"Not everyone is as mono-maniacal as you." ~ Donatello Moss
Before we go any further, I should tell you, Donatello Moss aka Donna, is not a real person, but she ought to be and in some world, she probably is. In ours, she's Dr. Watson to Josh Lyman's Sherlock Holmes in the syndicated program The West Wing, which you can still see on Bravo. If I was in Maine, my dog and I would be munching breakfast together while getting our daily dose.
The line I've quoted comes from the opening scene of one of the final episodes in which Josh is suddenly becoming aware of all the romantic pairings that have developed during the presidential campaign he has been directing. Enter Donna, who has a gift for remaining human when Josh has become so hyper-focused that he misses the details of daily life. Every now and then he has a meltdown and it takes someone else to remind him to take a vacation once in a while.
I hate to admit it, but I'm very much the same way and maybe you are, too. Perhaps that's one reason I love The West Wing so much: Josh's character is a mirror of my own proclivity to overlook the obvious. For instance, lately I've gotten so engrossed in what I'm attempting to do out here that I haven't permitted myself the pleasure of sitting on the patio with the computer and writing about the experience -- at least on anything resembling a regular basis. I've treated my sanity-saver as a luxury and the truth is, as the demands on us increase, the more things like this become necessities.
But it's hard to see them as such, especially when we regard every moment devoted to self-nurturing as one taken away from the task at hand. Sooner or later, however, the inner well runs dry and we become touchy, irritable, and resentful. Even those of us in the helping professions have limited reserves and that's oh-too-easy to forget when the stakes are high and we're under the gun.
Unfortunately, in the same way we can't make up for several days of sleep deprivation by getting a single good night's sleep, making up for self-deprivation can't be done in one fell swoop. It takes time and that's just the way the universe works. I know, it sucks. We'd all like to believe our internal battery recharges automatically, but there has to be a power source. Even when a person has a spiritual connection, they can't assume it will do for them what they can only do for themselves.
So, here I am, it's 40 degrees in the shade, but like my cat who is no doubt sitting on his window ledge at this very instant, watching the squirrels scamper for late-season acorns, I've found a warm spot in the sun. An hour ago I was feeling pretty anemic, but now there's a little tingle down inside. I'm betting even the Ever-Ready Bunny needs an occasional carrot and today, this one is mine.
(Creative Commons image by Ben+Sam via Flickr)
Two mornings ago, I woke up with tenderness in my right shin. Sleepily, I reached down, felt a little bump and assumed I'd scratched myself and it was only now beginning to hurt. Drawing my leg closer to my face, I noticed the "scab" shifted as I rubbed my finger across it, and when I pulled it away, realized it was a tick. Drat, I thought, a blasted Ixodes tick, the notorious carrier of Borrelia Burgdorferi, the bacteria that causes Lyme Disease.
Curiously, the little guy looked dead; he wasn't moving, nor had he managed to engorge himself with blood, as one might expect. Still somewhat groggy, it took a second for me to remember I actually do have blood coursing through my veins, so why he failed to get breakfast was a mystery. I got up, put the carcass aside for safe-keeping, wiped the spot with alcohol and applied bacitracin, a topical antibiotic, thinking I'd watch it for a few days and see what developed.
Fast forward to this morning. I was taping The West Wing as usual, when I glanced at my shin and saw the bite mark had developed the appearance of a small target -- bull's-eye rash or erythema chronicum migrans, the initial telling symptom of Lyme Disease. It wasn't as obvious as the examples we'd been shown in bacteriology, but close enough to make me uncomfortable. So, I wasted no time in arranging a quick visit to the doctor who agreed, it looked sufficiently suspicious to warrant empirical treatment with doxycycline, the drug of choice for adults.
The remaining question, however, is where did the little guy come from? I think it's likely he hitched a ride on my dog -- a fatal error in judgment. You see, my dog wears a potent flea and tick collar while we're walking, and I think Mr. Tick got a good dose of canine hemlock. Nauseated, dizzy, and delirious, he fell into the bed during the night and staggered toward my leg, muttering, "Must...bite...human, fulfill...purpose...must...bite...human."
With an effort that would make Shakespeare envious, he heaved himself onto my leg and thrust his fangs (or whatever ticks have) as far into my skin as he could. It reminds me of a scene from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn. Ricardo Montalban aka Kahn aka Mr. Rourke from Fantasy Island, attempts to destroy Captain Kirk one final time. As he reaches for the button to engage the Genesis Device, he says, quoting Moby Dick, "To the last, I will grapple with thee...from hell's heart, I stab at thee...for hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee."
Yeah, well, here's the thing. Poetic or not, you're dead, I'm alive and starting doxy. Take that, Mr. Tick.
(Creative Commons image of Ricardo Montalban as Kahn by MHJohnston via Flickr)
I'm not sure, but I may be playing around with Pandora's box and we all know what happens when someone lifts the lid. Pandemonium breaks loose. Did you know, by the way, that John Milton coined the term in 1667? Pandemonium is the capital of Hell in his epic poem, Paradise Lost. I didn't know that either. Anyway, at the risk of paying a visit, I'm thinking about sex.
It came to mind while recording The West Wing this morning. Actually, it wasn't the program that got me going, but a commercial for a product intended to make the "big moment" feel like an ocean cruise liner blowing its horn. The physiology alone boggles the mind. Now, it's not that I don't think this is a humorous commercial, because I do. It's also a rather creative use of slang and metaphor.
Then there's the one about the guy who couldn't get a date if it was arranged, having at last become a ladies man because of male enhancement. There are also serious commercials promoting treatments for ED. Tongue in cheek, it's enough to make you feel sorry for anyone named Edward. Don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed to freedom of information nor am I being prudish or moralistic.
Advertising being what it is and people being who they are, sex sells. What concerns me is, wherever we're going with all of this, we're don't seem to be doing so with conscious intentionality. The proverbial frog, when dropped into a pot of boiling water promptly, and sensibly, leaps out. Placed in a similar pot of cool water while the heat is turned up, he's dinner before he notices the water is boiling.
What I mean is, when we talk about our children developing ideas about sex that reflect respect for persons, we ought not abandon the field to Puritanism at one extreme, or wholesale sexuality at the other. If education can be the silver bullet, as West Wing's Jed Bartlett is fond of saying, then adults ought to begin with themselves. Is there a reasonable limit to the degree we wish to have sex portrayed on screen and if so, what is it? How would we prefer to have sex displayed and in what contexts? Can we arrive at a consensus? If we want Madison Avenue to make these decisions for us, it will be more than happy to do so. Somehow, I just don't think that's what most of us have in mind.
(Creative Commons image of Queen Mary Smoke Stack by biofriendly via Flickr)
One of my favorite comments is, "Well, Beggar, you're not like any minister I've ever met before." It's important to emphasize the second contraction in that statement, not only out of respect for today being National Grammar Day, but because that's how they say it. A little incredulous, they mimic Mr. Spock arching an eyebrow, and look at me a little sidelong, as though they're not sure whether I'm lying about my credentials.
My first inclination is to ask what kind of ministers they have met previously since you'd like to know the competition. Usually, it's either been one who was dismissive of evolution, inclined toward fundamentalism, or didn't drink, smoke, chew, or go with girls who do (spoken in jest out West) and criticized anyone who did. From that company, I'm delighted to be distinguished. Not that there's anything wrong with holding those views -- it's a free country -- but they aren't mine and if I'm going to be blamed for something, I'd like it to be true of me and not someone else.
Somewhere along the line, the idea came about (propagated mostly by ministers themselves, I'm guessing) that being a Person of the Cloth meant one shouldn't be human. The irony of it is, the model, at least in my tradition, was so incredibly human it was possible to accuse him of drinking, partying, and hanging with prostitutes and tax collectors (the ultimate low-life in those days). So, why didn't he change his ways? Basically, it was because those people were the ones most aware of their imperfections.
If one becomes a minister because they're "holy" and therefore, predisposed to a life of self-denial, I'm in deep trouble. For me, it resulted from a sense of calling, not at all dissimilar to the one we talk about in medical school. It's the kind of thing you feel like you're supposed to do even though you can't really explain why. You may have to make sacrifices to do it well, but the fulfillment you gain makes it worthwhile. It can evolve, as well, as it has in my case, leading me to medical school (see 1/16/10).
As time has gone along, I've become more aware that being a minister means being a ministering person in the larger context of life rather than being employed in a church, but it still doesn't negate my humanity. The ministry isn't about me and it's sure not about trying to make people into my image. It's about being available to people and willing to help, if and where you can. I'm bringing this up today because it occurred to me, of all the times I've mentioned it, I've never explained why I became a minister and that just didn't seem fair. I guess you could say I'm trying to even the score -- hope I done good (chuckle).
Our life is what our thoughts make it ~ Marcus Aurelius Antonius
If I was a motivational speaker or cognitive-behavioral therapist, I'd probably be more inclined to agree with the Emperor than I am. As it is, I believe conscious awareness is often a terribly poor judge of character, especially our own. The Stoics, of whom Marcus Aurelius was one, believed self-control and virtuous choices could overcome the influence of negative emotions. My problem stems from the fact that even well-intentioned, well-behaved, and reasonable people can act in the most irrational of ways.
They do so because consciousness and intentionality aren't always linked. In one of my favorite episodes of The West Wing, Josh Lyman crosses the line in the oval office and says to the President, "You have to listen to me, please listen to me!" Called aside by chief of staff Leo McGarry, a recovering alcoholic, Josh admits he wasn't at his best just then. Leo responds, "Josh, I'm not sure you were fully conscious of what you were saying."
As the episode (Noel) continues, it's revealed that Josh is suffering from PTSD, resulting from a recent shooting in which both he and the President were wounded. His remarks to the President were fully intentional but not, as he consciously assumed, about policy. "Listen to me," says in effect, "notice that I'm not doing well, hear the meaning behind what I'm saying, I'm in trouble, I need help."
The truth is, we don't always know what we're doing or saying or why. Like Josh, denying his symptoms and rationalizing his behavior, we're so involved in damage control that we can't see our way clear to anything else. The decks are awash and all we can think of is, "where's the mop?" At that point, most of us need a "Leo" to summon us back to reality, someone who remembers what it's like to be in pain.
We think of unconscious intentionality in relation to damage because that's what it often seems to inflict. That wasn't the case with Josh, though if it hadn't been for Leo's intervention, the outcome might have been very different. The things we hold inside, bury deep, and cloak with conventionality, come back to haunt us until we stop telling ourselves there's no such thing as ghosts. Once we can do that, whether at the beginning of a new year or somewhere down the road, we have an opportunity to make a change, try something new, or at least stop doing the same old thing.
(Creative commons image of the west wing of the White House by alykat via Flickr)
There is a story I love that goes like this. A guy's walking down the street and without warning, falls into a big hole. The walls are so high and steep he can't climb out, so he begins to call for help. A priest happens by and he shouts, "Hey, Father, can you help me? I'm stuck down here!" The priest stops, writes out a prayer, drops it down the hole and walks on.
The next person by is a doctor and our guy calls out, "Hey, Doc, can you help me? I'm stuck in this hole." The doctor stops, writes out a prescription, drops it in the hole and walks on. Finally a friend comes along and the guy says, "Hey, Joe, it's me -- can you help me out?" Joe stops and jumps into the hole. Our guy says, "Oh, this is great, now we're both stuck!"
Joe replies, "Yeah, but that's okay because I've been down here before and I know the way out."
I've always felt a little sheepish as a minister and future doctor that both my career paths fail to "get it" in this tale. And of course, the story is intended to demonstrate that isn't our social role, but the consciousness of our own vulnerability, that makes us healers. I may have mentioned this in a previous post and if so, forgive me for repeating myself -- my friends will tell you I do that from time to time -- C. G. Jung said, "Only the wounded healer heals."
What he meant was, it's the conscious awareness of our own pain that renders us effective with others. In a culture that values strength, capability, and invulnerability, this is ironic, yet, true. One of my closest friends reminds me, "You can't really be a good grief counselor until you've lost a parent." I can't speak for anyone else, but I know my own effectiveness as a therapist increased exponentially following the death of my father.
It's not always what we know or who, but where we've been and what we've been through, that counts. More importantly, that we don't try to hide who we are and what we've experienced. I'm not suggesting we should wear our lives on our sleeves. We all know someone who's far more interested in being noticed for their pain than helping anyone with theirs. But between avoidance and flamboyance lies the quiet memory of what it was like down in the hole. If that doesn't motivate us to grasp someone else's hand, nothing will.
(Reference: Story paraphrased from The West Wing, Episode 32 "Noel," written by Peter Parnell)
