Perspective is generous at its core… always offering us gifts when we’re ready to receive them.
Desert Curmudgeon, an unassuming prophet, as I affectionately call him. He is a writer, a philosopher, an intellectual, a humanitarian, a seeker of truth, and what I consider to be genius in motion.
I am posting this because I think his words need to be heard, and because sometimes we need a little boost, and he gave me one of the most meaningful, heart-warming compliments I think anyone could in regards to my writing. He shared with me that my words inspired his in Warrior Mind.
“For another take on a similar theme, please check out this profound post by Brooke at A Gypsy’s Tale: Masters Of Our Fate. The post you just read would not have materialized without her”
Wait, what? I told our Incurable Dreamer , another one of my blog heroes, it is the equivalent of Einstein telling me I I’m smart…beyond. When I saw that he had credited me with inspiring him to write THAT, it felt pretty much the same as when I saw my name as an author in the Washington Post. Call it ego or a somewhat dysfunctional need for recognition, (both are true), but it made me deliriously happy.
So, please read his words. To say they will make you think is a gross understatement. To say they will inspire you, even more so.
My reaction is below. A lot to take in on a Sunday morning, but in light of all the madness that has happened the past few weeks, perhaps a bit of reflection and perspective will help.
Jesus. I don’t even know where to begin here (Jesus, might not be the best place to start). I have never read anything so unbelievably profound and enlightened, yet accessible and pragmatic…and impossible and maddening. Because I agree with him on so many levels, although could never articulate it so eloquently.
More times than not, it is our fears- of rejection, of pain, of being alone- that drive our behavior, our actions, our “ignorance”. And empathy, god, it just seems like this word is almost antiquated. The ideologies that get thrust upon us on such a colossal scale, shoved down our throats, reiterated at such a rate that they not only become our modus operandi, they drive are words and actions in a way that doesn’t even seem to be on a conscious level. We react, we judge, we declare truths based on ideas that we never took the time to question.
Therein lies the tragic flaw, right? Digging deep into our psyches, questioning what is supposed to be the foundation of our existence, the constants, ‘the truths’, is terrifying and painful and an inconvenient distraction from comfort, as mundane and unfulfilling as that comfort might be. I think this makes empathy next to impossible, unless the recipient of it is a person or people who sync up with our established truths.
But I will say this. I don’t believe the search for our tribe, for finding those people we connect with, love and who love us, is necessarily a hindrance to becoming the warriors we inherently are. I actually think it can be what fuels this process. Loving someone completely, accepting and celebrating their flaws, I believe teaches us what empathy truly is. I think it can also ground us in a way that gives us the strength to ‘go to battle’ and the courage to do this, not with traditional weapons, but armed with the capacity to look beyond the tactics of those who seek to inflict pain on others and see the origins of what motivates them to do so. I think if we have experienced love in the truest, purest sense, we can empathize with the fact that everyone, at the end of the day, truly just wants to experience love. Isn’t this the universal thread that unites us? So many are denied this or don’t see that they are worthy of it. Perhaps committing these horrific acts comes from a belief that they will attain love and acceptance with their actions in the name of whomever, whether it is in this realm, or in a world they believe lies beyond.
Please be very, very clear, I am not in anyway justifying these acts. I believe the perpetrators have swallowed someone else’s truth. Regardless of what you believe, causing any other being pain is anything but ignorant, it is the antithesis of humanity, it is the antithesis of love. And yes, I hate them for it. I am human, after all, and I am an empath by nature. But, meeting them with aggression, killing innocent people, dropping bombs on countries and annihilating the very ones who could counter and overcome those who have forgotten their essence, its asinine and clearly ineffective, to say the very least.
So what do we do? We go within, as our author so beautifully concluded. We start with discovering our truth, what makes our hearts full and gives our lives purpose. We treat our tribe with the love, compassion and kindness that we so desperately want to receive in return. And if we don’t get these things in return, we try to understand that they are fighting their own battles.
Most importantly, we continue to fight our own and try like hell to love ourselves in the process. We start there and hope that one day our intentions, our benevolent actions, will reach our fellow budding warriors who have forgotten who they are and why they are here, why we are all here….to embrace or inner warrior, to fight for our truth, and above all, to love.
WARNING: Some of the content below is very graphic…and it’s sad. It just is.
Mine. Yours. Theirs. Is it real? Is it worse? Can you understand mine? Can I yours? Does hearing mine make yours hurt less?
When I was little, there was a lot of it. But I didn’t understand it, really. And I certainly didn’t talk about it, mainly because I was horrified. But also because I knew that it would make people sad to think of me being sad. I didn’t want anyone else to be sad, so I just didn’t talk about it.
This was the impetus for what came to be a lifelong survival tactic. I would seek out others whose pain I thought to be worse than mine, whose pain was real. This would give me a perspective of how trivial mine really was. Maybe I could even help them feel better. Maybe I would feel better. Sometimes I did. And sometimes it all just made me feel worse.
Admittedly, for the most part, I really didn’t believe pain was relative. I tried to empathize with my friend’s sadness over a broken heart or a fight with her boyfriend. I tried to understand why she was so sad and thought her life was ending. I mean, I tried. But I couldn’t shut off the voice inside. “Really? You think that is pain? I could tell you what real pain is, but it will make you sad. And I don’t want you to be sad”.
On the rare occasion that I did share my story, it was done with a tone of indifference so as to not make anyone uncomfortable. I would remain detached while describing the last few minutes before my father’s last breath. I would even leave space for some comic relief if necessary. I would be laughing and my friends would be crying. But I didn’t want them to cry. So I quit telling my story.
I trained myself just to listen, to offer advice when appropriate, to empathize but not draw too much attention to my pain. I just listened to yours. Yours could not possibly be as bad, right? Besides, I needed to cry, and I could only cry because of your pain, not mine.
As bad. This is what gives pain its power. I compare mine to yours, you compare yours to mine- whether to minimize or justify it.
We all know we are going through different versions of the same thing, that we all have the same pain to varying degrees. We all know sharing our stories and naming our pain will help us heal.
But we all still default to either believing ours is all there is or that it’s nothing at all. We don’t want to be the victim. We don’t want to be the cause of more sadness or pain. We don’t want to be exposed or weak or stigmatized. We don’t want to be in pain.
So this is how I tried to navigate my story, constantly trying to find ways to deal with it while not exposing it. I minimized it, numbed it or found ways to trivialize it.
But this time I can’t. This time, it’s too big. There is no hiding it. It can’t be minimized. And I can’t find anyone else’s that will allow me to trivialize it or help me gain a perspective. This time, I have to go through it. I have to feel my way through it.
I was flying back to Texas after spending a month in Paris. How bad could my life be, right? I had just spent a month in Paris. But I spent it by myself, completely heartbroken in every way possible.
On the flight to Paris, I truly believed we were going to make it. He was going to do whatever it took to make it work. Maybe he could even come meet me in Paris at some point. But none of that happened.
I was furious with myself. Not because I was sad. I deserved to be sad. I was furious that I couldn’t stop crying over him, while their parents most likely couldn’t stop crying over them. All three of them…who are now dead.
But I wasn’t. I lived, I was flying back from Paris, all limbs and organs intact, save one.
I was in the right-hand lane, trailing about 6 feet behind the car in front of me in the left-hand lane. I heard them hit the other car, and then they hit me. Or I guess I hit them.
I still don’t understand what happened exactly. I’ve replayed it over and over in my head, trying to make sense of it. I was told that a car full of three 22-year old boys swerved into our lane coming from the opposite direction, going 80 miles/hour.
They hit the girl in front of me and then catapulted into my lane. The car spun around 180 degrees, and I slammed into the two boys on the driver’s side. I didn’t have time to hit the brakes. They were my brakes. And they all died.
I tried to throw the door open to get out. It was jammed shut. I finally stumbled out and just stood there, paralyzed, trying to get my head around what had just happened.
Everything was a complete blur of lights and distorted shapes- scraps of metal, severed bumpers, a license plate crumpled up like a piece of trash, orange shards of broken headlights… the smell of gas, fumes, burnt rubber.
I remember thinking how quiet it was. I can still hear the slight buzz of traffic off in the distance and the sound of fluids spewing out of our cars. The crunch of shattered glass underneath my feet seemed offensive as I made my way over to the side of the road.
I tried to take it all in, not even seeing the crowd of people gathering around me. I frantically began to call the only person I knew in Arlington. He didn’t answer. So I just sat there, methodically pulling cold blades of grass from the ground beneath me, my entire body violently shaking- either from shock or the relentless chill that blanketed the row of mutilated cars strewn out before me. All were now empty, save one.
The driver, his head, was distorted in a way that reminded me of a painting by Dalí, tilted back as if it was melting down his back. Blood poured out of every part of him. The boy directly behind him, the other one I hit, his head was thrown back too but facing away from me. I could see his left arm dangling out of the shattered window, blood pouring out of every part of him.
And I just sat there, watching, pulling cold, wet blades of grass out of the ground. I watched the policeman approach the car to access the damage. I watched the fire department arrive and begin to cut them out of the car. I watched them put the boys on the stretchers and push them into the ambulance. I watched the ambulance drive away.
I found out later that night that there was a third boy in the car. They didn’t even bother pulling him out.
I continued to sit there, waiting for him to call me back until someone finally realized it was me who was driving the other car.
Two hours later, after enduring question after question, I was asked the final one.
“Do you have anyone who can come pick you up?”
“Can we give you a ride?”
“No. I’m okay, thanks. I can walk.”
The onsite counselor finally insisted on taking me home. She was understandably worried.
“Do you have anyone who can come over?”
“What about friends or family you can call?”
“Um, yeah… I will try to call someone. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I mean, I’m still alive, right? I’ll be fine.”
I have this weird thing I do on planes. Sometimes I just can’t commit to watching a movie, so I watch whatever the person next to me is watching. I can’t hear it, so I just kind of make up my own story and dialogue.
We were about an hour away from the Dallas/Ft.Worth airport, and I was in an absolute state of panic about what I had to deal with after we landed. So I watched his movie instead. I hated it. It was stupid. Just another story. One poor kid, trying to fight back, experiencing disappointment and heartbreak. Oh, and his girlfriend died. That was legitimately sad. But it happens. Death happens. He might as well learn how to deal with it.
It finally ended and the man took off his headphones. I looked at him and made some asinine comment about how trivial it all is.
“It’s life, man. It’s pain. It’s real”, he replied.
“I’m sorry, but no it’s not. It’s a movie. You want to hear real? I was in a car accident a month ago and the three boys I hit died. They all died”. That is pain. That is real.”
He closed his laptop and looked back up at me, straight in the eyes, his pain palpable.
“God, I am so sorry. He looked back down, and repeated, almost in a whisper, “I’m sorry. I know what you are feeling. I know because my wife and son were in a car accident. My wife and son, they both died in that car accident.”
I shut my mouth, and I cried. In a matter of seconds, my pain seemed insignificant and his was all that mattered.
Pain. When is it enough to be justified, to be real? I keep on hearing stories like this. About pain. Mine, yours, theirs- all of us wondering what the fuck we are supposed to do with it.
It seems to always be there, somewhere on the spectrum. But we need to live our lives, so we try to hide it, dismiss it, numb it, or hopefully heal it.
I’m not quite sure how to do that, exactly, heal it. I do know, however, how I won’t – by hiding it. dismissing it, or numbing it. I’ve tried those. They only feed it. They are what sustain it.
What I have finally come to terms with is this: all of our pain is justified, all of it is real. We all bleed the same. The source of our wounds may differ. The extent of the damage may vary, but in the end, the results are the same. We bleed and it hurts. And we have to find a way to transcend it if we are going to survive.
This is what I want for all of us. I just want us to figure out how to transcend it, to transform it into a beautiful scar that we can wear proudly, to inspire and share our wisdom.
But this won’t happen if we don’t give ourselves permission to feel it. To acknowledge that what is happening or has happened is terrible. To allow ourselves to feel sad and angry and resentful and, yes, like a victim.
Because we will all be victims of pain. But our pain doesn’t have to make us victims.
It just makes us real. It gives us depth and courage and resilience. It gives us the opportunity to gain perspective and to practice empathy, to evolve and grow and help others do the same.
I know if those three boys had lived, they would have given anything to have that opportunity, to feel all of it, to live.. fully and authentically.
So, that’s what I now have to do. I owe them that. If nothing else, I owe them that.