"Is somebody else sitting here, little lady?" asks the guy, whose name turns out to be Hank. I'm not changing names to protect the innocent. Neither Hank nor I would fall into that particular category. Absent-mindedly, I say "Sure" (said 'the spider to the fly'). And down, he sits, at these glued-together Oakland Airport tables. Now, mumbling into his Miller draft, he groans: "Got a 'hitch in my get-along.'" I can see that my plan to turn my three-hour airport wait into unplugging, recharging fodder,' is headed toward the backseat.
And, yet, I couldn't resist this unexpected guest, sporting a straw cowboy hat, gray cowboy shirt, turquoise and silver ring and belt buckle, above worn jeans and scuffed boots. Hank tells me he's on his way back home to Phoenix.
"You a writer, or something?" he asks, noticing my gymnastic struggle with pen and paper. His inquiry reminds me of the mosquito hovering around your ear on a hot July evening, and you, without a fly swatter. Good thing, though. I would have missed the fireworks.
"Yes, I am," I say, making a feeble attempt to return to the empty tablet, where, instead of words, I am accumulating a sizeable collection of doodles.
"Real books? Or, some of those fake-things, what do 'them there' self-published, or some such lies? You don't write, do ya, for them internet poor excuses for real papers, do ya? The whole 'kit-and-caboodle' of 'em is just another crock of horse puckey."
"In your words, Hank, yes, I'm guilty of writing 'real books,' and articles for the Internet, the Huffington Post, to be exact. Why do you ask?"
By now, Hank's turning red as a beet. It's unclear whether it's the beer or upset fanning some flames. "Oh, not that crap!" says he, "that Commie, Pinko, Liberal puke for socialists! My daughter, the one who ran off to New York, and has these 'high-falootin' ideas about writing for them, she e-mailed my wife and said I should read some g.d. bull about 'unplugging.' I'll do that when God makes hell freeze over. Not in a pig's eye, are you going to see me read one of 'em.!"
You can't make this stuff up. O.K., so now I'm hooked. "Pattern Interruptus" comes back to me from last week. Who, again, was that masked person who wrote about what to do in similar situations? ("Loving Out Loud, Even with Impossible People") Oh, that would be me, known today as 'little lady.'
Scanning my failing memory banks, I cut to the chase back to Howard Thurman's words: "I want to be more loving in my heart." O.K., Howard, sock it to me. "I want to be more loving in my heart," I say silently to myself, dredging up the years of meditation practice, returning my focus to simply breathing, being, not reacting. Ignoring the whole sink-hole of the HP topic, (for now), and my plan to get some writing done. Hoping the Harbormaster would have sent me a decent shipment for the "Unplug and Recharge" series, which is not happening while I'm otherwise occupied with what's before me, I surrender. Maybe something will come later, I tell myself. As Ram Dass put it, best to "be here, now."
What is, is. I turn to Hank: "Your daughter ran away from home? Must have stirred up tough stuff." I continue doodling.
"Darn tootin," says Hank. Motioning to the waitress for another 'brewsky,' he continues: "Go figure kids. You give your whole g.d. life to them, and then they run off to do pure foolishness." She should have stayed on the ranch. Her mother's got cancer. Needs help. I'm no nurse, what am I supposed to do? That's woman's work. She should be home helpin' out."
Side-stepping this landmine, I ask: "How long you been married, Hank?" He looks away. "The cancer's bad, all through her belly. We been hitched 39 years."
"That must be hard, Hank, for you, your wife, your daughter. No one ever knows how to handle those breaks, everyone's way is different." By now, I'm nearly whispering. Almost inaudibly, staring at his weathered boots grazing the floor, he says: "Yeah, but...she should be here with us."
Carpe Diem. Now, it's my turn: "Hank, you strike me as a good man, hiding a tender heart under layers of being the tough guy. Do you think it's an accident you sat down at this table? There are other places to sit, you know." (To which he says, 'Huh?") I continue, as if I've got the floor, which I most definitely do: "Hank, if you want to sit somewhere else, I don't blame you. I won't take it personally. But, if you want a gift, I've got something for you, although this medicine might not taste so yummy right away. Your choice. Which?"
Removing his cowboy hat from atop his crew-cut, he says: "O.K., I'll stay. Shoot. What 'cha' got?"
"I'm not going to shoot, Hank. One thing I know for certain is writers write because they are called to express themselves that way. If your daughter ran away and needs to write non-fiction, isn't it possible that she's trying to talk to you, your wife, and needs some distance to do it? Isn't it possible that her mother's health is scaring the you-know-what out of her? Isn't it possible that you can be a pretty intimating cowboy, even though that's not what seems to be in your heart?"
"Hank, all I'm saying is that maybe what's happening in your family is giving you all a second chance to learn better bridge building. What's most important? All I'm saying is that maybe your daughter and wife are saying something to you, your daughter, through writing, and your wife, through her body. Maybe, to do so, they, and you, need to unplug from judgment, recharge your batteries, your faith in something better for each of you, and get on with it. I don't know, Hank, how much you love your daughter, but I bet, if something happened to her, God forbid, like the death of my own son, I'd bet you'd move mountains to help her. She's still here, just like you, and Sylvia. What's the worst that could happen if you gave your heart a chance to have its say?"
Hearing the overhead speaker announcing my flight's boarding call, I gather my bags, tablet, and pen. "Got to go, Hank. Let me give you something I love that's helping me in my own family, which Howard Thurman said: "I want to be more loving in my heart." I do, too, Hank. You with us?
For the first time, Hank looks me in the eye, and gives a little, nearly toothless smile. "Yep," he says, shaking his head. "I guess I've got work to do just like you." Amen.
Now, I really can't resist. "One more thing, Hank. You might want to check out the HP. There are some decent tips for what you say you want. Safe journey."
Be careful what you ask for! What I keep relearning is that every time I write, or do keynotes, or research, the very subject is like a magnetic attractor, testing me. Like Hank, I've got lots of work to do. How about you? How have you managed your challenges that interrupt your unplugging, recharging time? Join the conversation, and pay it forward. I'm listening.
Love, Cara
To be continued.
To save time, click on Become A Fan. Comments, most welcome. For more, contact me at dr.carabarker@gmail.com, carabarker.net, and join "The Love Project." Coming soon: a time-tested program: "Coming Home to You," "The Art of Authenticity," "The Next Step," and others, and this summer: a teleconference series culled from your requests and comments. Follow Dr. Cara Barker on Twitter: www.twitter.com/DrCaraBarker
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Russell Bishop: Are You Waiting To Be Empowered?
Elaine Aron, Ph.D.: How to Find a Good Therapist
Mark Eckhardt: PBS's 'This Emotional Life': Why Zen?
Personal development - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Kudos to you for once again being brave, and stepping into a realm most people would be content to leave to silence.
Love
k
Much love to you,
Cara
Wonderful reminder that all we know for sure is that we think we know what we think we know. I've got this odd habit of thinking I know things and that the words I use are real.
Respectfully,
little beother
Love,
Cara
I'm ever grateful for your reflections, wisdom, and love pouring through your words. This is the 'heat.'
Love,
Cara
A tip of my Montana cowboy hat to ya. Most of those old boys are like, pardon the expression, cowpies. Crusty on the outside but soft and warm inside. They just need to be reminded of the fact.
(I suspect the cowpie thing is a bit different for us pinko, commie HP folk right?)
If its recharging you want, get to Montana this summer. Sleep under the stars and gaze into the milky way.
If love is the verb for peace you must be pretty darn peaceful.
Big hugs,
Bill
I want to remind you of one thing, Bill: I just ADORE you.
Love and blessings,
Cara
Bravo for how you coped with Hank and even turned it into what seemed to be a fulfilling encounter for you. I need to hang around more Hank types. I've got a short fuse for self-important tough guys who pride themselves on ignorance. Associating more with them will definitely help me work on grace and I certainly need the work.
When I first read this several hours ago, I began to respond but couldn't get my head to settle down enough to think clearly. I awoke this morning after my monkey mind did and it had a head start that took me hours to overcome. I sat to meditate but couldn't let go. Then I did some chores around the house to distract myself. That didn't work either. So I figured I'd accept that my monkey mind was in charge for a while and I might as well get something done. I started polishing my motorcycle. 20 short minutes into polishing chrome, my mind settled down. Now that I'm back to feeling like myself and my brain is functioning, I remember that I'm supposed to pick up my guitar when I need to settle down my emotions.
Your friend,
little brother
The one thing I've nticed about what you describe as these 'self-important tough guys' is that undereath the tough mask, is generally so much fear, and frustration. Hank was riduled with fear, doubt, and, even a rather charming side, (not intentional, I'm sure) in that he wants more from life, but is clueless that he's 'stepping his foot in 'it.' Actually, as his story unfolded, I found myself entering a territory that I did not expect in the beginning; an odd kindred sort of knowing. He reminds me of my rough edges, those times when I feel like that 'bull in the china shop' in areas where I've not learned the lingo. (classic for me would be 'chit-chat' events, which I'm horrible with that whole dance.) So, I guess you could say that I can relate to that aspect of Hank, as well as the part that wants to do better, but does not know how. I do believe that he was right about both of our need to grow. It's not dull, is it, Mike?
Much love and appreciation your way,
Cara
It has a scene where John Reed is trying to get union workers organized and a militia group with pitchforks is about to 'end the party'. They ask: and what are YOU doing here? He says: I write. And with a punch in his face he gets his response: no. you wrong.
It then turned out, however, that you were about to do even more important things than reminding us of that immortal scene on celluloid.
Like, creating another.
Except that: your story is real. And so is Hank. (In fact, it's so real that there are probably many Hanks.)
What say I? Don't know. All I can say is that if I had been in your slot and had managed to come up with that incredibly disarming dialogue, then I'd be mighty glad that the boarding call had absolved me of the need to find a better ending to the conversation.
This is tough stuff. As usual, from you. All I can say is that people are likely much better off just for getting a grip on the fact that they are, in fact, living their own lives. And the lives of those dear to them.
You, know, my friend, I just, and I mean just, returned from another trip, about 20 minutes ago, which involved several legs of airport-ness: O'Hare, Sea-Tac, and LaGuardia. I can tell you this: the human condition is alive and well! Never a dull moment, and never without so many reminders of how grateful I am for opportunities to both widen 'the frame,' and use the 'zoom' lens, myself in this amazing human Theatre in which we all occupy choice space, timing and space. As I opened the HP and found your comments waiting, my heart is warmed. Many thanks for taking the time and mustering the energy. You are a friend, indeed, and a vital companion on the Path.
Peace, love and blessings,
Cara
I just returned from NYC, and found your words waiting. Oh, my, you capture the truth of these situations in with such vivid detail and vital perspective. Frankly, Jude, I'm going to 'cook,' on what you've said, and see what might simmer over the next few weeks that might be useful.
Growth is demanding on so many levels, including the ambivalence, and the second-thoughts that sprout when the fall-out hits home. I love the tune running through your head, because it captures the reality, and the challenge. What I love is that your guidance for this last chapter comes from meditation, and what follows. If you 'hear' the Call from that 'wee small Voice,' depend upon Truth as its informant.
I want you to know, Jude, that I'm pulling for you, and doing my own version of a one-person wave in your direction, even as I unpack!
Love to you,
Cara