What is REAL Rules the World

So you've got your pocketful of scratchy, sparkly, icy, joyful memories. Now what? There are bills to pay and dishes to be done and a global economic system crashing around our ears. Who cares what happened to a child decades ago when the real challenge lies in predicting the future well enough to survive and hopefully profit. What possible difference could it make that you can remember how the thick turf seemed to rise up, to gleefully meet each strike of your horse's hoof beat - that the light of the sun mixed with the stroke of the wind to create a golden drink you could feel sliding all the way down your throat.

Let me answer with a story. Will Smith's movie "Hancock" enlivens an incredible amount of symbolism and provocation. One of my favorite moments is when Justin Bateman's character asserts that Hancock is a Hero and that he'll never be happy until he makes peace with that truth. Hancock certainly already does the superhero crime-fighting thing but in such an incoherent, drunken way that he causes more harm than the original crime. He has super skills - phenomenal strength, the ability to fly, bullet-proof skin - but no context for his unusual abilities. Seventy years ago, he woke up in a hospital with no memory of who he was or how he had gotten there. He could do things, amazing things, but without the compass of why. So, he made up his own context. You see, nobody came to the hospital to look for him, to claim him. "What kind of bastard must I have been," he tells, "that nobody, nobody came looking for me?"

This context then became the real story, the scenery and plot through which his extraordinary gifts were to be expressed. He was unimportant, unworthy of love and care and worry. For all his unique power and urgency to help, the world was better off without him. The movie twists this experience into an exceptional story that I highly encourage you to watch for yourself.

Hancock's gifts were obvious. Super strength and bulletproof skin aren't easy to forget. Most of us, however, know our context but have lost track of our gifts. There are a bazillion books and self-help programs out there to unleash your hidden power, to find your true path and set you on your way to a successful career, marriage, body, etc. I think all these well-meaning plans are mistaken. It seems their primary goal is to squish all your lovely, full, round life into the square hole of cultural context.

Another story, true this time rather than scripted. I worked for awhile as an Administrative Assistant in a small private middle school. I shared office space with the Business Manager and Head of School and was privy to most internal mechanisations of the school. One day, I sat quietly while the Head met with a teacher, a student, and the fourteen year old's parents. I can still feel the helpless fury as I listened to the young man tell his side of the story with honest, struggling-for-maturity control. He had been wronged and everybody in that room knew it. After an agonizing pause, his father said, "Sometimes in this world you are right but it doesn't matter. You just have to suck it up."

That is a big, fat lie. And who was enforcing that lie? In this case it was the teacher who would be allowed to continue her cruel behavior unchecked and a Head of School who could maintain order but lose integrity. This is what happens in every single instance of human society. When there are too many students in the classroom to allow for individual expression and discovery, we always standardize. We have done this as an entire culture - the American Dream is standardized to mean the biggest paycheck, house, car, retirement account..... Standardized Achievement tests are designed for one thing only - to test the retention of what has been taught. There is no way possible for an authority to test what they didn't teach you. And so it becomes unimportant, disruptive, even dangerous. Your ability to reflect the context becomes the total measure of your achievement, the quality of your gift.

Don't confuse the context with your gift. Sometimes even when you recognize your gift, it remains merely a distraction unless the external context affirms its importance. I've done that too. Searching and searching for some proof that I was switched at birth, had some secret identity that would explain everything and all the crazy, recurring pieces would finally fit together in a coherent worthwhile story. But that doesn't work. Nine times out of ten, there are no extraordinary details that will change everything you believe about who you are. I was not born on another planet or hidden away by a Faery princess to keep safe until the time was right for my return to the throne. I'm just a girl with supersensitive skin and an overactive imagination.

These are my gifts. They make me question what I'm told - to look behind the words for the real story - to wonder why a father would advise his son to accept injustice. Context isn't concrete for me. It is a shifting plot line, a different chapter where a whole new character or setting can be explored. It isn't real. I am real. My skin tells me so.

Right now, our cultural context is going to hell in a handbasket. But you've had a week of Christmas - all the big and small sensory experiences that make you who you are. How did the cranberry sauce taste on your tongue? How did the sound of wrapping paper being ripped from a gift feel in you ears? How did that moment when you slipped from asleep to awake and realized that it was Christmas morning feel in your throat? Here are your clues to how you long to move through the world.

Search through them. I don't imagine they are all Disney-movie wonderful emotions. I don't care about the context - whether it was Aunt Ruby's famous cranberry sauce or that you were disappointed in the quality of the gift under the wrapping. I want to know what you felt. That was real. Give it a whole weekend of practice. Just notice the color of maple syrup on your tongue. The sound of a hot bath after the frigid trip to the barn or store. What does your skin ask for when you hear the alarm on Monday morning? Give it a whole weekend of being the real thing moving through the scenery of cultural context.

Where I Am Real

Lest you should think Pollyanna lives here, I do read the news. And hear the news - local news, national news, global news on the TV and radio, on the phone with my mother, at work, in the checkout line, in Christmas cards for pete's sake. I hear the news until I think I will run mad, screaming that I must bathe, must soak in Listerine and floss between my ears 'til the news is scrubbed from my thoughts, scoured from my soul .....AAAAARGH!

Then I go milk the cow. And breathe. And flex. And breathe. Until finally I feel safe enough to open my ears again. Ahhh. The dulcet symphony of my daughters arguing over who washed dishes last. Back to normal.

Sometimes making sense of the world feels like wrestling a Hollywood-size boa constrictor. In trying to make the best decisions, from the clearest motivation and most honest evaluation, nothing seems to be a simple choice. And yet, ironically, once I am able to identify that true place in myself, everything becomes straightforward. Not easy, for sure, but solidly trustworthy. You see, I do not live in the real world. The Real World lives in me.

I am the star in my story, the anchor, the creek bed through which all of the events as they occur to me must flow. The real impact of the stock market's rise or fall is not the same for me as for someone else because it occurs within my set of house, home, income, family (etc.) circumstances. The exact same market conditions will look very different for someone living in a New York high rise than it does for a farmer in the middle of the boondocks. Same reality, different real world. Further, these same circumstances will look very different for an old, alone, ill farmer living in the middle of the boondocks than for a young family with a fine flock of chickens and a sweet old milk cow. And different yet again for the young family who hoped to work their way out of the boondocks to the totally awesome high rise in New York City from the couple who spent every last dime making the transition from city life to homestead.

Ultimately, the Real World must be found within each person, within the culture of each small family unit. This is why identifying your story is so critical, so urgent. Reality is pretty much a mess at the moment. If you are relying on some outside source to update you on the condition of your world, you will be tossed about mercilessly. I'd like to share with you my memory of being little. These are the memories that shape those million surface decisions every day. When all the adult posturing is over, this is who is making the calls. This is where I am real.

For Christmas this year, I hope you find the memories from when you lived in your Real World. I'll bet you were awesome. I'll bet you will be again.

GROWING UP WILD

Too small to be a valley, my own Wonderland was just a bend in the land where a cold river tumbled by blue and clear. The heavily timbered mountains towered over our little house. A few other houses kept us company but mostly, our neighbors were the elk and deer and cougar. There were no sirens, no trains, no busy crowds; just a calm, cool, damp quiet.

If a bird flying high above looked down, he would believe my world to be smooth and soft and very green. But truly close-up, as only a child can get, the textures were grand. I could see the beauty and strength of the trees even with my eyes closed. Enchanted, I would wrap my little girl arms around their solid trunks, laying my cheek against their furrowed skin.

The air forever smelled as if it were about to snow. Short springy grass worked valiantly to soak up the springtime warmth. And in the summer, tiny flowers burst forth to decorate the green carpet as a reward for the yummy sunshine.

Unless you were sweaty hot, the beautiful river was uninviting; pretty to watch but cold enough to make your teeth ache. Sometimes we played in a hot spring which was enclosed by rough wooden walls. Although it smelled like jumping into a bowl of rotten eggs, I learned a pretty mean dog-paddle in that warm cocoon.

Most days I spent outside. I would pull the crust from the soft white bread of my peanut butter sandwich, squish it into a delicious sticky ball, and set out exploring. Being the only kid around for miles, I was
the undisputed Queen of Wonderland. My favorite quest took me in search of the fuzzy caterpillar. Around boulders and under branches, over a little wooden bridge and through bushes as tall as my Dad, I would seek the wee prize. Their tiny bodies seemed so fragile in the great wilderness, their soft fur so luxurious. Carefully, I would fill the pockets of my warm coat with the precious orange and black creatures. Subjects for the Queen.

We saved Fourth of July sparklers until winter. Somehow, in the black, icy nights you could write your whole name in the air with a sparkler and it would stay for long moments. Diamonds and jewels and magic dust would appear when I flashed the light quickly over the snow. I remember seeing my breath and feeling my nose straightening slowly when I scrunched it up. But I don't remember being cold. My feet encased in cozy warm boots, I twirled and danced. I waved my bright wand and wished it could last forever. And of course, that I'd always be Queen.

Identifying Your Treasure

On this Solstice night, I am turned to the most bedrock pieces of me - those things that make me who I am. I am 42 years old (EGAD!) and I can tell you true, it was not an easy thing to identify my personal foundations. At the threshold of child to woman, I felt the hands of my ancestors pushing me out the door - "Go, make a life for yourself. Go Become Someone." Not at all humbly, I obeyed. I raced out that door, looking back only to wave confidently, "Goodbye, Goodbye, you'll be so proud of me!" Neither I nor those who literally sold the farm to pay the price of my freedom truly saw the road ahead. We'd all swallowed the wicked vow.

Grandparents were certain they'd earned my reward through Great Depression, World Wars, mechanization and mass media. Their children had been given the 50's, the promise of social security, pensions, and the microwave oven. Parents never looked back, trusting the promise of ever increasing value of stocks and real estate, assured by the college degree that marked us children as Achievers. "Go" they said, "And go again. Keep climbing, don't look down. This is what we fought for. Give us something to brag about." And all of us, politically correct young men and liberated young women went out to claim our pre-packaged, instant gratification, money-back-guaranteed birthright.

Among this flock of lucky heirs, I unconsciously committed a high crime with serial frequency. I'd not left everything behind me after all. Like a hidden hereditary heart condition, the need for connection pulsed with increasing urgency. I longed for recognition in my peers' eyes - that deep knowing that comes from living in each other's backyards generation after generation. I didn't realize it was lost to me in this world of Achievers from all lands. So very many are refugees. Temporary. Without permanent relationship to people or land.

But I am lucky. I carry in my heart a bright, solid memory. I remember being loved, I remember loving, I remember being real with a story, a myth in my heart and solid, fuzzy, scratchy, icy, sparkly home all around me. It is the best place to start looking for your Treasure: What has endured all these long years of lessons and experience deep in your memory, in your affections?

What do you remember about being young, being small? Try to find a scent memory, a song memory, and a touch memory. How about a weather memory or a travel memory? Is one of your senses dominant in these snapshots? Can you expand the scene by reaching out with another sensation? Even if your memory seems to be of a negative experience, try to notice more about the details: Is there something or someone you are hoping will help you? Is there something you are wishing you had the power to achieve? What kind of food did you like or totally dislike, what were your favorite games, chores and hard work, regular clothes and special outfits, holidays and particular family traditions? Always try to reach past the Thing you remember to the sensations that linger around the memory.

Jeff puts this exercise bluntly, "I spent the second half of my life trying to forget what I'd learned in the first half of my life and now in the third half, I'm trying to find what's still right for me." There was a time for every one of us when we believed we could do anything, could be anything. Long before we accepted that while what we loved could be a hobby, certainly, we would need to support ourselves first, we believed in being happy. If you can remember those first loves, those first moments of "I'll never forget this," I promise you will find clues to a Treasure worth recovering.

Are You Scared Yet?

I grew up with a Dad who knew how to make threats. This may not seem like an admirable talent at first glance but consider the following: when someone looks you dead in the eye, leans down just a little bit to fully focus your attention and says quietly, evenly, "Go back to bed or I will stomp a mud hole in your butt and then I'll stomp it dry" there is absolutely no question of going back to bed or not. You go. Quickly. And quietly.

I unfortunately did not receive this great genetic inheritance for intimidation. When trying to make an unarguable point with my children, I invariably end up shaking my fist in the air, muttering "You'd better do what I say or....or....or.....something bad will happen." I know, not very scary. Perhaps it is because I grew up with such a master that I scoff at the media headlines and government officials trying desperately to convince me of our dire situation. I can't help it - when I read the news, I see myself puffing up, searching for an effective threat in order to manipulate the behavior of two smart, strong-willed children. They know better.

The Application For Government Bailout below just cracks me up. Especially Section 2, Item 3. Hey, maybe they could create a new Office of Homeland Intimidation. My Dad would be first pick for Threat Czar.

So, after posting my blog today, I surfed over to one of my favorite writers, Sharon Astyk at Casaubon's Book. Hey, I thought all warm and fuzzy, she wrote about the same thing as I did. By the time I got to end of the post, I was still all warm and fuzzy, but also touched and motivated and quite humble. Ms. Astyk's writing is real, and funny, and built on the kind of everyday practical details that let you know she walks her talk. For example, this line perfectly articulates the gift of crashing:

I’ve found what she has - that the practice of living in a world we didn’t expect, of shifting to a different worldview and dealing with crisis as a routine part of my life, has, I think helped me adapt.

Now don’t get me wrong - there’s a lot to be worried about in raising a kid with disabilities in a changing world. But I do think it is worth starting with the assets, the benefits and the gifts. I say this for several reasons. The first is that I think those of us who have special needs kids have already had a kind of boot camp in adapting to shifting realities. Unlike a parent who always knows what is coming next - first they crawled, then they walked, then they ran - we’ve gotten used to not knowing. Making a Future for the Disabled: Facing Hard Times With Special Needs Kids

So, without further ado, I encourage you to click on the link above and enjoy a fine writer and a great thinker.

Things Seem Bad Out There

Things seem bad out there. The Bureau of Labor Statistics reports that

"Employment fell sharply (-533,000) in November, and the unemployment rate rose from 6.5 to 6.7 percent, the Bureau of Labor Statistics of the U.S. Department of Labor reported today. November's drop in payroll employment followed declines of 403,000 in September and 320,000 in October, as revised. Job losses were large and widespread across the major industry sectors in November.

Both the number of unemployed persons (10.3 million) and the unemployment rate (6.7 percent) continued to increase in November. Since the start of the recession in December 2007, as recently announced by the National Bureau of Economic Research, the number of unemployed persons increased by 2.7 million, and the unemployment rate rose by 1.7 percentage points.

Home prices are in a record decline, food banks are struggling to keep up with the demand as food prices continue to rise and household incomes fall, leading to a record number of Americans utilizing the Food Stamp program:

"Food stamps, the main U.S. antihunger program which helps the needy buy food, set a record in September as more than 31.5 million Americans used the program -- up 17 percent from a year ago, according to government data.

The number of people using food stamps in September surpassed the previous peak of 29.85 million seen in November 2005 when victims of hurricanes Katrina, Rita and Wilma received emergency benefits, said Jean Daniel of the USDA's Food and Nutrition Service." Reuters

For right now, my family and my neighbors are safe, warm, and fed. The trucks delivering fuel, food, and medicines still arrive on schedule. But what if they don't come? Well then, we have fertile land, clean water, stock, and seed, and know-how. You can't live in fear, especially when your most overwhelming Fear is "what if Out There comes here?".

It seems most of our greatest fears are variations on this theme: What if someone took my child from me? What if someone came into my home and took my cash, jewelry, art, tools, food? What if a virus crashes my computer? A disease robs me of my health? Another woman takes my man? Another company takes my market niche? What if someone truly evil takes my child's future? What if, though I give my absolute best effort, I still lose everything? If what we fear is the loss of that which we love most, that which is most essential to our well-being, certainly we must ensure that treasure is safe. But before we even begin discussing necessary security measures, we have to identify the Treasure.

In Lloyd Alexander's epic series "The Prydain Chronicles", humanity has a final chance to rescue what the evil king had locked away from us. Among the glittering mounds of jewels and precious metals were two treasures that had been missed above all else. One was knowledge of the Crafts - music, blacksmithing, weaving, pottery. The other was a collection of wondrous tools that produced all by themselves, gifting us with exceptional finished products without any additional human effort. When the last chapter of the Prydain Chronicles was published in 1968, Lloyd Alexander had decided; the knowledge could be retrieved, should be saved.

"Do you know what you have found?" he whispered. "Here are the secrets of forging and tempering metals, of shaping and firing pottery, of planting and cultivating. This is what Arawn stole long ago and kept from the race of men. This knowledge is itself a priceless treasure."

And what of the wondrous tools? What did the acclaimed author and observer of men decide about their worth?

"The flames of Annuvin destroyed the enchanted tools that labored of themselves and would have given carefree idleness. These [secrets] are far worthier, for their use needs skill, and strength of hand and mind."

Most of why I worry about and for those Out There is that so many places may be caught with complete dependence on those wondrous enchanted tools for the manufacture and delivery of the food, fuel, and medicines central to modern life. Things are different here. Skill, and strength of hand and mind have a way of enduring in a place where carefree idleness remains always slightly out-of-reach.

I've lived in rural or wild places my entire life. We are more exposed to the harshness of weather, to the whims of government intervention, and access to the global anything. Almost everyone I know has Crashed atleast once. It isn't the reality of "after the Fall" that feels so futile but how far you are, yet again, from the radiance of the American Dream. But when you learn that crashing doesn't always mean dying, that it more often entails the painful process of picking up the shattered pieces and starting over, something shifts inside you. You begin to unchain yourself from the addiction to the myths told Out There.

There is way more Reality in these wild places - it is in your story and your neighbor's and your brother's and your in-law's. Those pretty fairy tales about getting into a good school, getting a good job, and retiring early just don't seem to wrap so tightly around what we know to be possible. Falling doesn't mean you are bad and deserve to be hurt. It means someone left a skate in the path, or shoved you from behind, or maybe you are just a little clumsy. Falling isn't a judgment but a rhythm of life. It happens. And then you get up again.

Instead of exporting our precious natural resources - water, timber, and topsoil - I think it is high time we sent our stories Out There. It is right that all people should have a new dream, one that calls to our minds and hands and skill, not our idleness.