Episode 118: There is No Spoon

POP CULTURE SPIRIT WOW

Today I was in a coffee shop reading, when all of a sudden from out of nowhere a memory of the view from out my window at home hit me square between my eyes like someone had thrown it at me in a science book.

A word of explanation: I live at Loyola Marymount University, in Los Angeles, about five minutes from LAX. The university, which moved to this location back when the whole area was swamps and Howard Hughes’ company, rather than our new (self-involved) (homeless shunning) (private security on bikes) pop up McNeighborhood infestation--

*breathes* *regains composure*

--sits on a bluff looking out on the nearby ocean.

Each night up here the sun sets directly before our eyes. In our community dining room, the tables grow quiet as it slips like melted gold beneath the waves.

Each morning, we are likewise greeted by the pinks and purples and blues of dawn over endless horizon.

There have been many mornings in the last few months where I’ve woken to find that spectacular show just beginning. And I try to be present to it, let it in and affect me.

Then an hour later I wake to find I fell asleep about three seconds into the attempt.

But that’s not to say it’s not all still there inside me. As my mind clearly wanted me to know today.

So I stopped what I was doing and just stared out a wall-length window and tried to be in that space, that moment of unexpected and unearned beauty. I couldn’t really ‘see it’ any more, but there was this sense of spaciousness, like I was getting larger on the inside. Like my lung capacity was a lot bigger than I use. Like I had gotten so used to experiencing possibility via little screens and small-type pages in books that had I forgotten that the world itself is so much more.

It reminds me of this: About ten years ago I went to a 3-day conference for U.S. Jesuits “of a certain age” (not THAT “certain age”, but old enough) held in June in Northern California. The weather was, of course, glorious--clear skies, perfect temperatures, every day. And my friends from New York City walked around shrinking before the sunlight and waiting for the moment—not the day, the moment—they could finally go home.

We sometimes build the cages we live in with our own hands.

(Although it’s also true: California really can be too damn bright.)

++

I’ve done my best to avoid election-talk in this newsletter, mostly because it seems like a lot of the last two years has really been meant to drive us crazy, and I don’t know about you but I can do that all on my own, thank you very much.

I read in the Harper’s Index last week that a woman in Wisconsin was charged with disorderly conduct after she smeared peanut butter on thirty cars parked outside a gathering that she mistakenly thought was a Trump rally. This is what I’m talking about. (Also: creamy or crunchy? Because, if crunchy, wow is that nasty.)

Although it also reminds me: in high school I had this teacher who fancied himself the cool AP science bro. Which, fun fact, is a sure way to make your students hate you. He insisted we refer to him by the first initial of his last name (ugh), gave us his home phone number and told us to call any time we had a problem. Which, another fun fact, is a terrible idea, because kids will take you up on it and not always when you want them to and eventually you’re going to blame them for your bad decisions. Which happened to me, at which point I was off him like a trick-or-treater after the seventh handful of candy corn. (Happy Halloween, btw.)

I was so ticked off I decided I wanted to egg his house – something I had never done to anyone or even contemplated and even now really can’t believe I came up with. And I had these two friends Steve and Paul who were I think so amused at the idea of me-as-bad-boy that they offered to help. So we bought a carton of eggs and drove to this teacher’s house late one Friday night, ready to wreak some egg-y justice.

But once there, egging the house itself seemed like a bad idea. It would likely alert him to our presence quite quickly. Also, eggs are kind of heavy. What if we broke a window or something? No thanks.

Looking for a simpler but still satisfying target, we turned to his car, parked outside. But then just as we were about to hurl righteous yoke, someone pointed out that that film of egg would be sitting on that car all night. Wouldn’t that permanently damage the paint job? Which again was way more possible responsibility than we wanted. (The next time you watch an 80s teen movie, you need to remember it was all a lot more Anthony Michael Hall than John Belushi.)

In the end, we settled with throwing a bunch of the eggs in his mailbox. Which was empty. We drove away trying to talk ourselves into gloating over the sticky smelly mess he was in for, while knowing on some level that a) that it was actually some poor mailman that was going to be forced to deal with that, followed probably by the teacher’s wife; and b) oh my God we were so lame.

(Shortly before the school year ended I got thrown out of that class, after I pointed out that according to the syllabus none of our remaining work would affect our grade.

I also got a 5 on the AP test, which I probably should credit in part to that teacher. But even now all I can think is I got the last laugh.)

++

The founder of the Jesuits, Ignatius of Loyola (St. Iñigo if you’re nasty), used to talk a lot in terms consolation and desolation. Desolation was anything that led you to despair, that made your crawl deeper within yourself or live on the surface of things, where it’s all pond scum and rollercoaster; consolation was anything that opened you up to life, possibility or quiet joy.

Like re-reading Harry Potter, which I just started doing and highly recommend. That first book is filled with so much humor and humanity.

Or this end-of-series scene from the great TV show “Scrubs”, where J.D. imagines his future as a sort of home movie that plays across his face. (Scrubs--God was that a good show.)

Or this clip of Mama Cass singing “Make Your Own Kind of Music”. Each time she hits the refrain, she starts moving and suddenly the woman just exudes hope.

Desolation makes DEMANDS: WORRY. FEAR. PROTECT. HIDE. Consolation sidles up beside you unnoticed, enjoys a few moments with you and then moves on. Sometimes it’s so quiet we might not even notice it happened until later; but it’s also so nice, so right that in the moment the normal desire to seize it like a Golden Snitch and keep it in hand forever, doesn’t occur. Like a warm glass of butterbeer, we just take it as it comes.

I've always wondered whether the downside to being Superman would be that you never really ever get to feel anything. If your skin is so tough a bullet can't even penetrate it, probably nothing ever breaks in.

(Seriously, if Superman was real I think he'd be in a hardcore fight club. And he would love "Fifty Shades of Grey".)

To be consoled, paradoxically, is to let yourself be exposed, to be vulnerable. Knowing that might hurt like hell from time to time. And yet doing it anyway, if for no other reason than the one always given by one of my peers when people ask him why he stays a Jesuit:

“Why do I stay?” he asks, playing at being mystified by the question. “I want to see how it ends!”

++

I’ll be on the road next weekend. I’m still going to try to post something, but it might be pretty slim.

Do something nice for yourself on Tuesday. Like listen to that song you used to love that you’ve kind of forgotten about. Or have a bite at that place you went that one time. Or talk to a stranger about the weather.

Give yourself the opportunity to be fed and surprised. And if you can, maybe be a little bit generous. What will be will be. (Even if it looks like this.)

And we’ll all get through it together.

++ LINKS ++

For those who like Stranger Things -- this is the story Charles Schultz never got to tell.

For those who like Tom Hanks -- this is the role he was meant to play.

And for those who like the Cubs -- this is how a nice White Sox fan acknowledges their recent success.