Giving and Bartering

If I give and expect something in return, then I am not giving -- I am bartering. If I give without care of what is returned to me, then I am truly giving.

When personal expectations are tangible, they are easy to recognize and avoid. It’s the subtle ways that confound me – the times when I am bartering for praise, acceptance, self-worth, or validation that turn my gift from a gracious outpouring of spirit into a mere transaction limited in its ability to impact another person.

If I feel anxious when I give, wondering if the gift is “good enough” or if the recipient will respond positively, then I am bartering and not giving. If I cannot give without hearing a kind word or some sort of thanks, then I am bartering and not giving. If I insist upon a particular reaction to my gift, if my world is shattered or created by your response to my gift, then I am bartering and not giving.

When I am bartering, I make excuses for the “quality” of my gift. I offer disclaimers, in case of flaws I could not anticipate. I hold back parts of myself in order to potentially make the gift more palatable. I soften or harden the essence of the gift, not for your sake but for mine.

For if you have something I want – essentially, your favor of me as a person – the gift will be compromised to some degree. Your potential reaction will change what I give you. Instead of offering you something authentic, from the heart, the something that I see that you need, I am tempted to give you whatever will give me the reaction in turn that I so much desire.

Gifts are extensions of myself expressed through whatever means I possess – my talents, my skills, my advice, my perspective, my comfort, my material resources, my support, my presence in your life. They are things that belong to me, now given to you for your benefit. Bartering is using those things that belong to me for my own eventual benefit.

Giving has power and can transcend the gift in terms of its impact. Bartering has only limited power and cannot get you more than you’ve paid for.

Dangerous Blessings

On the spiritual journey, nothing is more dangerous than blessings.

Getting good things tempts us to put down roots and stop walking, in an attempt to make the good feelings of the moment last forever. The gift in the sparkly wrapping paper, rather than the actual Gift Giver, absorbs our attention. The thrill of deep experiences demands that we savor the gift again and again, slowly losing our awareness of other things.

Good things are good things, and so worthy of enjoyment, but never as the center of life. With every good thing comes the very real danger that we will cling to it and make it the focus of our desire. And when that happens, the good thing eventually loses its savor, like food left out to spoil on the counter. Leave it out for a bit, and it will sicken you. Leave it out long enough, and it will kill you.

I don’t think it an exaggeration to say that people focused on their own gratification – even in what could be considered a good or “average” way -- has caused more damage than those actively bent on hurting others. Chasing down a religious experience, wanting to feel “in love” with someone, wanting even the average hallmarks of success: When these things become central rather than icing on the cake, they taint the rest of life.

When I opened presents under the tree on Christmas morning, which did I love more? The present itself, or my parents, for giving me the present? Which should I have loved more?

And which, ultimately, is worth pursuing?

Final States

“Sure, go ahead and toss me into the drink, I don’t care.”

That was Guy talking. Guy is a middle-aged Jewish guy spared from baldness only by a tenacious scalp of wispy black peach fuzz. And with his slight but noticeable paunch, round nose, spectacles and biker boots, he rather resembles the fastest oversized elf on two wheels.

Guy lived much of his earlier life in South Africa, after which he relocated to Israel for a number of years and then to the States. He’s someone you can’t help but tease, but who seems to thrive on the attention and often dishes it out before anyone else does – like painting a target on your back and shouting “Bring it on!”

Luckily for him, besides being articulate and witty, Guy’s immensely likeable. And his laugh is, unfortunately, infectious.

“Feeding me to the sharks is fine” he continued. “I wouldn’t know the difference.”

In Israel, according to Guy, they don’t use coffins. They just roll you up in a sheet, and then they dump you in the ground. The lucky ones get an undershirt and a pair of shorts.

It was about time I showed I was still paying attention. “I suppose that beats shelling out three grand for the Regency copper deluxe, with the quilted double lining for that extra layer of comfort.” Ergonomic coffins weren’t in vogue yet, but considering the American marketing mentality lately, it was only a matter of time.

“Actually, I’m going to fry,” Guy responded, triggering disturbing memories from a scene in The Green Mile and making me cringe. Guy’s humor was atrocious, true, but no one deserved that sort of punishment.

“You mean they’re going to bring you home in an urn and put you on the mantel,” I clarified after a moment.

“Actually, they’re going to take me out and scatter me in the water.” When I asked him if he had a place in mind, he shrugged. “The Gulf Stream, probably.”

Did I forget to mention that Guy loves to travel?

“It just wouldn’t be fair to the kids,” he continued. “What if I’m buried in Oshkosh and they want to move to Shangri-la? Every twenty years they’ll be doing a world pilgrimage simply out of guilt, to dump a few flowers on my grave, and then go home.

“But it’s more than that,” he finished, suddenly serious. “I don’t want to be tied down to one spot. I want them to be able to walk down the street, and maybe see a father with his kid, and think to themselves, ‘Hey, I remember my dad doing that with me.’ I want to be a part of them. I want them to know I’m always with them.”

Silence. After all, this isn’t exactly your typical cubicle conversation during a programming break.

“Have you ever considered freeze-drying?” I said eventually. “They’ve had wonderful successes with pets. Maybe your kids could have you put in a nice pose in the corner of the living room, and when their friends come over and jump right out of their skin, they’ll say, ‘Oh, that’s just Dad.’ You’ll never be alone, I’m sure they’ll hang lots of coats on you.”

Guy didn’t bite on the freeze-dry idea, nor was he keen on having his ashes mixed with ink and used to print a complete issue run of a Marvel comic book (something which, I’m amazed to say, has already happened once).

But you see, Guy’s really not much for hard copy. He’s too much of a talker. He’s always been an audio book guy.

The Suit

There is a suit that hangs in back of your closet.
The clothes that you picture yourself wearing
when you periodically dare to picture yourself.

And when wearing your suit, you are
Smarter than your test scores show.
Wiser than your actions.
More capable than your list of accomplishments.
Funnier than your jokes.
More gregarious than your friends would want to admit.
More perceptive than that constant bruise on your forehead.
More sensitive than your clumsy hugs.

The suit is the you that you know exists
If you simply knew that it might fit.

But it's uncomfortable to wear a suit that is somewhat mis-sized.
And so it hangs in the closet
Untouched and unwrinkled.
It's easier to stare at it now and again
And keep it to yourself
Than to try it on and stretch it a little
Risking a laugh or two as you take it for a public stroll
Or maybe the occasional sprawl in the city sewer
With your ankles showing and your belt hitched too tight.
Until one day, perhaps one fine magnificent day,
You might grow into it
And find that the suit
Incredibly, indelibly
impossibly
fits you
after all

Pride

Pride is a funny thing and can appear in many guises. Everyone recognizes the nefarious version, the sort that twiddles its mustache and flares its cape, or perhaps blares its own horn in order to be heard above the other host of quacking brass.

But there are more dangerous forms of pride, the subtle types, the ones that grow like weeds among flowers, or rust eating at the underneath of your car, unnoticeable until the beautiful blossoms are squeezed to tapioca or your dash suddenly collapses through the floorboards, your tires rolling merrily off in all directions.

Nuances, perhaps, but reducing your contributions to the world nonetheless.

For example, setting the bar for your performance at a certain level, and not being willing to operate below that level even when the task MUST be accomplished. No one loves to do something poorly, but there are those who refuse to do something merely adequately, tacitly demanding that every swing send the ball sizzling over the far-field fence and drive the spectators up to their feet in admiration. When your perfectionism begins to hamper your ability to get the job done solidly, if not as good as you wish, then pride has taken a priority to the work.

Or perhaps not contributing to an ongoing discussion in which you are involved, because you are afraid of making a mistake, being misunderstood, irking someone, or maybe even looking stupid for not being able to speak from an informed point of view on every angle of the conversation.

Of course, if you already knew everything about the topic in question, there would be no need for a discussion, would there? We all understand that, even if it doesn’t drive away the deep-seated urge to be seen as intelligent and perceptive. Still, withholding your contributions for the sole purpose of preserving your image is another case of placing yourself ahead of the work to be done.

And other things as well. Demanding that others meet standards they can’t possibly meet, because their current skill levels or temperaments aren’t up to it. Or not building a relationship with someone merely because you feel as if you’re a terrible conversationalist and hate that awkward feeling of fumbling for words. Or letting others drive your schedule or performance level, when you firmly believe your efforts are better spent elsewhere.

The more I step outside my own life, the more I find that to accomplish anything of value means that I must set aside myself, my reputation, my self-image, the ways I desperately want to be perceived by others. Life is too short, there is too much to accomplish, there is no room for those sorts of aspirations involving the reputation I desire.

I have to make a choice about what is more important to me. I have to let something go.

Either I cling to promoting that desirable image of myself – that always wise, intelligent, perfect paragon of excellence that I’d like to be seen as -- or I accept my shortcomings and time restraints, the gracelessness of being human, and instead throw myself into the work that I believe so desperately needs to be done, all those ways in which I can contribute uniquely to the world, even when my efforts sometimes feel barely adequate.

Knowledge is Power?

I used to think that knowledge was power. That, if people’s perceptions were widened or their understanding deepened in some way, then life itself would change, that society would improve, that the world had a chance to reach a better place. It’s an easy thing for a scientist or an artist – someone who traffics in ideas – to believe.

But I no longer believe that. Knowledge is potential, yes, but it is certainly not power.

I have known too many people in my time who placed great stock in what they knew and yet had little effect on the world around them. I have spoken with too many “ivory tower” intellectuals who could create a decent argument but whose lives were no different than the lives of those with whom they would argue. I have known too many people who fought for certain ideals without incorporating them into their own lives.

Their presence in the world has been little more than sawdust scattered on dry ground. It has had no real impact.

Ideas are a dime a dozen. Everyone has some. But ideas are not the things that change the world. This is why so many people want to be writers, yet struggle with that goal. It’s easier to think about writing, to have ideas, than it is to actually write something down and then stake one’s reputation on it.

The commitment to the idea, not the idea itself, is what makes the difference between nothing and something.

You can push a rock to the top of a cliff, and it becomes a bundle of potential energy waiting to be released. This is knowledge.

But until you commit to pushing that rock over the edge, commit to taking the consequences for that push – until you commit to taking some irrevocable action driven by that knowledge – the energy is useless, dormant. It might as well not even exist. It has changed nothing.

In today’s world, we are inundated by knowledge. We are less often confronted with those who can make profound impacts because they have committed to basing their lives on the knowledge they’ve uncovered.

So the question is, what do you perceive to be true, and what are you willing to risk to see that truth become real?

Letting Go

Getting older seems, to me, to be the process of learning to let go.

Whether I like it or not, there are boundaries upon my life that are not of my own choosing, and aging is one of those boundaries. There are white hairs amid the few brown that remain, there are pains in my body that I did not use to have, my energy is no longer drawn from a bottomless pool.

When I hike, I can no longer skip from rock to rock and not feel it later in my ankles. When I exercise, I must stretch first, or risk pulling something that will not immediately heal. The body just doesn’t repair itself as quickly as used to. I actually have to use my head, figure out a better way to do something, not just rely on brute force, determination, and limitless energy.

Yes, I can still move, still do the things I want to do, these are only hints of mortality flashing through my mind like the dappled shadows of branches dancing in a descending wind, but they are still palpable and present, ground into my bones.

Not yet. Not yet, they whisper, but one day. One day… Eventually, a man’s strength fails. Age makes this clear.

It can be depressing to feel as if something were slipping from your grasp. That sense of impending physical loss, of being trapped in a slowly disintegrating prison, can be overpowering. I look at my grandfather, who expressed his life through sports, through bodily activity; it’s hard to imagine what he must go through today, with that body almost immobile.

But age brings other things with it. The boundaries I did not acknowledge as a youth still existed, whether or not I acknowledged them. Now those boundaries and their ramifications are coming into focus.

Knowing that time and energy is limited gives me the impetus to spend my resources more usefully. A child will drink all of his water for the day’s journey in the first hour, running to and fro, and then go thirsty. But when you know that you only have half a canteen, you conserve what you can and stop wasting resources on things that do not matter as much. You learn to evaluate your life, determine what is important. You learn to prioritize your activities.

And you learn to let some things go.

It’s another great paradox of life that productivity and purpose are not increased by possessing limitless resources but by perceiving and accepting one’s inherent limitations. The more limits we possess, the more we discover what really matters to us and what is worth doing.

Age brings our lives into focus.