A Life of Being, Having, and Doing Enough (18 page)

REINHOLD NIEBUHR,
The Irony of American History

O
n our good days, we may be able to discern how to do one right thing. But even on our best days, we cannot possibly force the right thing to happen.

How many of us have tried to do something the right way, hoping to make sure things turned out the way we hoped? And how many times have we been surprised that, in spite of our best efforts, nothing turned out the way we planned? In fact, what we hoped for may have gone terribly wrong. We may have felt disappointed, confused, even devastated by the unfairness or injustice of how our good intentions went so horribly wrong.

Any experienced farmer learns to feel in his body the way certain changes come in their season, the way the sun, wind, rain, and temperatures all conspire to create an auspicious time
for planting. He knows what preparations this soil requires for this particular seed, the depth and timing of planting, the frequency of irrigation, the time for thinning, and the most reliable practices for reducing damage by pests or diseases.

Nevertheless, regardless of how precise and perfectly any farmer can execute each of these “right” things in order to prepare a good and robust harvest in the fall, there is not a farmer in the world who actually believes that by doing all the right things, she will guarantee that the right result will happen. Any number of factors greater than any foreseeable plan—whether drought, flood, too much heat, too much cold, infestation by new bugs, rot, or fungus—will determine what kind of harvest, if any, will be reaped come autumn.

I have witnessed this among good friends, close communities, and small towns in northern New Mexico. In family orchards that have passed from generation to generation, no matter how carefully tended, pruned, fertilized, or watched over, these fertile rows of foliage, ancient bark, and roots gnarled with time and love are hopelessly vulnerable every single year. A good harvest will fall victim to an early spring, which warms the buds, coaxing them to flower sooner than usual, followed by a late frost, which kills the buds and hence all the fruit for that year. In these years—and they come with terrible regularity—there will be no fruit, no food, no income.
Un año sí, un año no
, one year yes, one year no.
Así es
, they say, so it is.

How much of our time is driven by our conviction that we somehow have the authority, the power, the audacity to believe that if we anticipate, plan, work hard and long, and take care of everything and everyone, then we can actually control the
outcome or guarantee the success of what we have decided we want.

The Buddha’s Eightfold Path contains time-tested prescriptions for Right Action, Right Livelihood, Right Speech, and the like. But nowhere on this list will we find Right Result. This is because we have no such capacity. We have authority over our actions, choices, and behaviors; we can monitor our speech so it is true, necessary, and kind. We can control our actions by refraining from doing intentional harm or working for the alleviation of suffering in others. But we simply cannot control whether our speech or our actions will bear precisely the fruits we hope for.

Civilizations reinforce this false promise everywhere. If you are a good citizen, the government will take care of you and make sure you are never harmed. If you get a good education and work hard, you will get a prestigious, high-paying job. If you go to the “right” church, mosque, or synagogue, we guarantee you a place in heaven. These guarantees are common, seductive, and impossibly foolish.

In the late 1970s I was serving on a government commission looking at the issue of people in institutions. We explored juvenile detention facilities, jails, prisons, and mental health facilities. How many people were kept in these places; why were they there; did they all really need to be there; were there other ways to treat some of the less dangerous ones; could they live more safely and productively in their own communities?

It did not take us very long to see that there were large numbers of people—nonviolent juvenile offenders and mentally challenged adults—who seemed to be incarcerated more for the sake of convenience than out of real necessity. It appeared
that many families, police, probation officers, and community mental health workers simply did not want to deal with these people; they were not a threat to themselves or others, but it was easier to keep them locked away.

So we proposed a massive deinstitutionalization movement, whereby all those juvenile offenders and mental health patients who were no danger to their communities would be released to be treated and integrated back into their families and communities. It seemed such an obvious and compassionate idea that many of our proposals received overwhelming support by all governing bodies. The deinstitutionalization movement was a juggernaut, moving forward for the good of all. It passed everywhere and quickly became the law of the land. Nonviolent juvenile delinquents and mentally challenged adults were set free at last, to be welcomed back into the communities from which they came, where they would find care, meaning, and purpose in their own families and communities.

Of course, the end of the story is well-known. By the 1980s these countless hundreds of thousands of former delinquents and patients soon became an eruption of urban youth gangs and a virtual army of homeless men and women, unable to fend for themselves, unwelcome in either home or community.

What had happened? We knew there was a problem, and, as educated, good-hearted people, we had recognized a clear and compassionate solution. Where could we have gone wrong?

We went wrong by not living in the neighborhood to which they would return. By not knowing the names of the family members who had sent their brother, uncle, or mother away, or why they made the heart-wrenching choice to hospitalize them in the first place. Because we had never spent one night
in prison or in a locked mental health ward, had not lived in the communities with those we were so desperately determined to serve.

We cannot control what will happen to the seeds we sow, the words we speak, the actions we take. We can only be as honorable, truthful, and compassionate as we are able. The moment we try to control what does or does not happen, we are left in a lingering state of insufficiency, wondering what more we could, should, have done, to make it all turn out right. Once we fall into self-judgment and doubt, we work harder and harder to become more and more perfect—and we feel less and less satisfied we have done enough.

Our work is on ourselves, to be clearly certain we have listened, seen, felt in ourselves what, in this moment, is required. Then, forces far greater than ourselves will have their way with whatever we plant, build, grow, or create. This, then, is our work. To do what we can and have mercy.

Shoes, Socks, and the Miracle of Attention

E
very year, the weekend before Thanksgiving, a few friends and I gather in the New York area for a retreat, to quiet our minds and hearts before the hyperactive holidays. It allows us time away from the busyness of daily life to recognize and appreciate the small miracles that saturate our lives, moments we would normally overlook as we rush to the mall, frantically seeking superfluous gifts.

This particular retreat followed September 11, 2001. We were each in our own way listening together for how, with sufficient mindfulness, we could ever live our days in some way that would honor the memory of the fallen, while quietly offering relentless gratitude for those people, those blessings, we so habitually miss, in the rush of the frantic, hurried days of the holiday season.

We gathered together to listen, remember, give thanks, and share stories. We were quiet for some time. Then Gina spoke first.

Last summer, I moved into an apartment building. After my husband died, I have often felt so lonely, it seemed my heart was on fire with so much sadness. It is so easy to feel lonely and a little sorry for myself. I knew I could end up isolating myself in that little apartment. So I decided to get to know a few of my neighbors.

I met Marie, who lives just across the hall. She is confined to a wheelchair; she has cerebral palsy.

I started to go over every once in a while. It was hard for Marie to cook from her wheelchair, so I would bring over food I had made. Some nights I would even stay and eat with her. It was good for both of us to feel some companionship in the big city.

One night, we got to talking about our husbands and our children, and we lost track of the time. As I was leaving, a little later than usual, I asked Marie if there was anything she needed before I went back to my apartment.

She didn’t answer right away. I think she felt awkward about asking. But then she said, “Every night, before I go to sleep, I have to take off my braces, and then my shoes, and then my socks. If I do it by myself, it takes me about an hour. At night, when I am tired, I have to stop every ten minutes or so to rest. But it’s so hard to get a good night’s sleep if I don’t take them off.” Marie paused, a little embarrassed by her confession. “I don’t like to ask, but if you wouldn’t mind taking off my braces for me, I would get to sleep so much easier.”

Now it was my turn to feel awkward. I didn’t know what to say. It was such a simple thing, it had never occurred to me to ask about Marie’s legs. Like most people, I am a little uncomfortable when people have a disability. I don’t want to ask the wrong question or seem insensitive. When I don’t know the right thing to say or ask, I usually say nothing at all.

Of course I agreed, and it took me only a few minutes to do what Marie had to do, every night, alone, for over an hour. I took off each brace, and then each shoe and sock, and put them by the bed for Marie to put on the next morning. Marie had tears in her eyes. I think I did, too.

“No one has helped me do this for a very long time,” she shared. “Not since my husband passed away. Now, tonight, I can get a good, long sleep. Thank you so much.” I put my hand on hers. I may have whispered a little prayer for her, maybe for both of us, and then I went home.

I realized I suddenly felt so very grateful for everything in my life.

Now, sitting in our circle in early winter, Gina said, “I started thinking about all the times people have been so kind to me, offering some helping hand, a word of encouragement, a simple kindness when I most needed it. For me,” she said, “this is the real meaning of the holidays. To do those simple kindnesses for one another. What else,” she wondered, “could ever be more important?”

Listening with Children

M
y friend Anne Fullerton told me the following story:

I was asked to help a first-grade teacher who was having problems in her class. The teacher explained there were many children in her class who had a hard time focusing—even more than usual. She was an experienced, caring, and consistent teacher, but she didn’t feel she was making progress. She asked if I would come and work with them, perhaps help her uncover what was going on.

When I joined the class, I have no idea why I thought to ask these six-year-olds about “stress.” But when I did, one little girl immediately raised her hand. “Stress,” she said “is when you wake up late and you have to share the bathroom and your brother won’t come out and you can’t find your shoes and it’s getting late and your mom yells at you and you can’t find your homework and you don’t have time for breakfast and you hurry into the car and your brother shoves you over and you get to school just as the bell rings. That’s stress.”

Other students—remember, these are six-year-old children—chimed in with their own examples: “Having knots in your hair and having to rush, so your mother just pulled the comb through the knots until you cried; dad being late for work and yelling; having little brothers or sisters that you have
to help get ready but they won’t; not understanding what you are supposed to do on a test; not remembering how to subtract; not finding your pencil.” Still others spoke of global warming, guns, killing, smoking, and wars.

No wonder these young hearts and minds found it hard to focus in class. They had already learned to mimic and replicate patterns with no room for ease, curiosity, or delight—essential tools for any child’s capacity for learning, growing, or exploring.

They had not forgotten these things. When I asked what made them be less stressed and have more fun, these same children readily produced delightful images of sitting on someone’s lap, talking, running around, climbing, singing, listening to stories, playing outside, dreaming, having nothing to do, not having to rush, or just being outside and taking a big breath.

We always wanted to do everything we could for our children. We wanted to provide them with the most opportunities, the most stimulating education, the most important skills, the most supportive relationships, and the best use of their time. And, like most parents who can afford to, we arranged for music, art, gymnastics, science and other essential lessons, soccer, baseball, and swimming teams, carefully organized play dates, and trips to museums and botanical parks. We wanted to take advantage of all that the community had to offer.

Our eldest son, when he was about six or seven, tolerated this obsession for the first month or so, and then told us he wanted time to be at home, to play outside, and to be by himself, and he would like to choose
one
after-school activity and only one. We were stunned. We felt that we would be neglecting our parental duty if we didn’t force him to take advantage of all that was available. He said it was no fun, and in fact
it was worse than no fun; it made him mad and sad and he couldn’t like any of it. He said he didn’t see how that could be good for him, and why did we keep thinking it would be when it wasn’t?

How hard it was for us to let go of all of the beliefs that the programmed life was the right path and that listening to our child, hearing his plea, was too indulgent. Of course, all our lives soon became much more enjoyable, more playful, and more abundant when we responded to his request, allowed him some ownership over his time and his sense of what would be fulfilling in his life.