I’m usually garbage at keeping New Year’s resolutions. I make them. Forget them. Vaguely recall them in early February. Make a half-assed effort to revive them. And by Valentine’s Day or so, I’ve completely given up. “New Year, New Me” lasts roughly six weeks.
And then I’m stuck with old me. Same habits. Fairly similar routine. A bit disappointed that the holiday season is all over with so long to go until it comes ‘round again. So, rather than go through the whole ordeal of creating a resolution and ditching it from start to finish, I’ve decided to do something this year that might actually be achievable. I’ve decided to adopt one simple philosophy to guide my decision making: this year, I choose joy.
To put a finer point on it, there are a million decisions each year, each day even. Some of them are real dilemmas. Some of them are just options to avoid responding in anger or disdain. Others are opportunities to avoid annoyance and focus on the positive. Whatever the situation, my goal is to choose the option that will bring joy into my life.
In point of fact, I think joy is something I’ve long underrated. I slipped into a habit over the years of putting joy on hold. I defer joy until later and hope that it works out. I put off the things that make me feel alive and promise myself that I’ll get around to them at some point. Practicality over passion. I focus on the negative or allow annoyance to creep in, and ignore a response that might actually allow for joy.
In short, I ignore joy when it’s easy, and that makes it much more difficult to come back around to it when it becomes a choice that’s hard. But life is full of tough choices. So, why not opt for those that add joy to my life, rather than subtracting joy from it?
I get that it’s a rhetorical question I’m asking myself at this point. Yet, it’s taken years to arrive at this conclusion. So, I count it progress. And what can we hope to achieve in a year if not progress?
So, welcome 2025. I have zero control over what you will bring. Good or bad. But I can control how I respond to all of the things. And this year, I choose joy.
I always feel a bit wistful once Christmas has passed. In the weeks leading up to the big day, I listen to Christmas music on repeat, make sure that the tree is decorated, and tend to the odds and ends of decorating the house to make sure that it’s appropriately festive – in addition to braving the crowds and finding the last minute gift that has invariably slipped my mind.
This year was no exception. I picked my son up from Indiana just a few days before the holiday. My girlfriend spent Christmas with our family for the first time. And the new place I’ve rented was bustling with activity and family more so than it ever has been. So, there were a lot of firsts this holiday. And in the rush to pull off the big event, I found it difficult to remain present and soak up the memories that were being made amid the chaos.
But that’s the funny thing about time. There’s no pause button. And time doesn’t care whether we were able to soak up the moments or not. Try though I might, I can’t grasp the sands of time and put them back atop the hour glass. They fall with a constant flow and the best we can do is appreciate the seconds as trickle away.
I suppose this is true of life more broadly. When I think about Christmas a year ago, I had no idea what the new year had in store. I came to OK from Indiana, rather than living here. And my girlfriend who joined us for the holiday, I didn’t know she existed. I suppose it’s true that I could have grasped at the sand but I wouldn’t have been able to appreciate all of the good that was still to come. So, while it’s not possible to hit pause on time, one wonders if it’s even worth the bother.
We simply don’t know what tomorrow holds. Trying to hang on to what has passed hinders our ability to embrace the future. So, I guess that while I’m still a bit wistful that Christmas 2024 has come and gone, I can’t help but be hopeful for all that lies ahead. As this year draws to a close, and a new chapter begins, it seems appropriate to sup some coffee, and smile for all of the memories we made.
I saw a gaggle of crows outside my office window this morning. They foraged in the grass, looking for food, I assume. Either that or looking for whatever crows look for on sunny fall days. With expert practice, they flipped the leaves with their long beaks and nuzzled their way into the grass underneath the leaves.
After a time they became bored, strutting about the lawn before taking flight in the direction of the sun.
This morning I read that the midterm elections are tightening with all signs pointing toward buoyed Republican prospects next Tuesday. Perhaps sensing the inevitable, President Biden and the Democrats are bemoaning the news, warning Americans that potential Republican gains are simply “dark forces that thirst for power.” Meanwhile, most Americans are simply fed up with both parties, and seem to think that no matter who wins they will do a piss-poor job of governing the country.
With war still raging in Ukraine, inflation running rampant, and grocery prices soaring, the only glimmer of hope that even CNN can offer us is that avocados are getting cheaper.
How I envy those crows.
The crows didn’t seem to care much about who wins next week’s midterms. I suspect that they would gladly poop on whatever political party is in power, and fly off cawing to one another about the reactions from the humans on the ground far below them.
They’re also wonderfully content. They feel no need to annex another crow’s territory, or threaten their existence with nuclear weapons.
And they take sustenance from the world around them. The crows have no use for money unless it’s a paper bill that might make good lining for a nest. Grocery prices, gas prices, mortgages, credit card bills – all of the things that our more ‘sophisticated’ species takes for granted as part of every day life – have no relevance to my black-feathered friends.
I’m not sure that anyone still reads this anymore. The old blog has suffered from its share of neglect over time, despite major upgrades over the past two years. Truth be told, I actually thought of shutting the whole thing down after a couple of incidents. Suffice it to say, my online writings have caused issues for some over the years – but that’s another story for another time.
Yet, here I am, in an age where free speech seems to be no longer en vogue, pecking away at a keyboard, sharing my unsolicited thoughts with the internet and perhaps even the metaverse before too long. Given society’s penchant for shutting down opposing points of view, it strikes me as more critical than ever that we brave few and soldier on, and share whatever strikes our fancy – no matter whom we may offend.
What caught my attention of late is the subject of worry.
For many years, worry consumed me. I think everyone worries to some extent, but my worry became paralyzing. I think this was especially common during the pandemic given some polls out gauging youth depression rates, and some of the latest estimates that we are actually closer to the beginning of the pandemic, even now, than the end.
Ancient Wisdom for Modern Problems
There’s no panacea to the problem of worry. It’s simply a reality of the human condition. In dealing with my own struggles, however, I’ve often found and drawn comfort from my faith, which has its roots in the wisdom of the ancients. The challenge, in this case, is to apply ancient wisdom to modern problems. Fortunately for me, Jesus has a lot to say about worry.
“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life…”
Jesus (Matthew 6.25(a))
Matthew 6.25 came across my radar of late via TikTok. A fact that I think would make Jesus smile. Thirst trap, indeed. At any rate, it certainly found its way on to my desk at an appropriate time when I am very anxious (viz., worried) about a good many things in my life. Given my situation, the imperative quoted above struck me as an especially important thing to reflect on.
To add some background, the quote actually follows from the previous section where Jesus warns against efforts to serve both God and money. The point of the verses is that such a duality of service is simply not possible. Of course, that never keeps us from trying.
The question that follows logically, assuming we choose to serve God rather than money is what then? How do we live? How do we buy clothes, pay bills, buy food, save for retirement, etc. What will my kids do when I’m gone? For that matter, how long do I have left? Nothing sparks the existential dread we harbor inside quite like a pandemic where death seems to be all around. How can we live, let alone choose to serve God, without cash? The questions are unspoken at this point in the section but immediately after, Jesus gives us the lesson above. And it’s a simple lesson, elegant even: “Don’t worry about it.”
Elegant though it may be, the lesson can seem a bit quaint, and at stark odds with modernity. We worry about many things that would be inconceivable to the folks in Jesus’s day. We live lives that are much more complex and complicated than they were in the first century C.E., at least in our own estimation.
Nevertheless, it’s called ancient wisdom for a reason. The lesson is timeless. Or rather, it exists outside of time. A beacon from beyond, challenging our preconceptions of what it means to truly live.
The fact is, worry is an insidious demon. Not in the horns and fire sense, but in its subtle ability to take over our lives and destroy them, dream by dream. By contrast, the message from Jesus is intended to be one of liberation. Freedom. The antidote to worry is to not play its game.
Worry operates by placing tremendous stress upon our souls, mind, and our bodies. The stress that results is ultimately derived from fictions that we choose to believe are facts. We may grieve or regret something that has happened. We worry about what may come. Worry coerces us into believing that our worst fears are inevitabilities and this simply isn’t so.
In the end, we are only responsible for the present. That’s all we can control. This point underlies all of the wisdom and beauty that follows in the remainder of the chapter. I hope to unpack some of this in the posts that follow.
For now, the take home point is a counterintuitive one. Despite our view of life’s complexity, despite every emotion and temptation that besets us when life seems to be going awry – even so, it is still better to be a peace with our lot, rather than worry about what may come.
Jesus seems to be telling us, don’t worry because all is well.
My son was diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder earlier this week.
While the diagnosis was not a complete surprise, to say that the news was personally devastating would be an understatement. After five years of explaining away the symptoms, after five years of hoping and anticipating that Clark would simply “outgrow” some of his peculiar behaviors, an expert from the University of Indiana’s Riley Children’s Hospital summarily crushed those hopes with the click of a mouse, and the stroke of a pen.
Naturally, I was crushed.
I can’t speak to how other, better parents would have responded to such news. For my part, my mind went into a spiral with a massive, neon “NO CURE” sign flashing before my eyes while I tried to sleep. Mostly, though, I thought about the horror stories of autism that I had read:
Incidents of trigger happy cops murdering autistic men of color for simply having a blank stare. (Seems like a double whammy since Clark is both American Indian and autistic).
And even the latest news out of Miami-Dade County that would see Clark enlist in a “voluntary registry” with the police as a child ‘suffering’ from mental illness. (No way in hell).
Would he even live to be as old as his mother, and reach the ripe old age of 36?
I didn’t sleep much on Monday night.
The following day, I spent much of it trying to process the news, and how to sort out my own response going forward. Worrying certainly wasn’t helping.
Rather than worry, I tried to think about the language I would use when describing Clark’s diagnosis in my day-to-day interactions. It seemed wise to use the proper terms – both for my own edification, and given the fact that our society is fraught with offense. These days, people tend to get pissed off by nearly anything that rustles their jimmies. I certainly didn’t (and don’t) want to offend other parents of special needs kids unintentionally. Better to save a good offense for when you mean it.
In coming to terms with the terms of Clark’s diagnosis, the word that wanted glibly to sneak into my vernacular was the word tragedy. The Cambridge University dictionary defines tragedy as follows:
I think the first definition is plainly eliminated. Clark isn’t dying anymore than we are all dying. And if the photo above is any indication, he isn’t really suffering either. His mischievous laugh, and megawatt smile certainly speak to the contrary. The third definition is also eliminated – at least until Clark decides to become an english major during college.
So really, the only way to classify autism as a tragedy is if one buys the second definition, and the narrative that autism is a situation or result that is ‘bad.’ And I’m not really convinced of this either.
It’s very difficult to talk about the results and outcome of a life and call them bad when Clark hasn’t really begun to live. Sure, as life milestones go he was born. He learned to walk. He has mastered potty-training (thank God). He’s even developing speech and language skills. But the rest of the broad canvass that is his life is wonderfully, beautifully blank.
Now, it could be that his diagnosis will enable him to make a positive impact on the lives of many. I suppose it could be the opposite. After all, no one wants to think of raising the next dictator, but somewhere in the world there’s a couple or a parent who is doing exactly that. Regardless, it seems misguided to use a term like ‘tragedy’ to define a life that has not yet truly begun. Clark is five years old. His concerns this summer are when he will go swimming, and whether he can have only two Go-Gurts or perhaps sneak a third during breakfast. It’s a bit dramatic to say that his condition is a tragedy.
Having reached that conclusion I calmed down a bit. I did some more investigating. I was intrigued to see that there are scores of parents and autistic folks who agree that tragedy is NOT how they would describe their lives, or their kids. From one parent, I learned that I’ve basically been doing everything wrong since Clark was born. From another, I was inspired to see that maybe I’m actually doing alright, and that perhaps triumph is a better ‘t’ word to describe Clark.
Given the disparate reactions, I was relieved to confirm a lingering suspicion: no one has cornered the market on how to respond to adversity – particularly when it relates to medical conditions affecting loved ones. And especially situations that no one can control.
In all, I can’t say that I have any more answers than I did almost a week ago Monday evening.
But I can say that I love my son. And that as long as I draw breath, I will strive to given him every advantage that I can, and meet every need that he has. Despite the seriousness of the news, it’s a comfort to see that, in some ways, nothing has changed at all.
Pax Plena 