Who Can Understand It?

What’s going on? Why do people do the things they do? Why do I do the things I do? Why do I respond this way or that?

It seems to me, like it or not, that everyone has pieces of themselves they either can’t or won’t share with another human being. Even if you want to, when you’re willing to, there will be things you can’t share, because you don’t even know what’s going on yourself. Some things are unknowable. And these “unknowables” are what often lead us to the water, or the poison, we can choose to drink or leave behind.

Some people want to be “transparent” about their lives. They feel it’s false or fake in some way to hold anything back. But even if you managed, somehow, to totally reveal what you believe to be the “truth” of who you are, you would still be a mystery because you can’t even know yourself completely. How is anyone else going to know you that fully?

Don’t get me wrong. It’s worth trying, at least with some people. But it is futile in many ways and I think we need to admit that up front. We’re all just the tips of icebergs. There is a lot going on below the surface, and even a person who is amazingly dedicated to the art of self awareness and self revelation can be, I should say, “will be,” blind to their own motives and at least some of the realities that cause them to feel and eventually do what they do.

We feel things and then think things, and finally do things, because we have been convinced by some event in the past to respond that way. Sometimes, even long after the event itself is forgotten, the reaction lives on. We have been trained by experiences to respond, and our responses can tell us a lot about what’s going on underneath. But it’s like putting together a puzzle with missing and messed up pieces.

I guess you could say I believe in at least some aspects of behavioral psychology. But doesn’t it just make sense? In fact, I think it’s biblical.

Jeremiah 17:9 The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?

To change this reality, to “understand” your heart, you would have to remember everything you ever did, every thing that ever happened to you, and also be able to measure and calculate a proper emotional response to all that information on the fly as you move through the day.

Let me know how that works out.

You can’t always “choose” your emotional responses to things, but you can “choose” what to do with it. Where do you let it take you? What do you do as a result? A lot of people want to believe they have no control, or responsibility, for what they choose to do, because they don’t always have control over the emotional responses that lead them to that action. But you can always choose. You are not a cyborg, an automaton, a robot, or a thoughtless animal. You are not. You are a human being.

What you, and I, actually do each day, each moment, is the product of your decisions. And decisions have consequences.

© LW Publishing 2011

Simple

I want everything to be simple, but almost nothing is. Perhaps nothing is. It’s hard to say.

I have doubts about simplicity. Complexity rules, to the point of being confused with chaos, which is, I believe, an illusion. The concept of chaos is just a clever way of saying, “I can’t figure this out. I don’t know how this works. This is too complicated. I can’t keep track of the variables.” To which I say, “Big surprise there.”

But I get why we’re attracted to the concept of chaos. It kind of gets us off the hook. It’s a rationale for being comfortable with our limitations.

But life certainly feels like chaos a lot of the time.

People say, “I’m a simple person.” But they aren’t. They like to think they are, especially when they don’t want to deal with the complications. We want to be simple so we won’t have to expend the energy. We get too tired or too lazy or too disinterested to keep track of the calculations. Or they’re just beyond us. So we over simplify, you know, pretty much everything.

It’s a survival thing.

But complexity finds us: when morality won’t let us go, when problems rise up that we can’t solve with trite platitudes, when the doctors says, “I need you to come back in for some more tests.” When the simple answers don’t offer any solace.

Let me tell you: there’s nothing simple about life. And certainly not death or dying. Or human beings. God help us, the things we can do if we aren’t held back by something better than ourselves. The complexities of evil and the human heart are uncountable, unknowable. At least by us. Our hearts can be very dark. Caves. Black holes. Deny it all you want.

But it’s not all darkness, is it? What about love? Love is an amazing thing. But it’s not simple either. It’s very, very complicated. Too bright and pure to keep our eyes on for too long. Too complex to appreciate like we should. But, you give and take what you can and try to make it through the day. See a smile and smile back. Try to keep your cool when things get ugly around you. Look up at the stars and wonder. In awe. There is love in that sky.

We are fearfully and wonderfully made, planted on this little, green circle of soil and stone and water. A world so stunningly complex it leaves us without enough adjectives to adequately describe it. On top of that, we are conscious. We think, because we are. We are alive, floating in an immense, unfathomable universe. Space and time and matter, bound together to form all that is, yet like a grain of sand in the hand of God.

But there is a mark on the map of the universe. You are here. Breathe.

© LW Publishing 2011

Antsy

 The dictionary defines “antsy” as: Restless. Fidgety.

Etc.

This word, antsy, is how I feel a lot of the time. I feel antsy right now as I am typing this. I have a tendency toward antsiness. (And, yes, “antsiness” is a real word. Though I'm certainly not above making up words.)

I started wondering if the word means what it sounds like. What it feels like. It kind of feels like ants crawling on you. And, according to some online stuff, it does. It’s rooted in the phrase, “Ants in the pants.” Which people used to say about kids who couldn’t sit still.

I think there’s a game called Ants in the Pants. I remember playing it. I think our kids had it for a while years back.

Why do I feel so antsy all the time? I don’t know. Maybe I drink too much coffee. But, in fact, I feel more antsy when I have less coffee. Coffee settles me down. So maybe it’s caffeine withdrawal? I don’t think so. But you never know. And I don’t really care.

I actually get a lot done when I’m antsy. It makes me feel like I need to get things done. So I do.

Antsy = productive.

But I think it would be nice to be, you know, totally relaxed and calm. At least now and then. But I don’t feel that way very often. Hardly ever, to be honest.

I’m at peace. But I’m not relaxed. I’m antsy.


Peace to you.

© LW Publishing 2011

Overwhelmed

Everyday this past week, I’d get up and tell myself that I would post something here.

Shows you what I know.

I have been feeling kind of overwhelmed lately. Can’t get things done. Can’t concentrate very well. And I hate feeling this way.

I wrote a song called “Overwhelmed” a while back about being overwhelmed by the glory and beauty of God. That song was a bit of a response to feeling overwhelmed by lesser things and recognizing my need to be focused on the Creator.

Stuff just piles up. Too many projects and tasks and plans. All good and important. Everything seems important.

And people have very real needs and troubles. I feel so much sorrow and pain for the hurting people God has in my life. I want to take them and hold them tight until it starts to feel awkward. Not to feel awkward, but simply so that I’ll know I’ve held them long enough. But I realize that they need to know God is holding them much more. That’s what I want to communicate to them.

To you.


Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2011

Flat

I haven’t had much to laugh at lately. I’m not down or depressed, but everything has been kind of flat.

I’ve done some work with bipolar people in the past, and some of them have really hungered for some flat emotions. Most of the time they were either going through the roof or the floor. But then, after getting on some decent meds and leveling out, it's common for them to start missing the strong emotions they had before. As a result, they're tempted to go off their meds, which leads them back into the vicious up and down cycles.

But I understand the conflict. I don’t much like feeling flat all the time. After a while, it's like you’re just floating along, pushed by whatever currents happen to be around you.

It’s also not a very good frame of mind for creativity. Most good art arises out of strong emotion, one way or another, so being “even keeled,” as they say, is kind of an enemy of the creative. At least according to most of the people I’ve talked to.

Some creative people appear to be even keeled, and I think the reason why is that they work out their emotions through their art and craft. If they didn’t have an outlet, many of them would probably have to be institutionalized.

But, whatever. I can’t say I’m feeling particularly strong about it either way. Which makes sense because I’m feeling flat.

Flat as a pancake.
Flat as the bread on a falafel.
Flat as a cat on a hot tin roof.

Sorry. Just trying to be creative. See how bad it is?


Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2011

Tired

 Do you ever get so emotionally worn out that you start shutting down? My wife told me I looked tired last night.

Sometimes I get very tired. Both physically and emotionally. I reach a point where I don’t have anything left to feel. I need to feel sorrow and empathy for those who are hurting. I need to feel angry about injustice. I need to feel hopeful about the future.

But I’m tired and I don’t feel.

It’s like I run out of feeling. I get overwhelmed with all the demands and expectations and go numb. I wish I had a greater capacity for emotion, a deeper well, but I don’t. And, when I get to that point of emptiness, I’m like dried up leaves rolling down the street in the wind. I want to connect, I want to empathize, but when I’m burned out of feelings, nothing rises to the surface. It’s like this bit from a Jackson Browne song:

It’s like a song I can hear
Playing right in my ear
That I can’t sing
I can’t help listening

And then I feel guilty. People get mad at me sometimes because I’m not always “there” for them like they want me to be. Some have gotten very, very mad. They had no idea what I was going through, and some of them wouldn’t have cared if they did know. They certainly never asked. They were going through their own pain, or loss, and I didn’t respond like they wanted me to, so they condemned me and strapped me to the whipping post. But I don’t hold it against them. I understand.

Sometimes I wish life was a little more like a TV show. A situation comedy. You know, where everything that happens is happening because of all the half heard conversations and assumptions everyone is making about everyone else. Joanie overhears the last sentence of something Chachi is saying to the Fonz and assumes he’s breaking up with her, so she talks to Ritchie, who then goes to the Fonz and yells at him for interfering, which is what Ritchie is doing, not the Fonz. Three’s Company did this for every show they did. Blah blah blah.

In the sitcoms, they always realize in the end how they have gotten it wrong, and they smile and laugh and the camera freeze frames on the big laugh. Credits role.

Life is so NOT a sitcom.

 Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2011

The Prisoner

The prisoner looked at the judge and asked, “Do you ever feel judged?”

The Judge gazed back at him with a blank look. It was clear he believed he was looking at a fool, but the prisoner continued because no one stopped him. He said, “I know I feel judged. Not always, but often. Not by everyone, but by some. And they have this – I don’t know – this power, this influence.”

The Judge was shuffling his papers together. His mind was already somewhere else.

“I know, I’m probably just paranoid,” said the prisoner, “but I feel like people are deciding whether or not I’m worth their time or effort or attention, simply trying to decide if there’s a better deal than me and what I have to offer. Always looking for an out.”

The Bailiff gave the prisoner a look that implied he was pushing his luck. But the prisoner kept talking, exposing his heart, he said, “When I stop to think about the number of people who have walked away from me over the years, throughout my life, with no explanation or rationale given, and no concern whatsoever for how I might perceive the abandonment, what am I supposed to think? Should I chase everyone down to prove my love and concern? I’m not the one who walked away. If I did something wrong they should tell me so I can change. If I didn’t do anything wrong, why are they gone?”

“Maybe you are just being paranoid,” said the Bailiff. “Why do you think this is about you?” The Judge looked at the bailiff, clearly annoyed that he was keeping this thing going.

The prisoner thought about it for a moment and said, “Well. If people were walking away from me for reasons that have nothing to do with me, surely they would respect me enough – care for me just slightly enough – to talk to me about what they’re going through and how I shouldn’t take it personally? Surely?”

The Judge had listened in for a moment, more out of curiosity than anything. He coughed, clearing his throat. He raised his eyebrows as if he might say something, but then he seemed to change his mind and his eyes drifted to the walls, the ceiling: that look of obvious boredom.

The prisoner wouldn’t admit it, but he was hoping for some kind of response from the Judge. He was looking for some answers. So he kept pouring it out, unsure of where he was going with all of it. He spoke in a rush, almost choking on the words as he said them. “Or maybe it’s just none of my business, right? I mean, for years you pour yourself into people, loving them, what business is it of mine if they walk away? Who am I to ask for explanations? Who am I to expect anything?”

His eyes filled with tears as they began to dart back and forth, as if looking for an escape. He bowed his head, ashamed. “It’s clear, as far as they’re concerned, I’m insignificant.”

“Is that how you feel?” asked the Bailiff. “Insignificant?”

The prisoner was lost in his own thoughts. Lost in his pain. He was staring at the floor now, but not seeing it. He was seeing in his mind’s eye the faces of those who had left him standing alone in this courtroom. His voice began to reveal his weariness, but he went on. “On the extremely rare occasion when someone explains why they think I’m a shmuck and they can do better without me, the expectation is clear: I should smile and take my lumps. Shut up and listen. I deserve whatever they say and do because I have failed them. I have been judged and found unfit.”

The prisoner did not realize the Judge had already left the room. The Bailiff said, “Well. You can go now.”

Looking up, confused, the prisoner said. “You mean I’m free?”

The Bailiff said, “I didn’t say that. But you can go.” Then he left too. Unceremoniously.

The prisoner stood there, lost in thought, not sure what to do. He was immobilized by indecision and pain. The silence of the courtroom was deafening. It was a weight. He was certain: No one cared if he stayed. No one cared if he left.

Not really.




© LW Publishing 2010