Nowhere Else But Here

 
In recent months, I've been preparing for residency interviews, thinking about questions I'd likely be asked and those I should ask of programs. One question sure to come up is, Why do you want to be a psychiatrist rather than some other kind of doctor? I've thought a lot about this, especially in light of third and fourth year rotations, the medical school version of a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop (or any other, since I've discovered we don't have B-R in Maine) where you get to sample the flavors before deciding to buy.

Prior to rotations, my heart was set on psychiatry. I'd worked and trained in the field, coauthored a book related to a psychiatric sub-field, and truly loved every minute of it. My background set the stage to do well in residency; why do anything else? 

The trouble was, it was like being raised on chocolate ice cream (not a bad thing, by the way) and considering it my favorite. Never having tried any other flavor, how could I be so sure? Maybe it was just familiarity. Medical students often find their plans for residency change after third and fourth year rotations for that very reason. 

In order to deal with the matter fairly, I decided to approach rotations with the intent of evaluating them on their individual merits. If I still loved psychiatry best, by keeping an open mind I'd learn more and be better able to make an informed choice, come Match time. 

The outcome was surprising. I liked surgery, as do many psychiatrists, and I encountered nearly as many surgeons who'd seriously considered entering psychiatry. Why this was true and whether there's a connection between surgery and psychiatry, is unclear. Maybe that would be a good topic for a psychiatric residency research project? 

So, that was surgery. Being involved in delivering babies was wonderful and pediatrics was every bit as enjoyable as I expected it to be. Rural family practice was a warm, nurturing experience and emergency medicine was hard work and a ton of fun. A fourth year sub-internship in internal medicine showed me how much I had yet to learn and at the same time, gave me a boost of confidence about beginning residency. They were all great in their own ways, but eventually you have to make a decision. You can only sample so many flavors before the person behind the counter gets impatient.

What do you want to spend the rest of your life doing? I asked myself. This is not a casual question. No one knows how long "the rest of your life" is going to last. Could and hopefully will be a long, long, long, long time, but none of us is born with a warranty. For me, the various considerations boiled down to a second, more important question, Where have you been the happiest?

Coming up with an answer wasn't as easy as you might think. Never having had children, obstetrics and pediatrics teetered close to the front burner. But obstetrics entailed short-term relationships with patients and my interest in pediatrics was mainly directed toward child/adolescent psychiatry. Reflecting on my experiences, there was only one rotation where it was impossible to contain my enthusiasm about getting to the hospital every morning. It was the same one that made it ridiculously easy to ignore the clock at the end of my shift and the only one I had no reservations building a life around. Turns out, "chocolate" really was my favorite flavor, after all.

A few years ago, after a long day at the hospital in Denver, I took the dogs out and looked up at the stars. It was a chilly fall evening and after finishing their business, I'm sure they were both wondering why we didn't rush back inside to get warm. It had been a good day and at the moment I was caught up in the sudden awareness I was better at psychiatry than I'd ever been at anything else. What I mean is, I worked harder, felt like a better person, was more fulfilled, and more effective. More than anything, I was happy, truly and deeply happy, from the top of my head all the way down to the holes in the heals of my socks. That feeling has never gone away, it's just gotten stronger.

There are a lot of reasons to love something and I don't fault anyone for not loving psychiatry, though I freely admit when someone says they don't like chocolate ice cream, that does give me pause. Continuing to love it, after third and fourth year rotations, probably makes me a hopeless case, which is okay because I'm a happy one. And for me, happy like this is found nowhere else but here.  

 (Creative Commons image "Happy" by Rickydavid via Flickr)

The Psychology of Tailgating: Part Two

 
Some time back I wrote a post about tailgating that included the lyrics to a song I'd written while still in Colorado. It came about one afternoon while trying to deal humorously with a BMW whose driver apparently decided my late father's beautiful '88 Cadillac was so fascinating he had to get as close as he could. My car was naturally flattered, but at 65 miles an hour, the attention wasn't exactly welcome.

Later on, I wondered about him, what motivated his behavior, was he thinking at all or was his mind far away on a beach? Why are some drivers unwilling to keep a reasonable distance? If they want to go faster, why not take the option to pass, especially if the dashed white line clearly says, "Go for it"? I think the same questions may be on the minds of those who've graciously read the first post and I'd like to offer a follow-up that errs less on the side of levity.

There are a lot of factors involved, I'm sure. A driver's attention is drawn away by a cell call as their foot depresses the accelerator proportionate to the intensity of the conversation. This is why you don't want to talk to your ex while the car is moving; tempers flare. Some drivers have psychiatric disorders that make it difficult to manage emotions, particularly under stress and driving can be stressful. Anyone who's ever been late for work knows there are times it's just hard to keep your emotions in check. Before you know it, you've forgotten other people have concerns besides yours and you're doing to them what you hate to have done to you. We're all human, every one of us.

But there's another issue I've observed, or think I've observed, since it reflects an attitude or personality trait and therefore can only be inferred. Some drivers behave as though their vehicle is a symbol of superiority and owning the road is their right and privilege. The presence of another car ahead of them sets off an intriguing cognitive process. If the car appears of comparable value to theirs, they are less likely to tailgate. Instead, they'll keep a respectful distance before accelerating around it. They'll glance at the other driver for recognition, nod and drive on. Strangers and clearly social equals passing like ships in the night. A car of lesser value or vintage, however, represents an imposition their self-importance won't tolerate. 

Now, why is that? Well, the presence of a lesser vehicle in front of them can be understood as triggering feelings related to shame. Not in the way we normally think of it, i.e. being embarrassed or ashamed because of something we've said or done. This is shame in the sense of feeling "less than," of being inferior. This experience may seem minor to you and me, but it's anything but minor to those who've oriented their entire lives around the idea they're deserving of preferential treatment. If you've been whispering to yourself the word, "narcissism," by the way, you get an A+.

Obviously, I don't think everyone who tailgates is narcissistic, but the behavior of some drivers leads me to think it's not uncommon. Consider how narcissistic individuals tend to be exquisitely sensitive to anything suggesting they aren't naturally superior to everyone else. We imagine them possessing the biggest house, newest car, and the most attractive of spouses. The reality is more diverse, though narcissism, generally, is characterized by almost a passion for control and a strong sense of entitlement. To the narcissist, our car constitutes a threat to their self-esteem; it's taking up space that rightly belongs to them. Finally racing past is their way of reminding us of the fact.

It takes very little to set off narcissistic rage, sometimes almost nothing at all. The thing to remember is, on the road or in daily life, it really is all about them, in the sense you aren't to blame for their misbehavior. You aren't inferior and they aren't superior. Accelerating dangerously or giving them the middle finger salute, only puts you at risk because your emotions have taken over your better judgment. They probably wouldn't get the point anyway. As easy as it is to become angry, it's far healthier to switch lanes or pull off the road briefly -- literally and metaphorically -- when it's safe to do so. No one's narcissism is worth an accident, or worse, becoming a statistic.   

(Creative Commons image by Eleventh Earl of Mar via Flickr)

Doctors and Spirituality: Nothing is Etched in Stone

On the premise one agrees spirituality is important to medicine, as I argued in yesterday's post, that's only where the story begins. There are even more questions to be raised about its management in the clinical setting. For example, who is best qualified to inquire about spirituality and, besides, isn't it an end-of-life issue? What if a patient asks their physician to pray with them and s/he is an atheist? These are real concerns and as a minister on the cusp of medical residency, I'd like to offer a perspective.  

Customarily, religious or spiritual preference is noted in the intake interview and becomes part of a patient's chart. Whoever does the intake should ask, at least generically, about the significance of religion, faith, or spirituality. During times of stress, changes of life, or when treatment decisions can be affected by religious beliefs, it's especially appropriate for the physician to broach the subject. When patients come to the clinic, they anticipate seeing a doctor they know and have come to rely on. The doctor-patient relationship provides an ideal basis for talking about what health or illness means to them, personally. As I define it, such conversations reflect "spirituality" in its most basic sense.  

Naturally, you'd assume spirituality to be an end-of-life concern but it surfaces at other times as well. For instance, couples who have been relatively uninterested in religion often express a desire to reconnect with family religious traditions when a newborn enters the picture. As a first-time pastor, I discovered young children in the home was associated with parents attending church regularly. Family atmosphere, the potential for children to learn moral principles, and social contact with other parents were important factors in the decision to become involved. Midlife is another time when spirituality may take on new significance. The point to remember is, spirituality and relating -- intrapersonally and interpersonally -- go hand in hand, and most of us are best at both while we're still breathing.

The question of qualifications is one that has far less importance for spirituality than the practice of medicine. Doctors are accustomed to referring patients when a specialist would be better qualified to be of help. Spirituality, however, doesn't require technical expertise to be addressed meaningfully. Patients don't expect their physician to be a theologian. What they expect is consideration, respect, and empathy. If we can't provide these qualities, we've got far bigger fish to fry than whether we can explain why bad things happen to good people. And for the record, even ministerial folk have a hard time with that one, if they're honest about it. As long as we stay in touch with our humanity, we've got all the qualifications we'll ever need.

Well, then, what about physicians counseling with integrity when their own convictions concerning spirituality are at odds with patients'? While statistics indicate physicians who are fairly comfortable bringing up spirituality tend to be persons of faith, there's absolutely no reason why this should be considered necessary or even advantageous. For one thing, it's not about what we as physicians believe or disbelieve, anyway. For another, there are a number of potential points of disagreement with patients, including music, politics, caffeine or decaf, none of which require us to alter our convictions to be medically effective. In any case, introducing spirituality into the conversation is never an occasion for us to persuade, convert, or pontificate.

Admittedly, possessing a spiritual orientation may seem helpful, but it can also create problems. The innocent presumption that you know what a patient is talking about since you're able to identify with their experience may result in failing to ask follow-up questions. Conversely, patients may withhold information believing a common experience tells you all you need to know. In situations like these, having no spiritual orientation or one that differs from your patient can be an advantage because it requires us to explain ourselves rather than err by relying on assumptions.

Finally, in the matter of praying with patients, I'm reminded of a wonderful line from the film, Oh, God (1975). John Denver's character asks God (George Burns) if they might just talk now and then, to which God says, "You talk, I'll listen." If a patient should ask their doctor to pray with them, whether or not they are persons of faith, offering to listen reverently while the patient prays is spot on. If they should ask you, as their doctor, to pray on their behalf, there is no harm in gently explaining your convictions should they differ from your patients'. By telling the truth you maintain your integrity and confirm your trustworthiness. Furthermore, your honesty tells your patient that you value them too much as persons to pretend to be someone other than who you are. The result could very well be a much stronger bond between you.

Admittedly, in this essay I haven't gone anywhere near the truly difficult and painful spiritual/ethical issues of blood transfusions and Jehovah's Witnesses, abortion, or faith-based objections to teenage birth control and HPV vaccination. My interest has been on what you might call "bread and butter" spiritual concerns, but demonstrating respect, empathy, and truthfulness is essential in any situation involving religion or spirituality. We struggle, do our best, make mistakes, fall down and get back up, mindful that where spirituality is concerned, nothing is etched in stone. 


(Creative Commons image by john-norris via Flickr)

Why is Spirituality Important to Medicine?

 
That's a good question. Why is it? Well, to try and formulate what I hope will be an equally good answer, we should begin by defining our terms, though I'll tell you right off, precise definitions are elusive. "Spirituality" can suggest devotion to a particular religious tradition, but often as not, it refers to something that has little or nothing to do with organized religion. It may signify a feeling of relatedness to something and/or someone greater than ourselves or express the way a person conceives of their life unfolding. It may describe a personal sense of meaning and purpose or the conviction there is no purpose, that life is a series of random events possessing no more significance or predictability than the numbers drawn in the lottery. "Spirituality" literally can mean almost anything; it all depends on how we use the word.

Sigmund Freud called religion and by extension, spirituality, a "universal obsessive neurosis," inferring it was associated with psychological ill-health. His most famous student, C.G. Jung, disagreed and considered spirituality essential to a patient's well-being. Individuation -- the process of achieving fully conscious self-realization -- could be nurtured by a spiritual orientation as well as psychotherapy. But instead of relying on the doctor and patient relationship, spirituality activates archetypal images residing in the unconscious that enable us to feel grounded and genuinely connected with the deepest aspects of ourselves, a process some call "soul work." Unlike Freud, it wasn't the practice of spirituality that troubled Jung; it was its neglect that created problems requiring psychiatric help.
 
Jung gave considerable attention to Christian images and theology in the development of Depth Psychology, but he also drew on other forms of spiritual expression, including Hinduism, Islam, and the study of alchemy. In the I Ching, for instance, Jung discovered a useful instrument for revealing his own unconscious motivations. He regarded the symbols that recur throughout the I Ching, religion and mysticism as comprehensible images of a mature and fully integrated self.

If we think of spirituality, therefore, as the expression of a powerful desire or need that, when adequately addressed, leads to a feeling of wholeness, we can begin to let go the notion that spirituality must be opposed to science and reason. True, spirituality is irrational in the sense that it's an intuitive process, but irrational doesn't equate with anti-rational. It simply means spirituality "knows" in a way that sidesteps reason or logic. We call this relying on "flashes of insight."

You could say, intuition operates like saltatory conduction in the brain and spinal cord. Some nerves, particularly the longest ones, are wound about with a substance called myelin, making them look like a string of hotdogs placed end to end. An electrical signal travels along a nerve by leaping between the spaces between one "bun" and the next until it reaches its target. This type of signaling is much faster than the stepwise transmission employed by nerves that don't require "rapid transit" for communication. Similar cognitive leaps characterize intuition, though we may have to retrace our steps in order to explain to others how we "arrived at the station," so to speak.

Quaker philosopher Elton Trueblood described post-WW II America as "the cut flower generation," and identified its critical existential problem as disconnection from its psycho-spiritual roots. Cut flowers look very nice in a vase, but they don't survive very long that way. Spirituality can be understood as an intuitive effort to find one's place in the universe, to put down roots and establish a sense of belonging.  

Although most people probably think about seeing a doctor or psychiatrist when they feel ill or they've got a problem, medicine is moving toward a model that promotes health and wellness. You take your car to the mechanic for regular maintenance, why wait until you're sick to see your physician about health maintenance? If your doctor is an osteopathic physician or psychiatrist, attending to the mind-body-spirit triad lies at the heart of their medical philosophy. "Spirit," like "spirituality," can mean many things, but as physicians, recognizing and cooperating with its presence means we wish to promote wholeness, a type of wellness that touches a patient through and through, that improves their quality of life and the lives of those around them. 

(Creative Commons image by NA dir via Flickr)

Behind the Scenes with Dr. Bob Z and John Livingstone

 
I love a good backstory. More than deleted scenes, it tells the tale behind the scenes, the storyline that may or may not find its way into print or onto film. Backstory means getting a glimpse of the life J.K. Rowling imagined, but didn't fully reveal, for Harry Potter between his final duel with Voldemort and the end of the story, 17 years later. Similarly, I've been taking a long look at the conversation between Dr. Bob Z. and Jessie's father, John Livingstone, on the occasion of John's birthday, in Pink Hats 20: Untarnished and In Uncharted Territory, and I'd like to tell a bit of their backstory.

Let's start with the basics of what we already know about them. John has been widowed and raised three children, putting them through medical and veterinary school, on his own. At 72, he operates a full-time, large-animal veterinary clinic along with his son and serves part-time as an unpaid pastoral minister in his late wife's church. Bob is 62, divorced, and his father is dead. A former opthalmologist, he eventually changed direction, completed a second residency in pediatrics, and has a busy practice in Portland. This isn't your typical confab between a young man starting out and an older, established parent of the bride-to-be. Our characters are grown men who have experienced some of the worst and best life has to offer.

If Bob were thirty years younger we'd naturally expect their exchange to have a somewhat different tone as well as focus. Bob would nervously do his best to speak convincingly of his love for Jessie and describe his prospects for the future. John would patiently offer advice about life, marriage, and what he himself has learned about being a good son-in-law. But that's not the case here and the conversation has to ratchet up several notches to take this into account. Bob is a mature man and he and John are more likely to relate as peers, a subject that comes up again in A Different Drummer.  

The pace of the conversation is also different. Both are direct, get to the point, no nonsense New Englanders. John has known marriage was on his daughter's mind since visiting with Jessie several weeks earlier (Life is too Short for Playing it Safe), so he's had time to do some thinking. It would make sense for him to have talked it over with her siblings, too. We can presume he's been observing Bob throughout the festivities, noting how he, Jessie, and the rest of the family interact, and no doubt, he's formed some impressions. By the time the two of them are sitting on the front porch, I think it's safe to say, he's already got a pretty good idea whether he's going to bless their relationship. What he needs to hear are the reasons for doing so in Bob's own words.

Now, unlike a younger prospective husband, Bob has clarify why he believes he should ask for Jessie's hand. I'm reminded of medical school admissions interviews and having to explain, Why do you want to undertake something of this magnitude now? It's not exactly the kind of question you're going to get if you're 22. Though John appears to casually break the ice by saying, "So, you want to marry my oldest daughter," what he's thinking is, Sooner or later Bob's going to ask, why not make it easier on us both? Bob knows he really doesn't need to ask because asking, in itself, implies a power differential that doesn't exist between peers. He wants John's blessing, however, because he understands how important her family is to Jessie. Asking, for him, is an act of love. It's undeniable proof he means it when he says, "She's always been more important to me than I was to myself." John also knows they don't need his approval -- Jessie can make her own decisions -- but Bob's desire to seek it anyway says a great deal about the kind of man he is and the kind of man she's getting. 

There is another element these men have in common, besides Jessie, that alerts us to the possibility their conversation will take us in directions we might not imagine. Both are admittedly skeptical about religion. John deals with his doubts by actively debating with his faith. Bob is more of a theologian than he gives himself credit for, but his theology is existential; it grows out of his experience of living and loving. John's is, too, but it bears the marks of conscious reflection and that enables him to help Bob make sense of, and give expression to, the deeper implications of what he's feeling and saying.

While some relationships entail one partner secretly wishing to remake the other into a romantic ideal, Bob openly wishes he was more like Jessie. He admires her as much as he loves her. He tells John that he feels as though he's being changed as a consequence of their relationship, but he's not sure how to describe it. He feels, not "young" as we'd expect, but "new and untarnished," which is much different. John interprets Bob's experience in terms of baptism -- death and resurrection -- and points out how some relationships, such as his with Jessie's mother and now theirs, can be profoundly transforming. What Bob is describing isn't simply a metaphor; it's real and observable. In essence, he says, relationships like yours don't come along every day, but when they do, there's no mistaking them. John can see the effects in his daughter and Bob can see them in himself.

I like this conversation and I hope I'm not alone. It reflects not only Bob's appreciation for Jessie and her family, but also the quality of his experience of being a son, an often neglected aspect in romantic relationships. How well we  integrate our same-sex parent into our identity as adults has an enormous impact on the kind of spouse we're capable of becoming. Bob exemplifies someone who, despite his father's absence, maintains their relationship through memory and demonstrates its influence in the way he treats those he loves. His children won't know their paternal grandfather like they'll know John, but through their father, they'll know him just the same. 

(Creative Commons image of a front porch such as the one where John and Bob have their conversation by nanetteturner via Flickr)

The Sighing Thing

"Oh, God!" he sighed, heavily. So heavily I thought he and the ancient, paint-stained,  ladder back chair he was sitting in were going to sink through the scraped and scratched wooden plank floor to the soil beneath. I waited for the thunk! -- it never came. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't sleeping. Nor was he being profane.  

"It's all right, Beggar, he's just praying," my grandmother said, overhearing him. I wondered if she knew how many times I'd heard him before. So many I'd lost count.

I looked at her and smothered a smile. Did she really believe that or was she trying to preserve my youthful innocence, the very thing my grandfather -- her husband -- had done his best to turn into good judgment, something he considered eminently more practical.  

He did the "sighing thing," as I came to think of it, mostly while sitting in the shade near our bunkhouse door. It wasn't really a bunkhouse, but we called it that, just the same. It was a detached single car garage that had never housed a car, at least in my memory. My father converted it into a saddle shop at one point and I've written about cutting firewood for his stove. Summers, it was the bunkhouse where my grandfather stayed. Those months, I've realized since, were a journey in character development.

"If you absolutely have to point a gun at someone to protect yourself or your family," he said once, "it's too late for threats. Indecision at a time like that can be deadly." He spoke from experience. Another summer night, years before, he stared down a neighbor who had the nasty habit of occasionally firing his gun in the general direction of my grandfather. "The man's crazy," he said, refusing to get dragged into something he knew he'd have to finish, "and besides, he can't shoot worth a damn." Only this particular evening, it was different. The man had shot at my father who was about my age and I was thirteen. 

Why not call the police or sheriff, I imagine you're thinking. That would have been the thing to do, if they'd had a phone. Forty miles into barely civilized northwestern Colorado, the ranch was a two or three hour drive by Model A Ford from the nearest town. There were no phones, nor were there corner stores or gas stations. I'm not even sure there was electricity. It wasn't that you took the law into your own hands, there just wasn't anyone else who could take it into theirs.   

So, father and son rode out to address the situation. Watching the scene unfold, my father was fearful, certain he was going to witness my grandfather meet out justice just as his father had fifty years earlier. In my imagination, reliving those long seconds, I see my grandfather with a look in his eye that left no doubt, as his hand strayed to the pistol at his side, that he fully intended to use it. The neighbor must have seen that look, too, because he backed down and that was the end of it.

Grandchildren are a second chance for parents to get it right. Those summers, I was my grandfather's trusty teen sidekick, Cowboy Toby to his Roy Rogers (photo). I listened, learned, and hopefully digested far more than I actually remember. I've never forgotten the "sighing thing," though, nor the day I finally asked him what it meant.

I'd really been hoping he'd tell me himself when he was good and ready. That's how things usually went between us, though I never knew from day to day where his mind would lead. But it was nearing the end of summer and he'd said nothing, so I screwed up the courage one day and asked what was he thinking about when he sighed so deeply. He was surprised I'd noticed. How could I not? 

"You live as long as I have, Beggar, you're going to make a few mistakes. Don't be afraid, everybody makes a few and so will you. Some, maybe most, don't matter, least not as much as we give them credit for. People who know you, forgive like you forgive them. Some mistakes do matter -- maybe more than they should, but that doesn't change the fact. Problem is, you either don't realize it or you're too stubborn to admit it, until it's too late. I think about those."

"So you don't make the same ones again, right?" 

"No, because I made them the first time." 

I was too young to understand regret. Sorry, wish I hadn't said or done this or that, oh yes -- plenty. Regret was something else, something -- I don't know -- bigger, something I hadn't lived long enough to become acquainted with. Something that only comes about with experience, with trying to do what you think is right even though you don't and can't know everything but you have to try anyway because it's all you can do and it's really all anyone can do. Don't worry, we all make mistakes, so will you. It's okay. My grandfather said so.

Happy Thanksgiving.


(Creative Commons image by vintagecobweb,com via Flickr)

Advising Mitt

 
I sort of feel sorry for Mitt Romney. He did what most of us have done, or I have anyway, and wished almost immediately we hadn't. Opened our mouths and watched as the unspeakable came out seemingly of its own accord. Maybe we were angry or afraid or eager to be viewed as acceptable and be embraced by others. At the time, it might have seemed innocent enough -- we thought we were in a protected environment -- and of course, we weren't, as demonstrated by the fallout we're unable to duck no matter how deep we dive into the shelter. Now, we're left, picking up the scattered remnants of our self-esteem, detritus from stepping on one of our own land mines.

Have you ever noticed how easily, on such occasions, a person  says, "But that wasn't me"? Well, if it wasn't, then who was it? It sure looked like me, it sounded like me, people say it was me. I haven't been cloned lately, so far as I know. It sure wasn't Robin Williams doing his best Beggar imitation. I "inhaled" in high school but my sensibilities have long since moved in other directions. I can't blame alcohol -- with my limited tolerance, slurred words are far more likely than misspoken ones. True, at least this way I'll never have to explain how "what made Milwaukee famous, made a loser out of me." (Thanks, Jerry Lee Lewis -- wish I'd written that line.)

So, basically, it was me, or you, or in this case, Mitt. Now, in retrospect, I'm sure he wishes he'd never said anything about the 47%, but it was caught on tape and splattered onto the news, so there's no denying it. The problem is, he's attempting to do what anyone would under similar circumstances, i.e. try to dissociate himself from the image he just created. That's normal -- we don't want people to think of us in terms of what we say or do when we wish we'd said or done something else -- and would if, please God, just this once, is it okay if we turn back the clock?

On the other hand, I sometimes wonder if a better strategy might be to simply own up and admit the truth. Instead of trying to convince us that he really is empathetic, state for the record, "Yes, I'm an elitist. I have a strong preference for associating with wealth, I don't relate well to the working class, I disapprove of welfare and those who depend on it, I'm opposed to government restrictions on business and given the opportunity, I'll lower taxes on people like me and if you want to see my tax returns, watch how fast hell freezes over."

You don't think that's going to get him elected. Well, you're probably right, I suppose it is asking a bit much. But trying to pretend he's someone he's not is even worse. The unconscious has a nasty way of making itself known and frequently does when least expected or welcomed. We all have an inner trickster who absolutely delights in making us appear foolish and the harder we try to keep her/him locked in the closet, the more determined s/he becomes to make us regret it. So, Mitt, if you still aspire to the presidency and you don't mind my unsolicited advice, admit you need to change. Trust me, it won't hurt. Okay, it will, but only your pride and most of us can use a little bit of that now and then.  


(Creative commons image, "Trickster Tales Sketch" by Amanda Schutz via Flickr)

Noticing

When the dogs and I stepped out of the house this morning, the lane was littered with oak, elm, and magnolia leaves so thick our feet (my feet, their paws) barely touched the blacktop as we walked along. It rained last night, not a gentle, soaking, spring-like shower I imagine makes the trees lift their limbs and whisper to one another, "Psst, pass the soap, will you?" This one was intermittently wind-blown and down-pouring, scattering leaves and drenching the countryside. It was the kind of rain that rinses the air clean as a whistle and whets sunlight sharp as a tack.

As we walked up the road, morning business on our minds, something unusual caught my eye. A single leaf, a tiny piece of oaken gold, hung spinning in mid-air, its stem caught in a single strand of spider web, like an arboreal ballet dancer dancing as though her moment had come and never would again. I'm reminded of the line by Mark Twain, Sing like no one's listening, love like you've never been hurt, dance like nobody's watching, and live like it's heaven on earth? That's what she was doing, drifting and swaying to music beyond my hearing. I was mesmerized.

Some people never notice the things that render life more than a matter of getting by, those side-long, fleeting instants when eternity opens a window, reaches through, and taps us on the shoulder. Sort of like what happens in the film, Babe (1995) with James Cromwell as Farmer Hoggett, a man who notices. Hoggett lives on a sheep farm in Queensland, Australia, and to his family, he seems a bit odd now and then. They're solid, ordinary people who are nevertheless, completely unaware that eternity has not only opened a window, it's climbed through the frame, unpacked its bags, and taken over the guest room.

Hogget knows something is happening. He can't explain it, neither does he bother to try; some things you try to explain and their significance gets lost in the details. He simply lets it all in and follows its lead. Presented with possibilities others would dismiss, he can't help but take them seriously,

For instance, when he notices how Pig interacts with his sheep, he allows the little guy a chance to prove himself. Hoggett sees what no one else can or will, and while he's a man of few words, his actions are as pregnant as a woman at nine months who;s about to pop. Only he doesn't just notice things, he responds to them, opening a creative space in which they can unfold at their own pace. We're often in such a hurry to find out things will turn out, perhaps because we're in doubt they will, that we forget about everything that comes before. Hoggett's efforts are ridiculed, of course, even by his family. But then comes the final scene, when the crowd that jeered goes crazy, cheering its heart out over the little pig that could.

Hoggett knew what Pig was capable of because he'd witnessed it. He noticed something unusual and instead of blowing it off as nonsense, he did what most of us are too afraid or too embarrassed to do, he gave it credence. He did the hard thing and in the end, he wasn't disappointed. It really all begins with noticing.


(Creative Commons image by Lord Mariser via Flickr)

Missing Megan Fox

I really like Megan Fox, but not necessarily for the reasons you might think, me being a guy and all. Sure, she's drop-dead gorgeous -- I'd have to be blind as a bat not to have noticed and trust me, I've noticed. But what I like about her so much is her role in the first two Transformer films. No, I'm not talking about the cutoff jean shorts she wears in both, though I noticed them as well. I mean her character.

Megan (if she's reading this, I hope she doesn't mind the familiarity) plays Mikaela Banes, a pretty young woman with a past. Her father has a prison record for grand theft auto and she, a juvenile record for having been his presumed accomplice. She has another liability, however, and that's her beauty and sex appeal. Like far too many women, she has a history of being regarded as a trophy.

In the first film, her boyfriend is a muscular, good-looking, football player who treats her like a possession once too often. She knows there's something wrong with the guys she's chosen to date, she doesn't like the pattern, and she has sufficient inner strength to do something about it. As she's walking home, along comes the film's hero, Sam Witwicky. Sam is everything the other guys could never be: overtly insecure, honest, and down deep, utterly courageous.

In the first installment of the trilogy, Mikaela is not only a match for Sam, in some ways she is even more heroic. For instance, when they're attacked by a mini-decepticon, she grabs a power saw and goes to work, rescuing him. During the final battle against Megatron, she is determined to save Bumble Bee by hooking him up to a tow truck and then drives it backwards down a wreckage-strewn street while he shoots at the bad guys. I love that scene.

In Revenge of the Fallen, her character is a little more traditional and her biggest challenge seems to involve convincing Sam to tell her that he loves her. Sam, how crazy do you have to be to have someone like her around and dither about saying, "I love you?" Get a clue, buddy. Anyway, that bothered me, the fact that she wasn't permitted to be the totally gutsy chick she was in Transformers. Her character wasn't just beautiful, she was admirable.

Now we come to Dark of the Moon and there's no Megan Fox. Instead, we've got a blond babe whom Sam has decided is the love of his life. She flirts with other guys and then minimizes her behavior, she's essentially focused on the accumulation of expensive toys, and perhaps, worst of all, she has absolutely no idea what makes Sam tick. You tell me what's wrong with this picture.

If we wanted to get psychological, we'd have to ask why Sam hooked up with her in the first place. According to the story line, he and Mikaela had a fight, broke up, and rather than do what any man with a lick of sense would do, i.e. turn himself inside out to get Mikaela back, he lets her go. Sam clearly has far too much pride for his own good. It's what kept him from declaring his feelings in Revenge of the Fallen and it comes back to haunt him in Dark of the Moon. We could be Freudian and say the new girl is more like his mother, but we really don't have enough character development to go that route. We do know, however, that Mikaela and his mother are two very different kinds of women and that could explain a lot.

For whatever reasons the producers decided Megan's character wasn't meant to be a part of the last film, I miss her. I liked Mikaela's resourcefulness and willingness to take a risk. Her response to Sam's question, "Fifty years from now, when you're looking back on your life, don't you want to be able to say you had the guts to get into that car?" is one with which I, as an older medical student, can well identify. I also liked the fact that she wasn't squeaky clean. She had a past she was ashamed of but she refused to let that prevent her from something better. Her wounds made her human and more interesting. Best of all, I think, she didn't allow herself to be paralyzed by fear. She could be counted on in the clinches and was capable enough to be a participant in the action rather than a hand-wringing damsel-in-distress. Definitely the right kind of gal and why I'm missing Megan Fox.


(Image of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen via RottenTomatoes.com)

Lost in the Big Picture

There was something I started to add to yesterday's post, decided it was best to hold off, and I'm glad I did because it gave me something to write about this morning. It concerns the treatment given free will in The Adjustment Bureau. In this film, the caseworkers (see 7/30/11) tell Matt Damon's character they've taken over managing human affairs because we've botched the job whenever they've given us the opportunity to do otherwise. To justify their position, they refer to our darkest and worst times, e.g. the Holocaust in Europe during the 1930s and 40s.

Their approach is similar to the one I've heard used as an objection to theism, the idea that God is personal (may be engaged in relational terms) and more specifically, to Christianity. If an all-powerful God exists and this God is good, then how could such a being permit ______ (you fill in the blank)? The implication is we humans at least possess good intentions and if we could prevent vile things from occurring, we would. Therefore, presence of evil indicates God either does not exist or s/he is not good. If God merely lacks the power to act, s/he is not of much use and frankly, I'd agree. Most gods are too small, anyway.
 
But what if evil is a matter of opinion and the problem lies in perception? Well, to really qualify as evil and not simply as bad or inconvenient, something has to be so bad that any conceivable world would be a better one without it. Famine, pestilence, and environmental degradation strike me as good examples. Things that have the potential to bring about irreversible damage, rendering life less tenable. Evil has to be more than semantics, otherwise we're just playing word games.

Now, back to the caseworkers. They cheat because they paint our misuse of free will in broad strokes, blaming us for the Big Evils while conveniently ignoring the little ones. If they're really nudging and guiding us along to fulfill the intentions of The Plan like they say they are, why do we hurt each other so often? What about the fellow who robs a little old lady on the street or guns down an innocent bystander in a shoot out with police? I know, they said there aren't enough of them to ensure chance events don't happen once in a while, but they also said those occasions are generally insignificant. If that's true, who's minding the store the rest of the time? If they're doing the nudging and we only think we possess free will, then it seems to me we're off the hook. We've got one massive King's X when it comes to being blameworthy and they've got some serious explaining to do.
 
For me, what it comes down to is, either I'm free to be a bastard or God or the Devil make me act like one. Maybe I'm slow on the uptake, but I don't see a whole lot of other options. True, how could I know if someone else was directing my actions, particularly if I never saw or had any communication with them? I'd have to be able to stand outside myself, observe my behavior, and measure it against some relatively objective standard, to say whether or not I was acting on my own or as a puppet. And in fact, isn't that what we do when we call someone into court, compare their actions to lawful ones, and then decide innocence or guilt with whatever objectivity we can muster? Even if free will turns out to be a fiction, we have to presume it is not, if we're going to hold each other accountable for our actions.

Black and white turns interminably gray at this point because none of us are as free as we would like to be or as would like to think we are. Personal baggage, unconscious or not, influences decisions and behavior, and it's the recognition of this fact that forms the basis for mercy. Extenuating circumstances, errors in judgment, simple stupid mistakes, are part of life and perfection is a far off ideal for most of us. The caseworkers got lost in the big picture; grace is found in the pixals. Enough of them and you've got a snapshot, but you have to see them to see the whole story. I guess it takes a human to do that.


(Creative Commons image entitled "Angel" by just Luc via Flickr)

Fate, Freedom, or Both

Do you believe in fate?

Not really, I'm more of a dumb luck kind of gal.

These are the final lines spoken in Source Code (2011), a film I've heard described as a thinking person's science fiction story. "Think" is what it made me do and it's the second film in the past week to have that effect. The first was The Adjustment Bureau (2011) and both raise the question, is there really such a thing as chance?

Source Code sets up a scenario in which an event is repeated until a desired outcome is achieved, suggesting what appears as chance may be the by-product of someone or something working behind the scenes. Jake Gyllenhaal as Captain Colter Stevens, is a helicopter pilot KIA in Afghanistan, whose conscious identity has nevertheless been salvaged. Because eight minutes of neural processing remain active and accessible following physical death, a new scientific process enables uploading of Stevens' residual consciousness into the body of a passenger killed in the bombing of a commuter train bound for Chicago. His mission is to find the bomber before s/he can set off a second device downtown. Reminiscent of Bill Murray in Groundhog Day (1993), the success of Stevens' mission requires practice and he must experience his borrowed body dying several times before he can accept the reality of what's happening to him.

As a subplot, Stevens becomes involved with a young woman played by Michelle Monaghan. Unaware they are reliving their final eight minutes over and over and possessing no memory of the experience, she views the attraction between them as spontaneous. In reality, it's an outgrowth of what Stevens learns about her from each previous leap onto the train and expresses in each subsequent leap. In Source Code, what appears as chance is a matter of perception.

The Adjustment Bureau brings Matt Damon and Emily Blunt together as potential lovers by what also seems to be happy coincidence. In this film, however, they were predetermined to be together by a master Plan, composed and set in motion by an unseen character known only as The Chairman. One might expect such a Plan to be inviolable, set in stone, but from time to time, The Chairman has been known to revise it. Although earlier versions have Damon and Blunt living happily ever after, most recently, The Plan indicates "other plans" for them. Their budding romance is considered a mistake and individuals known as caseworkers, who have the duty of implementing The Plan to the letter, intervene.

According to The Adjustment Bureau, chance sometimes slips through the cracks. There are just too many people for too few caseworkers to monitor all of the time, but the effects of chance and free will in most circumstances are pretty limited. Whenever we've been allowed to try running the whole shibang, we've done very badly. The Holocaust, two world wars and the Dark Ages are proof humans lack the maturity and judgement to make choices that don't end in destruction. To prevent us from ultimately destroying the entire planet, the caseworkers have taken over, nudging us this way and that. When persuasion doesn't work, they have the ability to alter our thinking, leading us to make choices more in line with the direction The Plan intends. 

Most people, we're told, are happy enough not knowing their choices aren't free. Security and predictability come at a price and they're willing to pay without a second thought. Now and then, however, someone comes along who needs to know who's pulling the strings and why. For Damon, however, knowing, in and of itself, resolves nothing. For him, love validates the exercise of free will.

But free will is complicated. What we believe to be fully conscious intentionality is more often than not a reflection of the genetics, adaptive behaviors, thoughts, and impressions derived from family and culture, albeit individually processed, packaged, and marketed as "us." Choice is conditionally free; the conditions under which it develops influence its exercise. Those influencing Damon and Blunt include previous versions of The Plan. 

Interestingly, their meeting was prearranged. For Damon's character to achieve the destiny set forth by The Plan, he needed her as inspiration to rise out of a moment of defeat. Once she'd done as the caseworkers intended, that was to have been the end of it. Their ongoing relationship resulted from the desire of one caseworker to give free will another chance. By acting in contradiction to The Plan, he created a space in which Damon and Blunt could take their lives in their own direction. Even if it turned out to be the one chosen for them, long ago.

Is there such a thing as fate? I sometimes think so, though I'd be hard pressed to demonstrate it empirically. But my own ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and sometimes the other way around, is sufficient proof to me, that free choice hasn't completely abandoned the field. I still think it comes down to what we do with it, fate, freedom, or both. Hopefully, it's something good.


(Creative Commons image entitled "Reversible Destiny" by scarletgreen via Flickr)

Not Just a Pretty Face

"It's not easy, being green." ~ Kermit the Frog

Kermit's been my favorite Muppet ever since the opening scenes of the The Muppet Movie (1979) depicting him sitting on a log in his swamp, singing, "The Rainbow Connection." I love that song, especially the final verse.

Have you been half asleep,
and have you heard voices,
I've heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound,
that calls the young sailor?
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it;
it's something that I'm supposed to be...
Someday I'll find it, the rainbow connection,
the lovers, the dreamers, and me.

Kermit's right, it's not easy being green -- or whichever color you happen to be. I don't mean skin and I don't think he does, either. It's not easy being a frog, amphibian on the outside, singer of songs on the in. People don't readily adjust to either. A talking frog or one with a dream. Frogs are supposed to croak, or creak if they're the teensy tiny ones populating the imitation Everglades a few hundred feet from my house. There's a whole chorus of them, all on key, all on the same note, probably all saying the same thing, all at once. Yeah, that's what frogs are supposed to do.

Not sing. Not while playing a banjo, anyway.

I've felt like Kermit lately. I mean, you'd think it was the most natural thing in the world, to tell people in a psychiatric department you've been down their road before, picking up twigs and stones of this and that along the way, shoving them in your pockets like a kid collecting treasures. But it's not always, and there's a whole slew of reasons why. The last thing you want to do, ever, is create the impression you think you're past being a student. For one thing, it's not true and on top of that, even the things you do know can be and probably are, done differently and maybe better.

Another reason is, you're as unknown to them as they are to you. They're busy doing their jobs and even though that includes teaching you, it takes a while to figure out how loosely they can hold the reins. They know the individual patients you're working with and even though you may have seen similar ones before, you haven't seen these ones and only a fool ignores his guide in the wilderness.

Besides, gradual acquaintance pays dividends. Think about the last time you went out with someone who practically told you their life's story on the first date. It's really more fun if something is left to the imagination. All except, of course, the fifteen semesters they spent learning license plate decorating in San Quentin. You'd like to know about that up front.

It's kind of similar here, where allowing yourself to become known bit by bit makes things more interesting. But then comes the day when when someone discovers you and your friends wrote a book and it looks like you've been keeping secrets. You weren't really, you just wanted people to get to know you so that what you've done doesn't get in the way. So they know you're a regular guy and not just a pretty face.

No foolin'.


(Creative Commons image of Kermit by kewgee via Flickr)

Omega Thinking Revisited

A little over a year ago, I wrote a post entitled, Omega Thinking, describing my journey to medical school and the changes that have taken place in my life along the way. Since then, I've shared this concept with a number of people, some older, some younger, and all of them have found it a meaningful explanation of experiences they've had, and I've been encouraged to believe I may be on to something.

Let me give you a brief overview to get us all on the same page. In the photo you'll notice two Greek letters, alpha on the left, and omega on the right. While nobody's life proceeds in a straight line, for the sake of simplicity, let's say the left leg of the omega represents mine as a young man. At some point, I'm guessing about age 25, I took a left turn. I didn't realize what I was doing at the time nor did I make the turn intentionally. It just happened, like a lot of things.

For the next twenty or so years, I wandered, for lack of a better term, around the loop, attending graduate school, running a business, going through life trying to figure our where I fit in, if I did at all. Exactly when I took the second left, this time onto the right leg of the omega, is also uncertain. I think it was 1998, the year my mother died, my father was diagnosed with pre-leukemia, and I began premedical studies. In depth psychology, "left" symbolizes the unconscious and I've come to interpret the first left turn as a sidestep ultimately leading to self-discovery. The second left integrated the person I had been with the one I was becoming, and perhaps, ought to have been all along. This sounds easy; in reality, it was far from, though the details will only muddy the water, so we'll leave them out at the moment.

The complicating factor in all of this is the arrangement of the legs of the omega. Notice the point at which they are nearest one another. When someone undertakes a process like the one I'm describing, once they've come full circle, they're going to be more like the person they were when they started out. Yes, they're older, and hopefully, more mature, but that doesn't change the fact that they're closer to the starting line than the end of the race. It seems to me, for reasons only the unconscious knows and each of us has to fetter out, some of us need time in the loop in order to truly run our race to the best of our ability. Or to find out which one is our race to begin with.

In either case, once a person has exited the loop, they may find themselves out of step with members of their age-group generation in terms of interests and life tasks. While you were "in the loop," those who weren't, moved on ahead, and now, in a very real sense, your generation is not the one you were born into, but one you dropped into when you stepped out of the loop. Sounds like a time warp, doesn't it? But that's how people I've talked with describe it.

It can be genuinely confusing, when you find yourself in a position like this, and for most of the past year, I've wondered if there was a corollary to Omega Thinking that might verify I was on the right track. Something more than the validation I'd received from others who liked the idea. This week, I found what I was looking for. It surfaced while chatting with someone in recovery from alcohol dependence. The nature of recovery forces a person to confront issues that have been hidden for years, blunted by their drug of choice. Doing so can be difficult, painful, and yet, have the effect of creating the feeling that one is alive for the first time. Once you dare draw the curtains wide, there's no telling what you'll see. Although our histories were different, the pattern we followed was extraordinarily similar.

Was my initial left turn a mistake? Was it like this man's first drink as a teenager that made him feel like an adult and kept him drinking for thirty years? I'm inclined to say it wasn't because of the value I've come to place on the things I've learned and the relationships I've established along the way. The unconscious leads us where we need to go, even when we think we're in charge. I certainly thought I knew what I was doing at 25. If there was a mistake involved, it stemmed from trusting an omniscience I never possessed and relying on judgment that was untested and unproven.

I'm not about to say I'm older and wiser, now. Older, yes. Wiser is still ahead, somewhere down the road, or at least I hope so. But even the "older" piece of it is relative. It helps, having a grey hair or a wrinkle here and there, when trying to convince a patient to take better care of themselves. But I'm still a student -- 25 or 50 plus, it doesn't matter -- and I must come across as one because some of my patients treat me as though I've got a lot to learn. And they're absolutely right, I do. What I've learned already, by sidestepping into the omega loop, is how to pay closer attention to what life has to teach.(Creative Commons image by Leo Reynolds via Flickr)

Losing the Fear of Ghosts

I feel ghostly unreal until I become somebody else again on the screen.~ Peter Sellers

We're taught in schools of psychology, medicine, and ministry that empathy entails using elements from our own lives to enable us to identify with persons in distress. If Sellers had been talking about losing himself in a character, I could try relate by recalling the months my life that revolved around writing and editing a book with a best friend. When I wasn't doing either one, I thought, and sometimes dreamed, about them.

But that isn't what he said. He described his life off-screen as ghost-like in comparison to how he felt inhabiting a character. He didn't call it "fictitious," but I wonder if that doesn't apply. It's as though he was saying, I am what has been written and I speak when given words. Not mine, but those of another, and I utter them with passion, humor, and persuasion. Still, I have none of my own, for spirits speak not.

I don't think this represents the typical actor's experience, though not being one, I can only rely on what I've seen and been told by those who are. Nevertheless, most regard the roles they play as interludes of fantasy punctuated by a return to real life. For Sellers, it was the other way around. There was a substance lacking in "Peter Sellers" that he found more readily in Inspector Clouseau or Dr. Strangelove.

I'm not trying to psychoanalyze the man because, for one thing, he's not around to defend himself. But what he said about himself reminds me of what I've observed in narcissistic persons who are between partners. They're less solid, for want of a better term, and certainly less self-assured then when they have a consistent source of admiration. In the absence of someone to mirror or reflect the image of a self -- any self at all -- back to them, they seem anemic, kind of like a vampire on a diet of iron-poor blood.

I think this helps explain why we see a lot of depression, especially in older narcissists who've failed to establish meaningful and long-term relationships. If there's little or no genuine "person-ness" present, it stands to reason that interpersonal dry spells are going to feel rather bleak. It also helps explain why partners often do better when these relationships dissolve. Since they actually possess the resources narcissists value but cannot provide for themselves, partners can function independently; they don't need the affirmation provided by constant mirroring to be real. Perhaps, that's what Sellers was driving at. When filming was over and the cast had gone home, there was no one left to remind him who he was.
(Collective Commons image of "Ghosts of Lake Hume 2" by heritagefutures via Flickr)

An Unlived Potential

I've been reflecting on yesterday's post about the film Avatar and others like it, where the lead character encounters a way of life with which they have little in common and yet, it is in this context they are enabled to grow to mature personhood. One thing that occurs to me is, often as not, these characters also appear out of step with their own world. They try to fit in but something inhibits their doing so fully. Maybe it's physical, maybe it's psychological, but one way or another they've arrived at a point where they're ready for something new.

Not new in the sense one is bored with the same old dull routine -- it's not like that. It's a qualitative newness that alters perceptions and challenges preconceptions. Change is in the air and they're ready to inhale it deeply. You can't think your way into a place like this; it's instinctive and either you're there or you're not. It comes about less by expectancy than by happenstance, and then reveals itself in a manner that suggests it's just been standing in the wings, waiting for us to make room for it onstage.

Another thing I've noticed is, there is always a community involved that views the lead character differently from the way they've viewed themselves. For instance, in Avatar, Sulley identifies himself as having been a "warrior" among the sky-people, and the Na'vi inform him this does not automatically qualify him to be one in their society. It's kind of like coming to medical school with a clinical background and discovering you need to start over at the beginning like everyone else. There are no special cases.

As the process of "becoming" proceeds, I think the community is the key player; it creates an atmosphere of support and appreciation in which lead characters become open and honest. The self-doubt and worry that plagued them in "our world" is worked out like a garment stain scrubbed vigorously on a wash board, and they begin looking peaceful and secure in their unfolding identity.

I realize one could say such communities as the Na'vi are idealized and sure, that's true. But they don't have to be, nor should one necessarily need to go to another planet to find them. Whenever we're around persons who value an indescribable something within us, and that experience makes us want to live up to their vision of us, then we've found a nurturing community. And what they see, we've felt was always there and because no one called or beckoned for it to come out of the shadows, it remained an unlived potential. But in the light shed by the community, it thrives, contributes, and makes us feel we're where we were always meant to be. And we probably are.


(Creative Commons image "Community Balloon" by sebastien b via Flickr)

I'll have an Avatar with a Twist

If you want to see a grown man with tears in his eyes, go to the theater with me sometime when a film involves a cavalry charge. I don't know what it is about them, but they get me every time. They don't have to be banners-waving, bugles-blowing, reenactments of the second movement of the William Tell Overture (the theme from The Lone Ranger), either. Randy Quaid to the rescue in Independence Day will do the trick. In a moment of dire need when hope has gone south and all seems lost, the appearance of help on the horizon turns me into a blubbering mass of cheering.

And that's what happened last evening while watching Avatar for the first time and the animals entered the fray, the cry of hammer-headed rhinoceros-like creatures taking the place of trumpets. I know, I should have seen it on the big screen -- you definitely got that right. But, as usual, I had my head buried in the books and before I realized what was happening, Avatar had departed for DVD parts unknown. I wasn't disappointed, however, and you can be sure I'll have a ticket for the August 27, 2010 release of the director's cut in theaters.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch. Avatar is more than a science fiction flick and certainly more than a morality tale about environmental degradation. It's what I like to call a transformation film. The lead character, Jake Sulley, is a paraplegic former Marine who has been recruited to take his late twin brother's place in an experiment involving avatars on the distant planetary moon, Pandora. Self-described as a drunk and regarded as an intellectual liability by the rest of the scientific team, through the intermediate agency of his avatar, he is exposed to the Na'vi, the native humanoid inhabitants of Pandora.

In the course of learning their way of life, he undergoes the process of initiation that every young hunter-warrior must, in order to become an adult member of their society. Not surprisingly, and reminiscent of John J. Dunbar in Dances With Wolves, Sulley gradually experiences his connection with his former life grow tenuous as he begins to come into his own under the influence of the community.

Sulley's paraplegia, his inability to receive sensory information through his lower extremities, symbolizes the way he and the other sky-people, as they are called, are disconnected from the life of the planet beneath their feet. Preoccupied with mining its resources, they are numb to anything else. Whenever Sulley "returns" to his disabled body, it is a poignant reminder of loss. In contrast, when "in" his avatar, he is free, not only physically, but also emotionally, allowing him to form intimate connections with others and develop his own sense of spirituality.

I suppose some might accuse director James Cameron of a lack of subtlety, creating a film with parallels to Native Peoples in this country. But in a twist of fate, Avatar has the "Indians" winning and the "White Man" sent packing. Not everyone liked that when the film was released, despite its popularity, but it does no harm to play with history and consider alternative endings. As a matter of fact, it might even help us reflect on our actions and become more adept at acting with the future in mind. Now, wouldn't that be a real twist?


(Creative Commons image of Avatar iPhone Wallpaper by xploitme via Flickr)