New Year's Resolutions

I use to spend the week between December 25^th and the first of January consuming holiday leftovers, finishing off half-full bottles of wine, and contemplating that one critically flawed component of my life that I would resolve to tackle in the coming year. Almost invariably there were a few extra pounds on my bones that I determined to eliminate - join a gym, run a half-marathon, learn to rollerblade, eat better, give up alcohol, etcetera, etcetera. Then there would be some particular goal intended to improve the more creative and/or intellectual side of me – travel (somewhere), take classes (of some sort), write, learn to speak another language, etcetera, etcetera. And, of course, I felt compelled to work on those pesky little personality flaws that kept me from becoming a truly good person – mostly boiled down to – be less opinionated, speak less, listen more.

Come January 1^st, I resolved towards self-improvement and jumped into the mission with full gusto, inspired by the renewing opportunity of a new year. Over the years, I managed to meet many of my goals. I joined the gym, ran the half-marathon, purchased those skates, and said good-bye to all white “non-food” products. I walked the cobblestone streets of Florence in the rain, dived with the sea turtles off the coast of Roatan, and enjoyed safari in the Okavango Delta. I earned a post-graduate degree, started a blog (you’re reading it), and published an essay in a literary journal. And, I learned to say “Hello, how are you?” and “I am fine, thank you” in Setswana (“Dumela mma/rra, o kae? Ke teng, ke a leboga.”)

The rest of the story, as one would say, is an all too well known one. That gym membership lasted two years longer than I did. The half-marathon was my first, and my last. After two falls, the rollerblades were safely put away in their specially design backpack in a little used closet. I became over educated and underemployed and yearned for unvisited places. I remained ever committed to chocolate and wine, always had an opinion, and no matter how much I tried to listen I still talked more. Most interestingly, I remained forever self-critical – and instead of celebrating my wonderful experiences, berated myself for not fulfilling my expectations of perfection in achievement and timeliness. So, some years back, I decided to embrace the old adage of “no expectations, no disappointments,” and resolved never again to make New Year’s resolutions.

That is until a few weeks ago. As I sat with a group around a campfire, someone handed me a small piece of paper and a pen and instructed, “Write what you’re leaving behind in 2011 and burn it.” Caught by the element of surprise, seduced by the concept of burning something, and faced with no expectations to share with anyone but the universe, I momentarily forgot my skeptic approach to resolutions, quickly scribbled two words, and tossed the paper into the flames. Proud of my truthful declaration, no matter how quiet, I felt ready to face the new year.

Then a funny thing happened last week (not on the way to the Forum, but hanging around a kitchen island drinking wine and munching on snacks with friends). Someone asked, “Does anyone have a New Year’s resolution?” Without skipping a beat, I yelled “Twenty pounds!” I immediately felt I had betrayed myself. These were not the two words the flames had engulfed only a couple of weeks ago. Why had I resorted back to the old standby – back to the place of self-criticism and lack? Why, at a time when so many people attack themselves and others, did I find it so difficult to speak of my desire to be part of a healing world?

It took me about twenty minutes, while the rest of the group discussed exercise and travel goals, to summon the courage. Then in a quiet moment, I sheepishly, and ironically, declared, “I want to live without fear and doubt.” I’m not sure if anyone got it; but it felt good to say it out loud. Now, I am ready for 2012.

The power of one mind can shine into another, because all of the lamps of God were lit by the same spark. It is everywhere and it is eternal.

Look gently on your brother… Follow in gladness the way to certainty. Be not held back by fear's insane insistence that sureness lies in doubt. This has no meaning. What matters it to you how loudly it is proclaimed? The senseless is not made meaningful by repetition and by clamor. The quiet way is open. Follow it happily.

When you have felt the strength in you, which makes all miracles within your easy reach, you will not doubt. The miracles your sense of weakness hides will leap into awareness as you feel the strength in you.

And if you choose to see a world without an enemy, in which you are not helpless, the means to see it will be given you.

- A Course in Miracles

Grief

I find grief to be like an old acquaintance that shows up at the most unexpected times. You know, one of those characters from a movie – the old college roommate that never quite grew up – a disheveled vagabond that travels the world, living off others’ generosities. The guy you rarely hear from that suddenly knocks on your door, unannounced, in the middle of night, disrupting the entire household.

You let him. You always do. Not because you enjoy his company or because there is any obligation to do so. No, you let him in because you don’t know how not to – and because, no matter how much he may irritate you, there is something familiar and comfortable about him.

He settles in. You never know for how long – an hour, a few days, or for an extended visit. He turns your world upside down – messes up your house, turns your day into night and night into day, interferes with your relationships, and, in his all consuming need for attention, completely drains you of your energy. He entices you with his tells of dark adventure; and for a while, you find yourselves strange bedfellows.

Then, as quickly, and as unannounced, as he came, he leaves. One morning, you sleep late and awaken to find him gone. You pull yourself out of the funk, take a shower, straighten up your house, and begin to reach out to those you have ignored. The air feels lighter, the energy more vibrant, and there is space to breathe once again. In your newly obtained freedom, you possess a stronger appreciation for the subtle joys of your day and a new awareness of the abundance that surrounds you. You return to the sync of life…

…until his next visit.

The Litigator

My father has a brain tumor. More specifically, he has a grade IV astrocytom called a glioblastoma multiforme, a star-shaped malignancy that, according to the doctors, is eating away at his brain cells. The tumor is located in the cerebrum region of the brain that controls communication. Due to the necrosis that has occurred, again according to the doctors, he sometimes finds challenges choosing the correct words to convey his thoughts.

My father is a litigator, a civil trial specialist, only one of a select group in the country of such distinction. His entire adult life, he has made a living with his communication skills. The curious thing is that for the first time in his life, my father is communicating, truly communicating, with his loved ones.

I inherited the gift of words from my father. I love the way words roll off the tongue, the irony of oxymoron, and the play of double entendres. Like my father, I chose a profession that utilizes this skill. I, like the litigator, use the verbal language to argue, to advocate, and to influence. Yet, in the personal arena, where my father has struggled, I have excelled. One always in touch with my feelings, as well as others, I have never failed to articulate them. Yet, as I process this journey with my father, I find words inadequate to express the experience.

My father says he manifested this tumor himself – to relieve his spirit from a lifetime of pressures, to allow a healing from what he terms “the illusion of conflict,” and to experience the true joys of this world. As I watch my father, in this moment of physical fragility, embrace his human experience with such honesty and strength, I realize miracles indeed come in strange packages.