Fear

I read your blogs every now and then, feeling somewhat vindicated by the fact that I'm not the only one with an endless stream of questions about life and the way I have chosen to live it. Then again, maybe I read it because it shows me just how much I haven't chosen, how much I've let circumstances choose for me. Its the coward's way out, one I've managed to justify through a series of excuses that mask what truly lies behind them: Fear. Fear of making a mistake, fear of letting others down, fear of the unknown, fear of failure, and even fear of success. Its amazing to me how one emotion can carry so much weight, keeping me immobile and preventing me from doing the one thing I need to do most. I need to change my life. But the craziest thing about this is that I've spent so long doing what I'm supposed to do that I've forgotten what it is that makes me happy. That's the biggest danger in living a life to satisfy others--after a while, you can no longer differentiate everybody else's needs from your own. You become just a collage of everybody else’s expectations.

The above is excerpted from an email from an old acquaintance of mine, someone I hadn’t heard from in a long time. Didn’t know she was a reader.

This was my response:

You're hardly the only one with questions. Religion, for instance, is prevalent worldwide and claims billions of adherents seeking to find meaning, or a deeper meaning, in life. Who was it who said "the unexamined life isn't worth living?" (Socrates, btw)

Believe it or not-and reading this shot across the bow of sanity, I'll not venture a guess as to what you may actually believe-I do understand what you mean. I let fear hold me back for YEARS. Funny thing though...once you let it go, once you find the path beyond it, find how to move past it, life gets so much better. Not easier. It's not supposed to be. Just better. Understanding the roots of your fears, what drives them. It's not necessarily about conquering them, just dealing with them, not letting them rule your life, just acknowledge that they are there and then moving beyond them. Ultimately, nobody can judge you but you. You have to find that strength & confidence within yourself. Learning to use fear to your advantage, as a motivator to make sure your shit is covered and allowing you to shine...the proper manipulation of your own fears makes you fearless.

It's your own expectations you must deal with. You haven't forgotten what makes you happy. That's a cop-out. You've just denied it to yourself. You have to be fundamentally honest with yourself. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks; they aren't living your life. Fuck 'em. Acknowledge that which makes you happy and embrace it, pursue it. You have to learn to be comfortable in your own skin, to just be who you are. Accept yourself. Trust me, I know of which I speak. I've been at unimaginably low points, stood at the abyss, all of it, and somehow made it through to the other side. Life is much better over here. Again, not easier, just better. Life isn't about the situations themselves, just how you deal with them. If you have faith, if you believe in a higher power (I do), you inherently know that you will not be given more than you can handle. It is all a test.

On Living an Honest Life

This morning, a friend said to me “you’re living a much more honest life than I am right now.”

What is an honest life? What is honest and true, beyond our own subjective definitions?

Religions have claimed their versions of “truth” since the beginning of time. How do we really know if any of them are right? But an examination of faith is for another day.

Politicians do the same, grandstanding on their versions of the “truth.” Look where the “truth” has taken this country.

This is why (among other reasons) I have little use for political parties or organized religion. Too often, the truth is sacrificed for ideology. God is too often a cover for the self-aggrandizing of man.

But this statement, this notion that I’m leading a more honest life, has been bouncing around my head all day. How am I leading a more honest life? On a one-to-one relative basis, maybe. On a grander scale? Doubtful. My life is as ascetic as it is honest right now. Does discipline lead to purity, and then wisdom? Does it matter?

We all have our skeletons. We all have our secrets and fears. Some people hold theirs close their entire lives. Sometimes, things are just too unbearable to face. Chances are too great that we could shatter our carefully constructed self-images with the truth. Honesty a cudgel, denial a means of survival.

Some summon the courage to face their demons head-on, ignoring the racing heartbeat and shivery sweats that anxiety brings. Some of us do both, reveling in the relief that comes with purging our secrets and sins and marveling at how big a deal it turns out not to be. Almost surprised to see that life has gone on, that once again day has followed night. I’m no exception.

So how does one live an “honest” life? I can only offer myself as an example, given that the source of the original statement knows me quite well, knows almost all of my skeletons and fears....and we share a unique perspective currently, one that in a direct comparison of our lives would validate the original statement. For now.

At the Seder the other night, as we breezed through a condensed version of the Haggodah, I was struck by this statement: according to the sage Hillel, “That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation.” Right.

The Golden Rule. Follow it, and you’ll live an honest life. Right? But what if you find honesty hateful? What if greed and avarice are are not deplorable to you, but rather virtuous? (Cheap shot: “you get a job in the Bush Administration!”)

Thankfully, I am one who finds honesty important, though I hadn’t consciously thought about it in these terms prior to this morning. I just am who I am. I am an honest man. Honestly quite good, and honestly, sometimes I’ve been very, very, bad. Guess that makes me honestly human.

So this honest life of mine...is it because I try to tell the people that I love that I love them? Or more accurately, to show them that I love them through deeds and action? By being a good friend, a good son, a good brother, a good boyfriend? I don’t know...honesty does not mask our faults and imperfections. I could be a better friend, a better son and brother, a better boyfriend.

Or, does the virtue of honesty rest in the continual attempts to be honest?

In the end, I believe honesty lies in the heart. We are each capable of great honesty in our lives, maybe great love and beauty too. Some people veer far away from these, whatever the reason. Sometimes being honest with ourselves, about what we really want, can inadvertently hurt someone else. Unintended consequences. But which is worse: living a lie to spare someone else-or ourselves-the pain that comes with being completely honest, or letting the truth set us free?

Looks Like Rain

This song pretty much encapsulates how I'm feeling right now:



Johnny Cash would've been a close second, maybe "I Still Miss Someone." I miss someone very much.

This seems appropriate too...

Goodbye & God Bless, Danny

Danny Federici, died yesterday. 58 years old.
Danny was the organ/keyboard/accordian player in the E Street Band, played with Springsteen for 40 years. That sound, that signature full-throttle E Street sound...Danny was a huge part of it. As evocative as Bruce's lyrics can be, it was the rhythm section that brought it to life. It was Danny's organ playing that helped blow the mind of an awestruck 16-year-old Gins at the Centrum back in '88, on the Tunnel of Love tour. It was that sound that came to life in the thousands of times I had Springsteen music blasting from my car speakers, alone on the road, feeling like one of those desperate characters in the songs trying to outrun the inescapable thoughts in my head. Even as I write this, I can hear his melancholy accordion lines on "Independence Day" in my head.

Goodbye, Danny, and God bless you. You will be missed by so many of us, but a big part of you will live on. You put an indelible stamp on a catalog of music few will ever match. I hope you are indeed in the Promised Land today.

The Library is Full of Strangers...and Books

One cannot devise plans for world domination solely from the comfort of the home office (read: my living room) or any number of Panera Bread locations. The monotony can become overwhelming, and all that extra gluten can wreak havoc on the blood sugar (I'm not diabetic, just neurotic). So where does one go for peace & quiet and free WiFi? The library.

Prior to last week, I hadn't been in a library in years. I'm a bookstore guy. Love to browse bookstores, preferably with a warm beverage in hand from the in-store cafe. But last week, my brother Larry called & invited me to join him at the Newton Library, where he & Neil work from on occasion (for the same reasons mentioned above). I was going to be in the area anyway, so off I went....and I really dug it! Obviously, it's a quiet environment, leading to much productivity. That library is quite lovely too, architecturally interesting with lots of natural light. In fact, I ended up there again the next day, as I was in town and had several hours between meetings.

So this morning, a dreary April Fool's Day (albeit a warm one), I decided that the library environment worked for me and I should give my hometown branch a go. And here I am...here for the first time in years. I used to come here regularly as a kid, starting as a toddler when my mom would bring me here for storytime. As soon as I could read, she brought me here to check out books every couple of weeks, until I was old enough to ride my bike here after school & get 'em myself. Sometime in high school, I stopped coming. Haven't been here since.

There was a major renovation here in the ensuing years. A new front fascia to the building, a new, more open layout, new paint & carpeting, etc. It's brighter, airier. Yet it's still the same. It's still Worcester, this old blue-collar mill city tinged with a subtle municipal sadness that seems to infect every corner. Still not quite all that it could be. But hell, neither am I.

There is one great benefit to spending a couple hours here. The people-watching is fascinating. When I first got settled, up in a rounded third floor turret, the girl at the table next to mine had a full sleeve of tattoos on her left arm. Roses and vines and some tribal pieces. Then an old man walked in, looked vaguely like Andy Warhol. Sat down with a book and read for a bit, while every few minutes sucking loudly on his teeth, a noise further amplified by the natural echo of this big open room. Another older man walked in, short and fat and wearing a coat & hat like he just stepped off a Russian freighter after too long at sea. He was soon joined by a younger, even fatter fellow with a stack of books under his arm. They began arguing loudly, obviously a father & son combo. They were cruise books, including "Cruising for Dummies." (Cruises are vacations by boat...boats are typically on water...). The fight ended after a few minutes-hey, this is a library, please keep it down-and off they went.

The tattooed girl was joined by an older guy with a thick, untamed gray beard and equally bushy, unkempt gray hair spilling out from the sides of a greasy baseball cap. He appeared homeless at first, a mishmash of coats and flannel shirts and an enormous American flag belt buckle. But he pulled out a laptop, with attached webcam, and wore a headset mic, so unless the homeless have gone high-tech, I'm guessing he's merely eccentric.

They both left. For a few minutes, this area was all mine. Then another older guy walked in, using a walking stick as tall as he is. Looks like the adventuresome type. Fedora, bushman's vest, army coat. White beard, and a long white ponytail down his back. I wonder if he's doing research for his next faraway trip, or perhaps recounting his various excursions for a memoir. Or maybe he's just nuts, and hence the small squares of paper he keeps pushing around the table in some random fashion...

The kicker is the young redheaded douchebag who strolled in on severe pigeon toes a half-hour ago. The kind of kid (I figure he's about 16) who wants constant attention and has no idea how friggin' annoying he actually is. Keeps sighing loudly, then shuffling papers, tapping the table, coughing...and then picks up his cell and makes a call, has a conversation at normal volume as though anyone gives a shit what his sister ate for lunch. Keeps getting up for water, walking back & forth staring intently at the rest of us, as if to ask "hey, look at me! Please!" Fuck off, kid. You're in the library. Stop drafting my quiet.