Month: February 2022

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At A Time Like This

It somehow feels wrong to feel normal.

I know. “Normal” exists on the washing machine, not in the world. If the last few years haven’t proved that, I don’t know what will, between pandemics, protests, wildfires and … well, you don’t need the litany from me. We’ve all lived it.

And now we have a war half a world away. Demanding attention. Stirring up its own bizarre mix of feelings.

Part of mine come from old memories – those of my generation and my parents’ – of the old Cold War flare-ups. Like a standoff in a room full of nitroglycerin, you had to wonder if any sudden move would have devastating results.

Part of it is the same helpless feeling I get in the wake of another school shooting, where the alarm keeps going off with no clear way to answer the call.

On top of it all sits the clash, the collision between peril and mundanity. The little voice that whispers  about how frivolous, even silly some of my thoughts and activities are. Maybe you’ve heard it too: “How can you even bother doing (x) at a time like this? Don’t you know what’s going on in the world?”

If so, take heart. You may be doing more than the voice knows.

I’m not advocating a callous denial of reality. The world doesn’t need another Nero fiddling while the world burns, or a Scarlett O’Hara complaining about how war is ruining her social life. It’s not about locking out another’s pain to make yourself feel better.

But we’re complicated beings. We’re capable of attending to more than one thing at a time. And when we turn to something that doesn’t have to do with either a crisis or a day-to-day need, it’s not necessarily because we don’t care.

Many times, it’s a release. One acquaintance of mine dances in times of stress. Others turn to music, or to books, or to a mile-long walk to free the anxiety that has nowhere else to go. Engines can’t run hot all the time, and the soul needs cooling down and maintenance just as much.

Sometimes it even goes beyond that. It becomes transformative, channeling the fear and anxiety and anguished hope into something that lifts up instead of presses down.

One of my favorite authors, J.R.R. Tolkien, took this above and beyond. A veteran of World War I, he mingled old battlefield horrors with his love of language and nature to produce a mythology that’s still giving people hope, inspiration and release today.

Naturally, he also had his “times like these “critics – after all, with so many real problems to address, why waste time on fantasy? His pointed response was that “Escape” could be a virtue … except, maybe, in the eyes of jailers.

“Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home?” Tolkien noted in a lecture. “Or if he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls? The world outside has not become less real because the prisoner cannot see it.”

Regeneration. Transformation. Hope. These become especially vital in hard times – not in denial of them, but to better grapple with and endure them.

Don’t turn away. But don’t fear the ordinary, either. It doesn’t have to be a dereliction of duty. It might even be just the thing to make you readier than ever.

Even in times like these.

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Down to Human

A halfpipe skier had fallen on the Olympic course. And Missy made sure we knew all about it.

“No!” she shouted at the TV screen as the action shifted to other skiers competing and celebrating.

“Right here!” she informed me and Heather firmly, rubbing her shoulder hard to be absolutely clear about where the impact happened.

“Missy, we get it. But she’s OK now, she got up …”

“NO!!!”

Injuries and stress make a big impression on Missy, the developmentally disabled relative that we’ve been caring for since (has it really been?) 2011. When people cry, she gets upset. When people fall, she remembers. Heck, when fictional characters get hurt, she takes it seriously – a mention of Frodo Baggins getting his finger bitten by Gollum had Missy pointing at and checking out my ring finger for weeks afterward.

It’s a reaction without filters. Raw and undeniable.

And there’s a lot of opportunity for that when Olympic season comes.

Most of us don’t think of that much, outside the moment. After all, the Olympics celebrate the best, right? These are the ones who move faster, go farther and reach higher. It’s about triumph and success, passion and achievement.

Until, abruptly, it isn’t.

We’ve seen it for years. No, for decades, in summer and winter alike. The speed skater with too much on his heart who tumbles to the ice. The ski racer who sprains both knees at a crucial moment. The young athletes – some still young teens – who find themselves at a storm center and no longer have what brought them there.

Even leaving injuries and accidents aside, there are only so many medals. Someone has to fall short. Sometimes by a little, sometimes by a lot, always with the world watching.

And in those moments, something reaches out to us. Maybe in a way that no other Olympic moment can.

I’m no Olympian. You probably aren’t either. Most of us, however skilled and accomplished we may be, don’t have the sort of talent that tears up ice rinks and grassy fields on a global scale. It’s been joked online that every Olympic event should have an ordinary person competing as well, to bring home just how good these teens and men and women really are.

But in the moments where everything falls short, where the awesome becomes merely human … we know that one. We’ve been there. We can feel it.

Missy’s right. It hurts.

And when our hearts break with it, we reaffirm our humanity.

Most of the time, in most of our lives, it’s easy to not see the pain. To assume that normal is … well, normal. We’re doing OK, so things must not be too bad, right?

When we see the vulnerable, the hurting, the chronically ill, it’s often uncomfortable. It’s a reminder of how quickly life can change without our permission. How easily we could be there.

And if we let that open us up instead of close us off, it means something better for all of us.

I’m not saying each of us has to jump to every alarm and bandage every wound. That way lies exhaustion. But we can’t shut it out either. When we make our decisions – as individuals or as a society – with an eye to those who need us and a determination to share the pain of others, something happens.

We start seeing people. Not strangers. Not others.

And in reaching for them, we reach to ourselves as well.

Don’t turn away from the falls. Let your heart be broken. See the hurt and respond to it.

That’s the real medal moment.

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Oh, Say, Can You Sing?

In a world where social media gets taken over so easily by arguments and conspiracies, it’s nice to know that some of the old favorites survive.

Like say, complaining about the National Anthem.

Or, more precisely, complaining about how singers perform it in the Super Bowl.

You can usually set your watch by it. From the moment the two teams are announced, post after post will beg the opening act to PLEASE just sing the Anthem the way everyone learned it in grade school. No four-minute over-produced spectaculars, just remember the words, hit the notes, wave and walk off.

That’s what we say we want, anyway. But I sometimes wonder.

Oh, I’m not saying that it can’t be done or that it wouldn’t be great. We’re just a little over 30 years since Whitney Houston nailed a pitch-perfect version of the Star-Spangled Banner that’s still considered the standard. But the anthem is a pretty thankless piece for most singers to take on, and not just because it requires the vocal equivalent of an Olympic athlete.

With the anthem and other patriotic songs, everyone has a lifetime of expectations bound up in it. We’ve sung it (or tried), our neighbors have sung it (or tried), we know what it should sound like. So a singer has two options:

ONE: Play it safe. Hit the marks. Fulfill the expectations. And most likely be forgotten three minutes after you leave the field.

TWO: Take a chance on making the song your own in some way, big or small. It’s high-risk but potentially high-reward … how many people still adore Ray Charles’ decidedly non-standard “America the Beautiful?”

So even with the mockery of so many anthem attempts over the years, singers keep shooting for the stars. Even Whitney’s famous attempt had a few verbal acrobatics that I don’t remember from Northridge Elementary School; it’s just that with her, they worked.

The real issue isn’t the style. It’s the setup. If you put a star behind the mic, you shouldn’t be surprised when they try to shine.

But what if the Super Bowl didn’t put a star at midfield?

What if they didn’t put anyone out there at all?

A Kansas friend of mine made a simple suggestion: strike the spectacular. Just start the music and let the crowd belt it out by themselves. Stand up. Sing out. Sit down.

I don’t expect to see that any time soon. The Super Bowl insists on being BIG, with even the commercials drawing the level of scrutiny usually given to an Oscar winner. But it would make a nice change.

More: it would be a reminder of what the moment’s supposed to be.

In our ideals, this country isn’t supposed to be about one person, but about all of us. It’s not meant to be a solo, but a choir, different voices coming together to create something more beautiful and wonderful than anyone could make alone.

We’ve often fallen short of that ideal. Too often, in fact. But it’s still a dream worth reaching for.

No, crowdsourcing the National Anthem won’t miraculously solve all our problems, bridge the gaps and open the doors to the excluded. It’s a small gesture. But those matter, too. It’s the small habits that make the larger achievements possible, just like the daily exercise that builds a star athlete. Or a top singer, for that matter.

Besides: if enough of us have to take on that anthem, sooner or later, we’re bound to put it in a more singable key, right?

Like I said, a man can dream.