now realize that when I act this way, I have chosen to orbit the challenges and problems.  For whatever reason, I have chosen to keep them close.  I have chosen my misery.

“Chosen” is a convicting word.  Some who are in a similar circumstance may wince a bit at its use.  Why, we all ask, would we choose to do what is painful?

I believe we choose to act this way because, deep down, we think we have the power to make a difference . . . to bring about change.  Actually, we do have some capacity for that.  Yet, when we target change to happen in others, we lock into a circular path that leads nowhere.  In doing so, we orbit.  We spin around.  We turn the problems over and over again in our hands like some sort of a puzzle.  While in the force of that recurring nightmare and our attempts to stabilize everything about us, we rarely find the key to unlock the puzzle’s secret.

The problem with orbiting is that over time our energy begins to wane and we begin a spiral down into the problem itself.  We want to own the situation and manipulate it.  Without fail, that sort of fixation allows gravity to pull us into the central mass of negativity and pain.

I’m discovering (but have not mastered) the concept of letting go.  By releasing those things I truly have no control over, I am freed to go on with my life without the constant reruns of my bitterness, helplessness, and hopelessness.  Indeed, I am freed to navigate to where I need to be and want to be — almost at will.  Or, if I’m not totally successful in releasing, I gain the blessing of a wider orbit, one that includes greater experiences and relationships.

The key is in deciding what I am truly responsible for and what is outside my realm.  I am responsible for me.  I am responsible for how I interact with others.  I am responsible for my relationship with One who is greater than me.  And while that is a tremendous set of responsibilities, it’s a burden that each one of us is totally capable of bearing.

Let go.  Share heavy things with others.  Escape your orbit around the negative things that can capture your heart, mind, and soul.

On drawing lines

“I’ve just about had enough.”

A phrase most often coupled by parents with “Don’t make me come back there.”

Some how, some way, we all want to set boundaries on what we can live with.  And often, we want to back that up with some promise of force or other action if any one is so bold as to cross that line.  After all, don’t people need to know that invading boundaries invokes consequences?

I’m a boundary-loving person — but not big on consequences.  That’s not to say that I don’t impose consequences.  I’m just not thrilled about it.

Yet, consequences are a natural . . . well, uh . . . consequence of life.  Any action I take or word I speak holds tremendous potential for ripples.  And when the boundaries are the right ones, then the attendant, well-reasoned consequences serve a noble purpose — even if the consequences are difficult.

But what happens if my “line in the sand” is misplaced?

Perhaps because of my distaste for imposing consequences, I’m fairly even-handed in dealing them out.  My difficulty, it seems, comes in staking out the wrong boundaries or sometimes the right boundaries for the wrong reasons.  That’s not to say that the lines I draw aren’t close to the right vicinity.  However, if I can’t explain why they’re there, do I dare defend them?

William Ury in his book, The Power of a Positive No, addresses this problem with his concept of packaging a “No” as three answers.  The first answer is a “Yes!” to yourself and your own values.  The second is a firm “No.” to the person or persons making demands or asking you to shift your boundaries.  The final answer is a “Yes?” that can spur further conversation.

Even though I violated all sorts of writing styles in including them, the punctuation on those answers is important.  The exclamation point on the first “Yes!” shows the enthusiasm and positive energy we should feel in recognizing where our own interests are.  The period on the “No.” makes it a calm, flat statement.  A negative answer is often delivered with anxiety and in a way that provokes argument or, even worse, ends all conversation.  A healthy, well-meaning “No” leaves room for continued dialog.  The question mark on the final “Yes?” invites others into a discussion of what could be.  In other words, “Yes?” says, “Your position or request is outside of my current boundaries.  Could we talk about our common interests and see if there is some place we could agree?  Who knows?  Perhaps our boundaries could use adjustment.”

I’m not sure that my “first yes” in all situations bears that exclamation point.  I doubt whether I’ve always invested in discovering and testing those personal boundaries. Since it’s the first piece of a positive “no,” my work is cut out for me.

I’ll be taking drawing lessons in the near future.  Who would have thought that sketching an exclamation point could present such a challenge?

Two Balloons

On her way to pick-up our granddaughter, Landrye, from KidsQuest Day Camp today, Nancy stopped and bought two balloons — a black one and a white one.

With Landrye right beside her, she made her way to the foot of the majestic and moving sculpture, Jacob’s Dream.  Towering high above, Jacob’s ladder to heaven is filled with angels — the largest known depiction of this Old Testament story in the world.  As a spot for special moments, this little bit of West Texas real estate is prime.

A guessing game ensued between grandmother and granddaughter, “What is special and black and white?”

The answers tumbled out rapidly,  “A zebra.  A panda.  A white tiger.”

“Think of one at our house.  Black and white and really special.”

“Snoopy!”

Nancy smiled as she thought of our little dog.  Mottled with black and white fur, she won hearts with her incredibly attractive face and soulful eyes.  Over fourteen years old and a sweetheart, Snoopy was technically a farm dog.  For a number of years, she had been Nancy’s dad’s companion.  Criss-crossing the half-section of farmland, she had proudly chased barn cats and occasional wild turkeys.  Primarily she was known for her tail-wagging.  Standing maybe 8 inches tall to the top of her head, she was a bundle of energy.

When we lost Nancy’s dad, Snoopy moved to her adopted home in the city.  She was a wonderful companion to our old beagle for several years until Tipi moved on to a place in our memories.  Snoopy became the center of our attention and she lavished love on us.

Early this morning, Snoopy spent her last moments with us and on this earth.  Worsening seizures and other complications of a dog whose life would be measured at almost 100 human years brought her to that point of no return.  She left us with her same spirit of sweetness.

The news of her passing was not shared with everyone.

Nancy now turned to Landrye.  “The black balloon stands for our sadness.  The white balloon reminds us of the gladness we feel when we think of God’s care for all creatures great and small.  Now, when we think of Snoopy, we see her released from the pain that her many years brought her.  In our hearts, she’s a puppy again.”

As the balloons left their hands and floated skyward, granddaughter and grandmother felt their sadness and their gladness weave together into a memory.  Landrye understood.  A friend had been lost.

We often measure the passing of someone or some thing loved by releasing only one balloon.  The dark one.  The one of questions.  The one that drains our energy.

Today, Nancy reminded Landrye and me — and now you — of that all-important, all-healing second balloon.

When life presents sadness, God provides gladness.  And that gladness never overshadows the sadness.  Instead it twists together with the threads of difficulties and misfortune to form a fabric that stretches heavenward — our bridge to a loving and caring God.

‘Taken Identity

I don’t get as many letters from credit card companies as I used to.  You see, a little over a year ago, heeding the dire warnings of those who guarantee to protect me from identity bandits, I signed up with a service that monitors my credit accounts and warns me if some dastardly persons are using my good name in a way that drains my money and ruins my reputation.  One of the side benefits is that this service also puts my name on a number of “don’t solicit” lists.

I also signed up for the “do not call me during dinner” service provided by the federal government.  I still have companies calling me — I don’t really expect a government service to be entirely effective (guess there’s still a bit of Republican hanging on) — but now we just use our caller id to screen out those nuisance calls.  Of course, some make their way through and leave messages that I have little interest in.  Mostly political calls (which are exempt from the do not call register) and usually recorded messages from our governor and congressman — both Republicans, by the way.

If you’re thinking that I’m writing here about political affiliation, let me assure you that I’m not — and I am.  What I’m really talking about here is how we take a combination of experiences and brand people with an identity that fits our purposes.

So, if you’re a Republican, it’s easier for you to talk with me about politics if you can assign me the label of Republican or Democrat.  You may get a little edgy if I tell you I’m an Independent or a Libertarian.  I’m not, but let me confuse things even further.  I am actually a member of the “informed voter” party.  And no, that doesn’t mean that I’m really a Republican or a Democrat.  I have definite views and beliefs.  However, you can’t neatly box me in with anyone else.  I can’t vote a straight ticket.

Beyond political parties, we like branding people as liberal or conservative, moderate or progressive, capitalist or communist.  It’s just easier for us.  This spills over into other areas of life, as well.  If we perceive that a person is not as adept in our mother tongue as we are, we talk to them differently.  Have you ever listened in on your conversations with a baby or small child?  Or a foreign speaker?  Or someone with less education?  Or someone from a different race or culture?  It’s often obvious that we choose to categorize such folks rather than to talk to them (and more importantly, about them) as people.

Instead of taking someone else’s private information in order to steal money or misdirect communication, I believe that I may often be guilty of taking personal identities and changing them to what is most convenient to me.  I assign motives and characteristics.  I blame. I seek to exalt myself.

Perhaps I am an identity thief, of sorts.

For today, at least, I’m pledging to drop my labeling scheme.  For today, I will listen to each person who crosses my path as an individual who is worthy of my respect — free from bias.  For today, I promise not to steal the identities of others simply to recraft them for my gain.

Might be a good day to visit with me.

Might even make tomorrow a better day.

Sometimes the cookie has to crumble . . .

Way back in my grade school years, my family took a glorious trip to Fort Worth. It was something school-related, involving my brother Carl’s extracurricular activities. But it was a glorious trip for me because I was allowed to miss school.

Adding to the excitement was our good fortune to stay with friends of my parents who lived in Fort Worth. Their youngest daughter was one year older and I thought of her as more of a cousin. We had great times together.

On this particular trip, I remember sitting in the middle of their living room floor playing some board game. My friend’s mom was baking cookies. Normally, smelling those cookies would be true bliss for me. Unfortunately, I developed a tremendous, sickening headache. And the smell of those cookies became forever attached to memories of the pain I was feeling.

Now, I’m not sure what kind of cookies were being baked. For whatever reason, I have associated macadamia nut cookies with that ugly experience. So through the years, I have avoided macadamia nut cookies. A few years ago, in a moment of adult rationality and at the urging of others who claimed that the macadamia nut cookie was at the height of pastry evolution, I tried one. The morsel was barely in my mouth before the nightmare of memories returned. I was back in that living room, smelling those cookies . . . head throbbing, nauseated, miserable.

Earlier this year, in an effort to be healthy, I purchased a can of mixed nuts “specifically formulated” to provide high protein and great satisfaction. I grabbed the can off the shelf, seeing the almonds and the cashews. After I got to my office, however, I noticed that the third entree was the much-touted macadamia.

I avoided those little round pieces for quite a while. Inevitably, I grabbed one by mistake. It wasn’t heaven on earth, but it was pretty close to paradise. For the first time, I understood what all the macadamiaphiles had been preaching. What a glorious taste sensation! And to think that all of these years I was robbed of that because of some relatively insignificant baked dough surrounding this little jewel.

I’ve noticed that a lot of people are like macadamia nut cookies. I see the lumpy stuff that surrounds them and that often hides what is inside. And I avoid those people. Sadly, sometimes I even vilify them.

Yet, in a special moment, I’m given the opportunity to see them “outside the cookie.” And I discover the true value of them as people.

If you struggle from time to time with your feeling toward others like I do, you might want to think about brushing past the cookie to get to what’s truly inside.

That Makes Two of Us

The flight out of Abilene was delayed by more than two hours. A 2 p.m. connection in Dallas was now set for 6:45 p.m. and the day of travel that had seemed fairly tame was emerging as a monster.

I had gate-checked my carry-on bag for the short hop from Abilene to DFW. With my new schedule I had several hours before my flight to Virginia, so I dutifully allowed those with immediate connections to deplane and grab their gate-checked items before me.

I retrieved my carry-on and as I turned to head up the jetway, I was blocked by a little girl. She was waiting for her dad, who was gathering a number of items. The four-year-old smiled up at me and asked, “Mister, are you in a big hurry?”

“As a matter of fact, I am not,” I smiled.

Her serious look turned to a big grin and she said, “I’m not either!”

I chuckled a bit and walked slowly to the terminal. Rethinking that bit of conversation, I was reminded over and over that afternoon that this few hours was a blessing, of sorts. For once, I had plenty of time to do everything I needed to do.

A few hours later, I was delighted to see the little girl and her family board the same flight and thought it incredible that they were seated right behind me.

“So,” I asked, “did you have plenty of time to see the airport?”

“All the time in the world,” she answered. “How about you?”

“Plenty.”

When stress is high, blessings sometimes come in unexpected ways. Who would have thought that a five-hour delay in reaching my destination would have been one of them? And what are the chances that I would find someone who shared my view of that?

Blessings do come in difficult times. I hope someone blocks your path and points them out to you.

A Moment of Christmas

We were expecting things to be different this year. Changes in the family have made us wary of almost every occasion.

So it was with no small amount of dread that I awaited the traditional opening of gifts. Certainly, I thought, things just won’t be the same. For one thing, it was coming a day late. And then there was the element of missing people. A few would not be with us. And then there was the fact that the economic downturn would be an obstacle for all that gathered.

But the magic moment of Christmas emerged. The gifts, some modest and some more extravagant, were a side note to the beautiful thoughts and love poured into their selection. After this long-awaited festival of sharing, I chided myself on my earlier anxiety. After all, wasn’t the greatest present in the world delivered in a small family gathering in a stable during tough economic times and horrific political and social stress?

So, while I was still thinking that perhaps Christmas would be unrecognizable this year, I received the greatest present of them all. The moment of Christmas began to sink in.

“Emmanuel” does mean “God with us.” And He is.

My Own Medicine – Day Five

I love to hear someone say, “Suddenly, it all became clear to me.”

It’s not that I think it doesn’t happen that way. No, it’s just not been my experience that everything becomes clear all at once. Of course, I’m slower than most people. That may be the reason that my flashes of insight are often muted — just glimpses of a reality exposed in the flicker of a distant spark of lightning.

Earlier this week, when I sat down to put things right with a long-time friend, I started to notice the great peace and freedom that was rolling over me. Amazing how my time was freed to think about ways to move on the difficulties that had kept the two of us apart — or at least me apart.

So yesterday I was basking in this peace and freedom and it hits me — there are other areas where I don’t feel so good. And, at that moment, I began to take inventory of those things that worry me and distract me.

I thought the list would be much longer. Not really any relationship issues on this list — except for a group project I had been avoiding. Everything else involves taking some very simple steps toward freedom and peace.

I started this morning by completing some boring paperwork for my law office. Free of that and I’m moving on. Several small projects around the house await me. More freedom in the afternoon.

Larger tasks are involved as well — but all start with small steps. And each step brings freedom and peace.

Small steps. All that’s required in reconciling relationships or ending bondage to whatever plagues you are small, small steps.