On Losing a Day

Yesterday was a bust. I felt crummy all day long, and I had done something to tweak my back. As a result, I spent most of the day either in bed or otherwise unproductive, sleeping or being marginally entertained by a novel or Netflix. Was it unreasonable to be chagrined at the loss of 24 hours? Can we expect too much from a day? I can understand those who say it's pathetic to expect each day to "count" toward some long-range ends, who criticize our amped-up work ethic at the expense of other goods--friendship or living in the moment. Still, if I err, I want to err on the side of attempting too much, of overreaching. This may be a mistake, but it's the gambit I choose. Yesterday my body did not cooperate with this philosophy. It hurt to move! I faced unpleasant hard facts, or "facticity" as Sartre called the unchangeable conditions to which we must adapt. But today is a new day: What was facticity yesterday is not facticity today. The sun is shining, and it's Memorial Day. Who knows what is possible?

Medically Assisted Miracles

At church last night, the speaker challenged the modern phrase "death with dignity" as oxymoronic. Death, he said, is the ultimate consequence of evil. I agree: Poetic interpretations that present death as a natural good miss the mark. Humans know that death is loss, often horrible loss, and the process of dying can be anything but dignified. But, said the speaker, it's also possible to cling to life too tenaciously. When death is by all calculations inevitable, then to accept death affirms that life beyond earthly life is the ultimate good. Why not keep life support going and pray for miracle? On this scenario, the speaker suggested that a true miracle needs no help from life-sustaining technology, and that the idea of a "medically-assisted miracle" is yet another possible oxymoron. Is this true? When Jesus healed, he told the leper to wash in the river; on another occasion, Jesus healed the blind man by applying mud to his eyes. Many miracles mysteriously allied physical materials with supernatural intervention. The material and the miraculous cannot be antagonistic, because throughout the Bible they are ubiquitously paired. So often, it seems, Divine intervention uses the human element, bestowing dignity on man's impressive but ultimately inadequate powers.

How to Complain

Hilly and I woke up this morning with credible reasons to complain--she for the extraction of four wisdom teeth yesterday morning and I for chemo in the afternoon. When Stephanie drifted downstairs around 7:30, I asked how she was feeling. "Tired" she said. Then she looked over at Hilly bundled up on the couch and added, "But I don't think I'm really entitled to complain." She chuckled, realizing that two family members had been though the ringer. She had to cope with the logistics of caring for two on the mend, along with attending to the normal tasks of making a household go. Everyone has reasons to complain. After all, we live in a "hard-edged world," as writer Cynthia Bourgeault as noted; another writer, Scott Peck, put the matter plainly, "Life is difficult." I agree completely: Complaints are legitimate. When I worked at ETS in Princeton, NJ, a member of the administrative staff taped a funny poster on her office door. It said in big letters, "Official Complaint Form." Glued below was a tiny pad of peel-off forms, about 1/2 inch square. The instructions read, "Write Legibly." Complaining is okay because it's part of communicating about what's going on in our lives. Some complaints deserve elaboration, but others only minimal space. So speak up; and if your complaint is written, write legibly.

I'm Ready for Lightning

I returned from Austin late last night, connecting through Denver. The scheduled plane to Orange County had been struck by lightning on its inbound flight to Denver, so the United engineers grounded the aircraft to inspect it thoroughly. After a delay of two hours, they found a replacement airplane and we made our way back over the snowy Rockies to the OC. It's Friday morning now, and after a three day absence from campus I have only a few hours to check my mail, collect term papers to grade over the weekend, and meet with with a lecturer about a case of student plagiarism. It's a typical half-day. The afternoon is different, though, because at 1 pm I'm supposed to be sitting in the infusion center with a needle in my arm. I will begin another two cycles of chemo that will stretch over the next six weeks. Four infusions, four recoveries. Definitely not fun, but I'm thankful that I can anticipate the chemo more or less without dread. Indeed, I welcome the chemicals because I need their terrible toxicity. I need the lightning strikes that will take out the rogue cells that threaten my life. I want to keep flying, long and far.

One-Legged Interviews

In the last day of the conference here at UT Austin, the morning's plenary speaker let fly a hundred or so ideas on leadership and organizational change. One struck me as particularly interesting: the one-legged interview. What the speaker meant by that funny term is the commonplace kind of interaction we have with co-workers as we pass in the hallways. He said that one-legged interviews are surprisingly effective mechanisms to lead organizational change because in just a few passing seconds we can ask, in what seems to be an offhand way, how X and Y are going, when X and Y are crucial new directions for the organization. I would guess that one-legged interviews are also effective in shaping morale and feelings of camaraderie. The ways that we interact say much about what we believe in and how we feel, and these interactions can influence others in surprising ways. Across life contexts--work, home, and so on--the content and tone of everyday encounters in the flow of life count for much more than we might guess.

Good Morning, Robert E. Lee

I'm in Austin, Texas, this morning--in a big room, with big furniture, next to a big University campus, UT. I woke early enough to take a short run up University Drive to the main campus promenade, admin building, and clock-tower. Just prior to 8 am, the day was already warm and sticky, but the campus gardeners were in force trimming shrubbery and mowing great expanses of lawn. Texas personality exerted itself in the dignified ambiance, and it was a presence with a past. The campus is nicely furnished with fountains and statuary. The first bronze man I met was Robert E. Lee, high on a pedestal, and the next was Jefferson Davis. Texan glory incorporates its past--its distinct history is marvelously reconciled with its present identity. Like Texas, we too are the products of our experience. Past is always context. With insight, our personal histories, flaws and false steps included, can be reconciled with who we are now, and contribute to our own signature identity, our place in the world.

Rich the Plumber

Yesterday, a plumber named Rich really helped us out. I seriously messed up a clogged drain in our bathroom. While trying to unplug a slowly draining sink on my side, I ended up causing a complete stoppage, with standing brown water, in both sinks. My handiwork, with collateral sludge, stink, and damp carpet graced our “vanity” though the weekend. We needed a plumber on Monday morning. One plumber referred another, who referred another, and so on, until Rich said, yes, he thought he could come before noon. Rich brought his power snake, assorted tools, and, crucially, his experience, knowledge, and skill. Within 45 minutes the standing sludge had cleared and both sinks drained freely. When Rich first showed up, I showed him my disastrous handiwork of dual clogged sinks. He smiled and said, “Well, you’re not a plumber. I couldn’t do your job.” He was right: we need each other. So here’s to all the specialists, whatever their status or regard. They can do things we can’t.