thank you
A month ago, I began a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. It seemed a simple enough challenge: write at least thirty minutes a day, every day, for thirty days, and then post your thoughts to social media.
It was more difficult than I’d imagined it would be, primarily because cancer’s taken so much from my family and friends through the years. Because of that, I wanted to write with intention and purpose so that the words would mirror the spirit and courage of those who won and lost the battles.
I learned a lot along the way, and I can say without hesitation that I’m better for having accepted the challenge.
And so this evening I finish the fundraiser by sharing with you a few of the more important lessons I was blessed to learn this month. Here’s hoping that they’ll ring true with each of you.
Learn to be less selfish. You get more joy in helping others than in helping yourself.
Be true to yourself, and everything will be all right.
Believe in God. There will be innumerable times when your belief is shaken, but this is when you need to stand rock steady on the road of Faith. He will never let you down. Trust me on this one.
Try to spread smiles. It doesn't cost much, and it brings rewards tenfold. Not material rewards that are temporary, but permanent rewards such as connecting with another person, or seeing their eyes light up with joy.
Always live without fear of getting your heart broken, and you'll enjoy life in its truest form.
Empathy. We’re all blessed at birth with this quality. Use it to help someone. Anyone.
Lend an ear. Hold a hand. Give a hug.
Make the time to stop and smell the roses.
Remember: work isn't everything.
Puppies make everything better. Everything.
When you're angry, count to ten. Words can cause wounds that never heal. Words are more powerful than actions, so use them well.
Tell the people you love that you love them. Often.
Don't ever give up. The light may be closer than you think.
Know that it’s darkest before dawn.
There’s joy in everything and around every corner, my friends. Just look.
My thanks to those of you who made this journey with me, and my most sincere appreciation to those who donated cash or time or prayer. I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know.
ispirazione
I've been listening lately to the various works of Giacomo Puccini. I share his passion for bearing witness to others with specificity, grief, and love. Sometimes deep listening is the most potent activism; it keeps alive what nothing else can.
Of particular interest is the beloved aria Un bel dì in Madame Butterfly — the deep song to which I've done my deep listening — which informed and nourished a life’s work spent chasing a thing that can be described succinctly in Italian, but in English only with dissertations:
Ispirazione.
There are attempts to reduce the translation to one English word, such as inspiration or authenticity. My understanding of the concept is limited, but both seem to apply, as one might give separate names to each facet of a delicate carving. The definition that seems most apt to me is the one I heard first, a long time ago, words burned into my memory by dark eyes and dim candles, from a poet who fairly brimmed with the stuff himself. It was three hours before the sun rose, and we were idling, and we were talking about everything and nothing, and he called ispirazione “the memory of lives the Italians never knew.”
That seems like a good take to me.
I feel sometimes as though all of history and physics demands my attention in an instant, the nervous system of the earth surging up through my soles, all the intrigue and joy of a billion years charging each breath, each swallow, with beauty the result. This may seem an odd assertion in a time when the word “sublime” is used to praise a slice of cheesecake, but those who remember its older sense of wondrous beauty will understand. Mountains in winter are beautiful. Mountains in winter as the snow and ice cover everything at once? Sublime.
If Whitman turned up no “foul meat” with his plow and spade, it was only for lack of seeing what was there. Authenticity comes from burying what you love in the ground, a connection that can’t be rent through years of exile. A deep song lived here with me and is buried now, its component notes feeding the trees. And then what’s left when you lose that loss?
Ispirazione.
It doesn't translate precisely into English, but some languages will serve better.
where
When you’re lying there in the stillness after dark, before you drift off to sleep, and your life is finally quiet, your field of vision blank.
When the world seems both possible and impossible.
When everything from the days before and coming starts sliding in and out of you.
When your body is aware of the texture of fabrics around you, your skin high on giving in.
Where does your mind go?
a perfect design
I cannot believe God plays dice with the universe.
— Albert Einstein
I once came across a display in an exhibit called Mathematica at the Center of Science and Industry (COSI) that left me in awe.
It consisted of two large panels of glass with evenly spaced horizontal rods running through them. Beneath each column of rods was a rectangular chimney with its two dark sides perpendicular to the glass.
A red line on the glass had the shape of a bell curve — a curve that rises slowly at first, then rapidly to a peak. It descends just as quickly before ending in a perfectly symmetric pattern.
At the top center of the case, hard dark balls fell one at a time onto the rods, bouncing from one to another. A ball hitting the rod directly beneath the opening was equally likely to bounce left or right. It was less likely to hit a second, lower rod, and less likely still to bounce in the same direction two or more times in a row.
I understood this. No human or machine controlled the balls’ motion. They fell at random. Yet this perfectly random motion filled the chimneys in the perfect pattern of a bell curve.
A bell curve was created by chance.
That astounded me. Mindless, inanimate matter moving by chance created an elegant form. It did so every time the chimneys were emptied into a hidden well and the balls started falling against the rods again.
I became overwhelmed with a realization that has stayed with me ever since:
Chance is not chaos.
Isaac Newton worked out the clockwork of the heavens. He believed that it could not exist without a clockmaker.
And he’s right.
All the patterns of nature result from mega-trillions of random events. The myriad cells in the human brain ultimately act randomly and are the product of random gene mutations, giving rise to a pattern, a history of decisions, a life, and a soul.
The material and the nonmaterial have been wedded from the beginning of the universe. Metaphysically, the properties of an entity are simply the patterns formed by the boundary that separates it from other entities, allowing it to be distinguished. A general property embracing a multitude of entities crosses its boundaries, making them indistinguishable and invisible to sensory perception, which operates by discriminating boundaries.
General properties are thus invisible to the senses. An example of a general property is the square root of two. Another example is the binomial distribution, which can be generalized and made concrete by drawing a bell curve.
General properties are perceived through general properties of brain cells, commonly known as thoughts. Thoughts that lead to successful interaction with the world are considered true. There are infinitely many general properties, but the only valid ones for us are those that allow us to interact successfully with the material world. The internal laws of thought (logic) are the preferences evolution has given our minds.
Since evolution acts through the world, we assume that logic is a valid guide in interacting with the world. Thoughts range far beyond the particulars of the world, which means, on the one hand, that thoughts can follow along useless or dangerous lines, but on the other, that thoughts can lead to innovation, and the creation of new realities.
Intelligence is inherent; there are signs of it everywhere. But it’s rare for intelligence to be internalized in individual organisms, so we need not assume their presence every time we see signs of intelligence, as in the clockwork of the heavens.
Yet, we exist in nature. Because nature’s intelligence is internalized in us, it is inescapable to conclude that we have an important role to play in the destiny of the universe.
It’s not guaranteed that we will survive to play such a role. Life may triumph in the universe and still perish on Earth. But while our potential doesn’t make us immune to the perils of the universe, it does give us reason to believe in ourselves, reason to accept human desires as reflective of tendencies inherent in nature.
Yes, chance is not chaos. God tells us that.
And I, for one, am listening.
a beautiful life
Life is beautiful. Not always, to be sure, but the moments of beauty and peacefulness exist, I think, to remind us that there’s much more perfection in each moment and within us than we usually realize.
Throughout the first part of the year, I’ve observed many different reactions to the good aspects of life. Those who are acutely conscious of the pain of others and the dire situation of the world, and our role in making it so, tend to feel guilty and allow this sense of shared suffering to gray out the happiness and good fortune they may feel. Others who are more self-centered have reacted by gradually habituating to an ambiance that ranges from anxiety and helplessness to obsessive fear regarding just about everything that has an element of risk — which comes to be life itself. And at the far extremes are those who react by hoarding what they have, trying to amass more, and justifying their belief that they’re deserving and others aren’t.
Should we suffer because other people are suffering more? Yes, would be the short answer: that’s what compassion means. But when we lose the capacity to see beauty, to wonder at the simple things life gives us for free, and to be renewed and to grow in understanding of what it means to have this gift of a human life … well, then I think something’s gone wrong. We survive because there are natural periods of coolness, wholeness, and ease. In fact, they last longer than our grasping and fear. This is what sustains us.
As much as I never thought it possible, in some ways my lack of vision has proven to be a gift. Not being able to see well (or at all, at times) has forced me to listen to and hear things that most others don’t, and it’s created a much greater sense of mindfulness and contemplation during the day. It’s also greatly enhanced my morning prayer routine, as I’m always aware that there’s much for which to be grateful, not least of which is the day ahead of me.
Prayer allows me the time to hold in my heart and mind, by name and image, all those I want to think about with special intention. The moment I get on my knees, I’m humbled by a spaciousness that’s, of course, already there but masked by thoughts, restlessness, and dissatisfaction. My low vision makes it possible to quickly settle into those precious moments when I do see the raspberries, smell the fragrance of the basil, and taste the salty dense tomatoes studding the loaf of bread.
And lest we think that the less fortunate on Earth are incapable of experiencing the same thing, I’m reminded of various conversations I’ve had with my friend Otan, a man younger than I who has spent much of his life working among the peasants of Africa and South America. Listening to him say that he’s never been around as much joy as he is with those folks who have so very little will forever be one of the greatest lessons I’ve learned about my own poverty and ignorance.
At the core, we’re all the same, and sooner or later all our defenses are stripped away. Those moments of rest and wholeness are free and aren’t dependent on other people, health, wealth, or even love. They’re there, I think, to teach us something.
Earlier today I had a conversation with a retinal surgeon who’s perfecting a treatment for macular degeneration, which could in turn be of great benefit to those of us with similar disease pathologies. I’m eager to learn, curious about what these moments will teach me, and wondering how all of this will define the human I’ve yet to become. While there’s no way to know what lies on the other side of this possibility, my faith ensures me that I'll be fine, regardless of the outcome.
There will undoubtedly be more later.