Transformation

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I taught masculine psychology using segments from film to illustrate key points. Ok, I'll be honest, it wasn't all that long ago and it didn't occur in another galaxy, but the rest is true. I was interested in the way contemporary film depicted situations involving conflict, loss, growth, and transformation and experimented using various scenes as springboards for discussion.

As it turned out, it was a very effective tool because it allowed us to actually see a situation unfold and in many cases, it was extremely evocative. In a discussion about the role of fathers in parenting, we viewed scenes from Field of Dreams and at one point, nearly all of the men were wiping tears. These great guys were literally hungry for something to help them become better husbands, fathers, and men. They wanted to experience reconciliation in their relationships and within themselves.

One of the things I've noticed is, there are a number of films that depict male characters trying to cope with failure, right an old wrong, or achieve something personally meaningful. Rudy, The Natural, Invincible, and The Ghost and the Darkness, come to mind immediately.

Films depicting female transformation, however, aren't as common and that's unfortunate. Norma Rae and Fried Green Tomatoes are among the best, as well as John MacTiernan's Medicine Man with Lorraine Bracco and Sean Connery.

To tell the truth, I think Medicine Man may just be the best example I've ever seen and I'll tell you why. In this film, Dr. Rae Crane (Bracco) is a biochemist who journeys to the Amazon Basin to find elusive scientist Dr. Robert Campbell (Connery). When she arrives, she is a woman of the city, competent, smart, and wise in the ways of the corporate drug industry. As the story unfolds, she finds herself in conflict with Campbell, the environment, and her beliefs about herself.

As much as I'd like to outline the story for you I'm going to resist: it's too good and you should see it for yourself. What I will tell you is, she comes to new awareness of who she is, not what others have made her out to be. She is admirable, courageous, and eventually connects with her own strength to make the choices of the heart. If you think I love this film, you're right. I hope you will, too.

Chocolate and Peanut Butter

Well, I mixed my metaphors yesterday but fortunately, the outcome seems more like chocolate and peanut butter than a young boy and green vegetables. I wrote about a deep yearning and then described it as something with which I wished to negotiate. A reasonable question would be, "If it was something you truly wanted, why would you try and run from it?"

The short answer is I thought it was unobtainable. Aristotle said, "Probable impossibilities are to be preferred to improbable possibilities." I certainly thought becoming a doctor in mid-life, especially after having spent a lifetime in liberal arts with no science background, was a probable impossibility. That's why, when the desire appeared on my radar, I thought it was more reasonable to compromise than take a leap of faith.

So, I pursued and obtained an admission to a doctoral program in psychology and was about to begin classes when it occurred to me: this is like marrying the girl next door because she's convenient instead of the one across town that I loved, and then spending the rest of my life trying to turn the one into the other. If I knew anything at all, it was I couldn't do that either to the girl next door or to myself.

The fact is, I had arrived at the convergence of Robert Frost's "two paths in a wood," and something told me it was now or never. The price for staying on the well-trodden path was more than I could afford. Sink or swim, live or die, come heaven or hell, it was time.

Telling the Tale

A couple of months ago someone asked me about my story. I proceeded to describe the series of events that led to medical school and, in retrospect, my response reminds me of an alcoholic I worked with in treatment. Whenever I asked about his drinking, he recounted his tale as though he was speaking at an AA meeting. He'd told his story so often, he didn't know how to think about it in any other way.

We all do that to a certain extent, I suppose. It's like a verbal shorthand that allows us to get at the heart of the matter and avoid what we fear are the boring details. While it serves us well at cocktail parties, it really doesn't reveal our interior process and I think that's what this person was really asking me about.

I honestly think it came down to yearning. There was something in me that yearned for a life I'd never had. Call it what you will, desire, ambition, the grace of God -- all I know is, I felt pursued by something that refused to show any mercy. My efforts to offer it a deal were ignored. Logic and common sense were useless. You almost have to have been there yourself to really imagine what I'm describing.

It was like wandering through a desert and encountering someone who offers you a drink of cool water. You're not certain if they're a mirage -- you've seen those before and don't want to be disappointed again, but the water looks so good and you're so thirsty. Finally, desire overpowers uncertainty and you reach out your hand. It's not about courage or the willingness to take a risk so much as it is surrender. And, to your amazement, the act of surrender is the truest experience of victory you've ever known. That's what it was like, that's my story.

The Women in My Life

When I think of the women I've dated, it occurs to me I've really been fortunate. Most of them were women with pageant titles, believe or not. Let's see, there was Miss Understand, Miss Interpretation, Miss Calculate and the most memorable, Miss Take and her twin sister, Miss Taken. Believe me, you never want to take those two out at the same time -- I learned that the hard way.

I hope you're chuckling, because that's my intention this morning. Truthfully though, I have known a former Miss Texas and once met a former Miss America, but I dated neither. My luck can be counted on to only take me so far. The other "pageant winners," however, I admit have been like Lay's Potato Chips: you can't have just one.

This is not to say I haven't learned anything from my experiences with them. For one thing, they've taught me about my own limitations. I don't always get things right (don't tell anyone, ok?). They've shown me that I need to be patient while they date around (sometimes that's a relief). And they've reminded me again and again that a little humility goes a long way -- especially when you're hanging out with the twins.

There are times when I've thought I've finally gotten to the place where I can make better choices about the company I keep. I can break up with all of them at last and do just fine, thank you very much. And then, darned if I don't find myself looking through my Little Black Book of Beggar's Foibles and call one of them up again. Dr. Phil would give up his gig on Oprah for a chance at me, I've no doubt.

But I'll keep trying, rest assured, and maybe someday these ladies will decide I'm just not all that much fun anymore. Uh-huh. Now, where did I put that Little Black Book? It must be around here somewhere...

No Joke

The great comic actor, Charlie Chaplin, once said, "In the end, everything is a gag." I suspect he was referring to the process he went through in making a film, but truthfully, I really don't know for sure. Nevertheless, it makes me think about comments I've heard, i.e. what if life is really one big joke? All I can say to that is, I hope not.

This is not to say I'm Mr. Humorless. It's just that there are so many things that are light years from funny. I'm thinking, for example, of a four year old boy who crowded between me and the scones yesterday at Whole Foods. He was being a "helper" as he opened the glass door to the pastries for his mother. The little guy was so serious and I appreciated his mother taking him seriously. It's easy to inadvertently trivialize the acts of childhood when, to the child, they are anything but "cute." It made me think of the commercial, "for everything else there's MasterCard," but this is priceless.

And then, there's the mid-morning sun trying to wend its way through the clouds and light rain. What was a mass of green grass and forest ten minutes ago out my window is now a collage of tones that, to my red-green color blind eyes, looks like a prospector's pan full of gleaming sand scattered with flecks of gold.

I'm streaming Colorado Public Radio this morning (www.cpr.org), specifically, KVOD. At the moment, they're playing a Bach or Handel contata with brass accompaniment. It's the kind of piece that makes you think the composer must have stood at a window gazing at heaven and then tried with all his might to translate the vision into music.

I suspect when someone calls life a joke, they're referring to the helplessness they feel in the face of the magnitude of suffering with which we all are confronted. As if some cosmic comedian tossed this mess together like a salad and then stood back to watch us wallow in the oil and vinegar. I can see how someone might feel that way, but I always come back to things that are so joyful, so intensely hopeful, so very real, and I realize there are some things that are simply too good to be a joke.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

A couple of weeks ago, Michael J. Fox's television special, Adventures of an Incurable Optimist aired on ABC. I've always loved his acting and the film Doc Hollywood is a favorite of mine. As you know, Michael has Parkinson's Disease and it is evident in the involuntary movements he makes little effort to hide. What is striking is his refusal to allow his disease to determine the course of his life. As far as he's concerned, Parkinson's is something with which he has to cope but it's not him.

I've worked with patients who almost seem emotionally attached to whatever condition they have. It becomes their focus, part of their identity. This is certainly not the case with Michael. It would be fair to ask, is he in denial? Is he simply avoiding reality? I don't think so. I think his attitude is one of the best examples of radical acceptance I've ever seen.

Radical acceptance is a term used in Dialectical Behavior Therapy to describe an active, conscious acceptance of what is. The difference between radical acceptance and a more passive surrender to fate can be described like this: Two persons are standing in a tunnel and the light at the end really is an oncoming train. There is no escape, no way out. One turns, crouches down, and covers his head and waits for the inevitable. The other, a practitioner of radical acceptance, stands facing the train and shouts, "Come on, I'm ready for you, give me all you've got!"

Barring a cure or at least a much more effective treatment derived from stem-cell research, Michael's condition will worsen over time. Parkinson's is characterized as an unrelenting, progressive disease. The train is coming and Michael refuses to abandon hope, throw up his hands and say, "What the use?"

What difference does radical acceptance make, one might ask, since he may very well be run down by the "train" anyway? Maybe not much until, like Michael, you're standing in the tunnel. And then it makes all the difference in the world.

Falling Down a Hole

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)