Not That Bad

A friend of mine played defensive end in high school. He described battling a huge lineman on an opposing football team. He said, “I could hold my own if I hit him straight on. But every time I did that, he’d twist me sideways, turn my feet, and pancake me.” Although nothing he did worked, my friend couldn’t find a successful tactic for dealing with “Big Boy”. The other team ran the ball over the top of him repeatedly.

My friend could have gone to his coaches and asked for help, but then he’d have had to admit that he couldn’t handle the situation. He got through most problems by presenting a stoic front, by trying hard and persevering. That didn’t work against Big Boy, but my friend never asked for a double team. He didn’t tell the outside linebacker to move up to help fill the gap.

I’ve felt trapped, at times, when bad times loom and threaten to engulf. I can see the 300 lb. lineman across the line, but I’ve got nowhere to go, no way to avoid getting crushed. And I feel like the game will never end. And if the misery has already gone on long enough, any attempts to change my approach seem worse than the current state. I get locked into a mode of operation that once may have been beneficial but no longer fits circumstances.

But moments of insight sometime provide comfort and remedy. My head clears, and I can see alternatives that hadn’t presented themselves before. Even if I can’t fix or fully adjust to a rough situation, I can see my trouble from a different perspective. I realize that almost everyone experiences similar issues, and that melodramatic suffering is the due penalty for an inflated ego. In other words, whenever I bitch and moan, I’m taking myself too seriously. Who am I to think I don’t deserve what I’m getting?

I remember looking into a mirror when I was nine or ten. (Something troubled our family life, but I don’t remember a particular incident or problem.) I stared at my miserable features and wondered when things would get better. I became the star in a tragic play about a boy living in a cruel world. Then a moment of detachment arrived unexpectedly. An older, wiser version of myself made an entrance. The older me laughed at my woebegone expression and said, “Hey, it’s not that bad.”

Skip to the End

My wife and I have a collection of DVDs that we fall back upon when other sources of entertainment run dry. One of my favorites is “Accidental Tourist”. I love all parts of the movie except for the scenes with Kathleen Turner. She plays Sarah, a woman torn by grief. She believes Macon, her husband, blocks any hope for her recovery. She finds fault with him no matter how hard he tries to comfort and please her. They separate and prepare to divorce.

Macon stumbles into a relationship with Muriel, a woman who genuinely cares for him. Then he allows Sarah to pull him back into another attempt at their marriage. Their relationship eventually grinds to a halt after it becomes obvious to Macon and Sarah that their deepest connections have been permanently severed. Macon reconciles with Muriel in a beautiful scene. They look at each other with tenderness and acceptance.

I know that the difficult passages about depression, estrangement, and conflict set up the sweet intensity of the final scene, but I sometimes wish that I could get there by an easier route. I want to skip to the end.

I sometimes want to skip to the end when hard times arrive at my doorstep. Movie plots run along predictable lines, but the course of a life doesn’t. Part of the difficulty of enduring harsh interludes is not knowing how the story will end. Or whether there’s any point to making an effort or to being brave. Will holding my temper while dealing with a persistently annoying relative ultimately pay off? Or will that relative just take advantage of my forbearance until I reach a point of exhaustion? Will opening myself up to grief lead to peace and solace? Or will I sink into chronic depression? If I could watch the final reel, then I could make better choices now.

But striving to find certainty is a fool’s errand. Life seldom sticks to predictable paths. Even those leading conventional lives often encounter unexpected difficulties. Begging the gods for mercy seldom works.

What’s left to do?

When I make full use of a moment, good or bad, painful or joyful, I become awake. But when I ponder about what could be or could have been, I dream fitful dreams. When I stop worrying about the end of a story in order to actually participate in the story, I am wholly and purposefully engaged. But when I fret about the future, I stop moving forward. When I accept whatever comes my way, then I am at peace. But when I put buffers between me and reality, I begin to die.