scarcity v. prosperity

Yesterday I posted a link to an article. When I went on Amazon to read reviews of the book Scarcity I realized that I know someone who works at the company that published the book. I sent him an email and he was quick to send me a copy. I'll be reading the book in the next couple of days and sharing my thoughts. (I know. You're thrilled at the prospect.)

I've started to read Scarcity and I have to say it's all very interesting. But if you already feel as if you can't keep up with your bills and/or struggle in general you might not want to read this book which will only prove to you, chapter after chapter, what you already know. If you're struggling in any way what you want to do is this:

a. figure out how to be grateful for everything
b. adopt a prosperity mindset.

It's all well and good for privileged people to publish their ideas. I'm always for everyone becoming a raging success, and a book is a great way to generate passive income. However, I'm not sure I need men with advanced degrees, who have observed large swaths of data, coming to conclusions and not supplying a game plan.

Many years ago I realized that I didn't have a plan. If the following is true: "If you want to hear God laugh, make a plan." I've left God doubled over with laughter for the past decade. I've also managed to pay down ALL of my debt. I've managed to accrue savings. I've learend how to give a crap about myself and others. So God can laugh all s/he likes. I'm living here in the material world. I'm talking about flesh and blood, love and hate, conflict and resolution. I'm talking about being human and whenever possible, taking it up a notch or two.

It wasn't until a couple of years ago that I started to mull over prosperity. Technically, I might not be "rich" but right now I'm definitely wealthy. I have a deep appreciation for all the work I've done. I do right by my fellow people. (Do I f*ck up once in a while? Sure. Who doesn't?) Have I been hurt badly, even within the past couple of years? Yes. But the way I distinguish my current-self from my former-self: I no longer "go there." And let me tell you it required quite a bit of effort on my part. Being angry and lashing out wouldn've put me on the same level as the person who was causing harm. Holding myself to a slightly higher standard left me exhausted for a while and then one day I realized that not-engaging in the anger had paid dividends. It had left me with the ability to choose. And so I'm clear, I'm not talking about moral superiority. I'm talking about using your heart to bring you to another level. You will feel weird the first couple of times you do this. With practice this will become second nature.

The next time anyone treats you poorly, see if you can rise above it. (If you're in an abusive situation or relationship, this does not apply. In that case: get out.) I'm talking about the type of situations where there is room for growth. Even if the person with whom you have the problem can't move on, you might have the opportunity to do so.

Half a Life?

This weekend I read “Half a Life.” 

And I’ve finally had an insight. The reason I’m not thrilled with the books about life/death is because the book I want to read on the subject has yet to be written. So I’m gonna give a shot at writing it. (Not today. But soon.)

Back to “Half a Life.” Let’s start with the good things. This book is very well written. The book is written by a novelist so it reads like a memoir about a tragic accident filtered through a novelist’s head.

Why I had problems. The guy who wrote this book was in his middle years when he decided to write it and even though he’d spent the better part of 18 years obsessing over the accident, I felt he hadn’t plunged deeply enough into his trauma. What you’re reading is the flowery prose of one man’s inability to integrate the accident into his life. It reads like a person pinned in place. Sort of held there through guilt but also lacking any mechanisms to process that guilt. Is this story an elegy and an account of survival guilt? Mr. Straus never self-identifies as one in the throes of survivor guilt and as it’s his memoir isn’t it his job to label himself?

Not for nothing but there are grief counselors and barring any willingness to publicly discuss one’s problems there are a lot of self-help books out there. (I was kind of annoyed when this dude brushed off On Death and Dying.)

I’ve never accidentally (or intentionally) killed anyone with an automobile. I imagine it’s traumatic in ways I am unable to imagine and hope that I never come to know. But I still needed more. Really. Why does this guy never seem to grow up? His big aha moment is that a woman, a friend of Celine’s, remarks to him years later; that Celine had written in her journal, “Today I realized I’m going to die.” And in a weird way, I’m glad Celine had that epiphany. But I read it as: she encountered her mortality. She did not write (that we know of), “I realized I’m going to die today.” (Big difference.)

I really like the comment on Amazon labeled: The Day My Friend Died:

By Carolyn Watson Dubisch on October 17, 2010

It was a sunny day, not to be taken for granted in a place like Long Island, New York, in May 1988. My friend Celine was biking with a friend. She was training for a bike trip our youth group was planning, when she was struck by a car and killed. The driver was a classmate of hers, and since we went to different schools, I didn't know him. Celine always wore bowling shoes, and was outgoing, friendly and very religious. When, just days before the accident at a youth group meeting I didn't attend she announced "I'm not afraid to die. It could happen tomorrow and I'd be OK with that", her words seemed foreboding, and almost as if she'd beckoned death to her door.

When the accident was described in hushed whispers in the funeral home, she was said to have been biking in heavy traffic and there was just nowhere for the car to go but into her. I developed an irrational fear of biking, and of being fully satisfied with life, but I wasn't extremely close with Celine and life moved me forward from that day.

Last week I noticed an article about an author I'd read. He had a new book out, and I quickly clicked on the link, anticipating another historical fiction (a genre I love). As I read his interview I felt a falling sensation, like the world was shifting. Darin Strauss, author of Chang and Eng, a book I loved, wrote a memoir about killing Celine. Darin Strauss was the driver that day, and while I moved on from my friend's death Darin (and her family I'm sure) was left with the wreckage.

His book "Half a Life" begins with the accident, in which she inexplicably swerves into him and follows him through college and young adulthood where she haunts his conscience on a near daily basis. Learning more of her story (and his story) was a profound experience for me. As I read it I realized Celine did not beckon death to her door, she ran through that door on her own, and maybe bicycling is not as dangerous as I let myself believe.

>>> 

"I'm not afraid to die. It could happen tomorrow and I'd be OK with that." —Celine

Folks, we’re not talking about a Goth teen who walked around in the middle of summer wearing black clothing, reading Alistair Crowley, listening to Christian Death, writing poetry about committing suicide, and cutting her arms. Outwardly she displayed the signs of a normal teen girl.

That she darted into traffic, crossing 2 lanes of traffic into the oncoming car piloted by young Darin Strauss, is troubling. Her act could’ve been suicide.

 

I wonder if she did the opposite if what I’m striving for: perhaps she died old while in her youth?

 

if you've got the time, read this.

Here is a fascinating article.

Interesting to correlate the "poor" with the "busy." Not having enough time is a scarcity trap. I bet you never thought about that before. Here you were thinking you were cramming your life full and lo and behold, you're actually in deficit.

perfect biscuit

everything happens for a reason.

I was going to say that on Saturday “everything went wrong.” But on closer inspection I've realized there was just a smidge too much hyperbole in that sentence. So let’s just say that Saturday was a hot mess where about 70% of things went wrong. Something inside me just wouldn’t let every little thing that got in the way wreck my day. Had I been in my mid-30s and tried to survive a day of: delays, detours, highway shut downs, and touchy state troopers, I would’ve ended up locked up. I’m glad I’m no longer in my 30s.

And in the midst of all this there were some cool things. In the middle of the day (while driving) I caught Daryl McDaniel’s rebroadcast of the story he told on The Moth. 

I’ve never been a Sarah McLachlan fan but after hearing DMC’s story I thought I’d give it a try. I’m glad that her music saved his life but for me, no way. It has the reverse effect and makes me suicidal; but I was stoked to hear that she saved DMC’s life. When you get to the end of his story you learn why they were vibrating on the same level.

During the highway shut down after I’d managed to find the little country road that served as the detour, I sat in traffic. I used my really cool new camera, that I keep on me at all times, to take some photos.

As my day of perseverance wound down, I got home and thought. “Phew.” (I was actually mildly shocked that I hadn’t lost it. Maybe all the years of meditating are finally paying off?)  Next I decided that I would do several things: continue to listen to the World Series on the radio, bake something delicious, let go of whatever it was that was dogging me.

A few years back when I couldn’t write as well as I wanted (and I still struggle with that), I turned to baking. I knew that if I was in search of perfection I could find it in the kitchen or more specifically in the oven. I believe that we control the things we can control and then do our darnedest to let go of everything else. Saturday night I wanted comfort food. I wanted biscuits. When I thought some more I realized I was looking for an excuse to eat butter.

The homemade biscuits were chased with homemade custard. It was the top of the eighth, the game was tied, and time for me to to call it a day. A long weird day. What was supposed to be a drive of no more than 100 miles round trip and a total of 3 hours, ended up 350 miles and a total of 14 hours.