Apologies

Does love really mean never having to say you're sorry? What are you really doing when you apologize? And why do we need someone to say their sorry or apologize so badly?

I see a lot of parents tell their kids, "You say you're sorry right now! And this time, you'd better mean it!"

This irks me. And makes me wonder if people who grew up like that are the ones who believe in the old adage, Love means never having to say you're sorry, because their idea of sorry is so completely skewed by social mandates, and not by genuine thoughts and feelings. I do believe that love means being able to dump meaningless social mandates. It just makes me sad that some parents have turned apologies into one such mandate.

The original meaning of the word apology had nothing to do with saying you're sorry. The original Greek apologia meant a speech in one's defense. The old English sense of self-justification eventually morphed into a frank expression of regret for wrong done by the eighteenth century.

The big problem some people have with apologizing is they have a history of feeling forced into claiming mistakes that they genuinely don't feel they've done. It feels like a lie, a compromise of the self for the sake of others, an injustice for the sake of peace. And, after a while, one can only take so many injustices against themselves for the sake of peace before their self-worth crumbles or indignation explodes.

I'm also a big believer that happiness is grounded in increasing authenticity. If we feel we are lying with every apology, it's a step backwards in being authentic and open.

During the first few years of knowing my best friend, it used to bug me every time I would complain about something and in response, she'd say, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," I always corrected her.

"I know," she said. "I'm just sad for you. That's what I meant."

It became apparent that I didn't know the real meaning of the word sorry. It comes from the Old English word sarig, which means distressed, full of sorrow, or in mental or physical pain. Only since 1834 has an apologetic sense been tagged onto the meaning.

I like remembering the subtle differences between apology and sorry when patching up a relationship situation. I feel free to express sorrow for all sorts of things without feeling that blame or accountability are attached to them. I'm sorry all this happened. I'm sorry you got hurt. I'm sorry I didn't do it differently. I feel all this sorrow for the situation.

What good does expressing sorrow without accountability? It's a tie that can bind you back together. There's a reason we're supposed to mourn with those that mourn. Pain is more endurable if others admit similar emotions in reaction to the same circumstances. Our pain feels understood, validated, and normal. We can connect to the other person through not only a shared experience but also a similar reaction to that circumstance.

Is shared sorrow without accountability enough? Well, sometimes I think that would be nice. But, for the sake of future similar events, there needs to be an action plan to avoid repetition of mistakes. And, in order to do that, somebody has to admit the part they played needs to change the next go round. There are times when you look long and hard and discover that changing behavior wouldn't save you from the same problem again, in which case blame is pointless and actually harmful to people's sense of serenity.

One thing I have learned over the years is the secret power of accountability. If something happens and I think it's not my fault but someone else's, I am a victim and powerless to do anything to change it. I hate being a victim and don't want to be helpless if I can help it. So I have started looking for my own contribution in any unpleasant situation. When I find it, I grab hold, show it off, and publicly claim it as my own, expressing sorrow and intent to change it. This action makes me feel powerful, helps me find and know myself, and reassures me that I have some control in the universe and some control over my fate. Apologizing is an empowering action if done right. In this way, it is much like forgiveness. You think it's for the other person, but really, it's for your own mental benefit.

Why do we so badly want a sorry or apology from the other person? We want the sorry because we feel like they don't understand our pain. We feel disconnected from them. We want them to open up to us emotionally and form their half of the bridge of connection.

Same thing with an apology. We don't want this sort of thing to happen again, and we want them to claim some or all of the blame, so they'll take the initiative in preventing it in the future.

But what happens when they do? If they express their sorrow, do we open up and do the same, or do we remain closed off and aloof? Did we really want to connect with them, or did we just want to see them suffer for what they did to us?

If they offer an apology, do we dig deep, self examine and do the same, or do we leave all the culpability on their shoulders? If there is something we could have done differently, would we rather have the other person take more responsibility than they can handle and not fix the problem next time? Is our perception as innocent more important than a follow-up success?

And what happens when they don't? They don't express sorrow and they don't take any responsibility? This is trickier. If you don't care about the person or the relationship, you might just end things between you and walk away. What if you aren't ready or able to walk away? I read an article in Oprah once about when it's healthier to not forgive, but rather to protect yourself. The article spelled out ways to tailor and limit your relationship with those emotionally devoid and unrepentant people purely for your own mental health. If it's a person you care deeply about and hope for their emotional growth, you don't want to walk away, and you don't want to permanently limit your relationship with them. Instead, you can forgive as you have ability to do so. If your intent is to help them grow this way, you can expend your extra emotional energy by sticking your neck out every once in a while and giving them another chance.

Share what saddens you about the experience, then ask them if there is anything about the situation that saddens them, that they wish hadn't happened that way. Share your regret and mistakes and what you plan to do differently. Ask if they have any regrets, and, if they do, what they think they'd want to do differently next time.

Saying I'm sorry can connect two people through emotional experience. Apologizing can empower a particular person. Walking away from those who don't get it can keep you emotionally safe. And sticking your neck out for those you love might inspire them to dig deep and open up.

Creative Gratitude

Michael and I both love Hailey's prayers. For one thing, she is so optimistic about getting what she asks for that she voices her gratitude in advance, replacing all her 'pleases' with 'thank you's,' like 'thank you we can have a good day tomorrow.' Also, she is grateful for the weirdest things. For years, she always remembered to thank God for eggs. She doesn't even like eggs.

Last night, Michael listened to her prayer, and she added a new one.

Thank you we can live on the safest planet.

After the prayer, she told Michael that they had learned about planets in school that day, and it had become abundantly clear to her that our planet was by far the safest option, because asteroids beat up other planets.

Michael took advantage of the teaching moment to explain how the atmosphere works. I'll probably botch the details with my poor memory, but this was the gist of it.

'Do you know what keeps our planet safe from asteroids?'

'Yeah. God does.'

'Well, okay. But also air. You know the stuff we breathe? It burns up rocks that come from outer space so they can't hurt us.'

Michael said Hailey didn't quite know what to think of that. I imagine it was a mind-blowing revelation.

If technology ever comes up with an invention where we can visit the insides of other people's brains like a tourist destination, I'd pick Hailey's head for my first vacation. There has got to be some really fun and wacky stuff going on inside there. And if they can ever combine that device with a time-traveling one, I'd like to go back to that night, just after Hailey learned about the super powers of air and how it can burn up asteroids.

MInivan!

As most of you know, Michael's beloved Lexus drowned on Ansley's birthday. It will be sorely missed. It was red, it was sporty, it was luxurious, and it had air conditioning that came through the seats

Last week, the Mazda decided to overheat. Michael did some manly-fixing things to it, but the minivan is a stubborn piece of machinery, and continues to be weird and untrustworthy.

This led to a new minivan hunt this weekend, before Michael returns his rental car. He hasn't yet decided what kind of car he wants to replace the Lexus, but we've had our minivan decision narrowed to a Honda versus Toyota for months now.

After online research and test drives, we settled on the Toyota Sienna. We went with new because minivans hold their value well (used ones didn't offer a significant price reduction) and the combination of options we wanted was hard to find.

It is a very pretty silver thing sitting in our garage with its eighty mile odometer reading, new car smell, and shiny everything. It reminds me of the Lexus in how it handles and the comfort of the seats, even though a/c doesn't feed through the seat cushions. Oh well. The Honda salesman wondered why nobody offered that in a minivan. I did, too. I'm sure it would be an immensely popular one, especially here in Texas.

It will be nice not to have to ask the teachers in the carpool lane to shut the sliding door they assumed was automatic. It will be nice to scoot Emberly's seat far back so she can't kick the driver. It will be nice to have the navigation system and dvd player for long trips. It even comes with an extra eighth seat that stores in the trunk. And that's just scratching the surface of nice things about this car.

Futurama, Daemons, and brain monkeys

Today, Futurama premiers for the second time, this round courtesy of Comedy Central (the comedic gods favor us!). It already feels like a red letter day. In anticipation of the great event, creators Matt Groening and David X. Cohen answered often asked questions, including 'What is one fan question you never want to be asked again?'

They said they are sick of being asked, 'Where do you get your ideas?' Their response to anyone who asks is, 'We steal them. We watch other TV shows.'

So, all you creative geniuses...where do your ideas come from? Have your answer ready, because chances are, someone will ask.

In this video, Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray, Love talks about where ideas come from, and how to have these ideas without becoming a drunk manic depressive, like so many modern artists tend to do these days. If you are an artist of any kind, it is worth twenty minutes of your time to watch the whole thing. And just in case you don't feel like it, I offer the cliff note version of good quotes from the first half. (Disclaimer: some quotes may be off by a few words because I am a writer, not a court reporter or transcriptionist. Plus, I tend to gloss over details and occasionally get lazy).

Creative people across all genres have this reputation, it seems, for being enormously mentally unstable. Somehow, we've completely internalized and accepted collectively this notion that creativity and suffering are somehow inherently linked, and artistry, in the end, will ultimately lead to anguish.

Are you guys all cool with that idea? I think it's odious. I think it's better if we encourage our great creative minds to live.

For me, it's exceedingly likely that my greatest success is behind me. That's the kind of thought that could lead a person to start drinking gin at nine o'clock in the morning. So, I have to create some kind of protective psychological construct, to figure some way to have a safe distance between me as I am writing and my very natural anxiety about what the reaction to that writing will be.

I've been looking across time and culture for better and safer ideas to deal with this problem. The people of ancient Greece and Rome did not believe that creativity came from human beings, but rather came to human beings from distant and unknowable sources for distant and unknowable reasons. The Greeks called this disembodied creative spirit a Daemon. The Romans called it a Genius, which was a magical divine entity, a lot like a house elf.

Brilliant, that distance, that psychological construct to protect you from the results of your work. Back then, everyone knew this was how it worked, so the ancient artist was protected from things like too much narcissism; if your work was brilliant, you couldn't take all the credit. If your worked bombed? Not entirely your fault; everyone knew your genius was kind of lame.

And then the Renaissance came, and everything changed and we had this big idea: let's put the individual human being at the center of the universe, above all gods and mysteries, with no more room for mystical creatures who take notation from the divine.

People started to believe creativity came completely from the self. And, for the first time in history, you start hearing people referring to this or that artist as being a genius, rather than having a genius. And I gotta tell you, I think that was a huge error. I think that allowing somebody, like one mere person, to believe that he or she is the vessel, the font, the essence, the source of divine, creative, unknowable mystery...is a smidgen too much to put on one fragile human psyche.

So, boiled down to one sentence, in order to keep your sanity, never, ever say the ideas come from you. Your fragile human psyche just can't handle it. Credit another source. God, your muse, whatever. Gilbert goes on to tell you how to talk to your creative entity, especially if it comes to you at inopportune times (like while driving) or gives you total crap to work with.

Maureen Johnson calls her entity the Brain Monkeys (scroll halfway down to enjoy the Brain Monkey conversation). And after reading what MJ endures just to get ideas from her brain monkeys, I feel a little sorry for her. But not too sorry for her, since she's a published author with brilliant Brain Monkeys. What I wouldn't do for such monkeys in my head.

My college creative writing professor said his muse stuck a piano in the middle of a scene and messed up his whole plot. Muses, Brain Monkeys, or whatever, can do that. They can do anything. They can also leave town at the drop of a hat and not write to tell you when they will return.

Cruel, cruel Brain Monkeys. I hate you.

But I also love you to pieces. Please don't leave me. Stick around and tell me how to transform all those useless hours of TV watching into something as brilliant as Futurama. (I also envy Matt Groening's Brain Monkeys, but then, who doesn't?)

How has distancing yourself from your output helped you cope with life?

Matters of the Heart

Visiting the cardiologist is a barrel of fun. They take your blood pressure under all sorts of circumstances. Sitting up, lying down, hooked up to the EKG, on a treadmill, just off the treadmill, reciting your ABC's, etc.

And then there is the heart sonogram, which looks really cool, but not nearly as cute as an embryo on-screen. I always thought embryos on the sonogram looked like tiny gingerbread men the first trimester and turned into Skeletor as they grew. The heart looks more like a butterfly trapped inside Jabba the Hut, not the old animatronic Jabba but the more upwardly mobile CGI Jabba they added in the anniversary edition.

So, while I have Short PR Syndrome, I apparently have nothing else. I am very healthy, although I still need to have my cholesterol checked because of my family history. Heart palpitations are simply an annoyance I can ignore without consequence. Chest pain is due to some other mysterious entity in my rib cage, perhaps muscles. If you think about it, muscles are pretty mysterious.

Westward Ho, Freud

Cowboys are cool. They just are. They tame wild mustangs, don their wide-brimmed ten gallon hat, and ride off into the sunset.

Why do they call movies about cowboys Westerns? Is it because the take place in the West? If so, perhaps the powers that be should consider Hawaii or even Japan. There are places farther west than Texas or Kentucky. There will always be a place farther West, because West is a direction, not a location, or even a destination.

Maybe it's a Western because West is not so much a place as it is a philosophy. That maverick-adventurous-pioneering-spirit philosophy. Don't settle, keep exploring, keep growing. For America, that spirit was encapsulated in The West, or whatever was left between civilization and the Pacific coast.

If a Western is really about that philosophy, then a cowboy is more than just a guy with spurs on his boots and a tobacco addiction. He's the determined pioneer that leaves the comfort zone of civilization and makes riding into the Sunset a lifestyle, both for the love of his horse, and for the love of discovering something better out there in the unknown.

I finally read up on the basics of Freud's model for the human psyche. You know, the Ego, Id and Super Ego. How I lived this long without learning about this stuff, I can't even tell you. But when I read the basics of the model, I immediately thought of the American Cowboy, his horse, and that Sunset.

Brace yourself. This might get a little weird.

Before, all I knew about the Id was what I learned from that 1950's movie The Forbidden Planet. It starred a serious Leslie Nielson (a serious Leslie Nielson? I know. But he was serious in this film). It also starred a horrible monster of pure energy. As it turned out, the monster was the Id of this guy named Morbius, who had inadvertently super-powered it with alien technology. Morbius would go to sleep and his Id would party all night, wreaking havoc on the countryside and murdering people who ticked it off.

Now, repressed Ids do get a little psycho and will lash out when ignored. I didn't live during the 1950's, but after reading Keats' Crack in the Picture Window in American History class, I do get the feeling that people back then did more than their share of repression for the sake of appearances. They probably feared their Id would materialize in energy-monster form and kill the neighbors in their sleep.

But, really, the Id is just a big ball of needs. That's it. You pretend you don't need what you need, and the pressure cooker will blow its top in an ugly super-powered alien monster kind of way. Admit you have the needs, take care of the needs, and your Id will take you anywhere you want to go.

Like a cowboy's horse. A good cowboy feeds and waters his horse. Gives it breaks. Rubs it down at the end of the day. Talks to it like an old friend. He reigns it in when the horse wants to run off a cliff, but lets it run its heart out over an open meadow. A good cowboy loves his horse and meets the horses needs better than the horse could do by itself. In return, the horse transports the Cowboy in style. Whenever I think of my own Id, I think of it as unruly mustang that I have to reign in, that I need to feed, that gets me places fast.

Now Super Ego, I used to think that was someone with a big head. Somone who's ego - in the self-confidence kind of way - had become so inflated it was now super. But that's not so. Not at all. If Id is the needy little kid, then Super Ego is the stern unforgiving authority. The Super Ego starts every sentence with Should. You should eat your vegetables. He should watch his step. She should do the right thing. Super Ego knows how things should be, and fills your head with soapboxes and ideals. Super Ego gives you something to shoot for, because unless you decide how things should be, you'll never know what you want to change about the way things currently are. But those shoulds, if you let them, can cripple you with guilt, shame, and an inferiority complex, because you aren't where you should be. (I think it can also create a superiority complex, but I won't get into that)

For a Cowboy, Super Ego is the sun. As it sets, it is way more than obvious which way is West, which way to go. It gives the cowboy a direction, a goal, and kick starts him into getting off his arse and get moving. I've wondered about cowboys and sunsets before. Looking into the sun hurts! Why would you go straight for something that causes your eyes pain? I think a lot of people say this about church. Why go? I just feel bad about myself, realize I'm no where near what I'd like to be, and then I'm too depressed to do anything.

Sometimes church does that for me, too. But, luckily, I've learned from the best cowboys, and gotten myself a ten gallon hat with a very wide brim. Religiously, that brim is grace and forgiveness. It blocks the part of the sun I'm not ready to handle. Because, honestly, who wants to see the full glory of what you should be and know you just aren't there yet? It only makes you want to give up, or pretend you've already arrived.

Cowboys (and Egos) aren't about arriving anywhere. They are about other things.

The Ego's job is to make decisions, to balance things. It has to make calls between the needs of the Id and the demands and expectations of the Super Ego. Does the need of the horse warrant a temporary stop on his westward journey? The Ego must think ahead about the needs of the horse, and must make sure his West is really West. He must decide how much of the brim of his hat to use to shield his eyes, and when his horse would benefit from a romp in the field.

Most of all, Cowboys are about being in a Western. They are about going West. They love and care for their horse so it will carry them along. They keep track of that setting sun with the careful use of their ten gallon brim so they know which way they're going.

Really, it's all about going West. Don't let how far East you are get you down. West is not a place that you need to get to. It's a direction. it's a state of mind. It's the act of going.

I'm farther West today than I was yesterday, and that's all that counts.

Faith

We just read Alma 32 this morning in family scripture study, and then I read a humanist discourse on atheism. Putting those two kind of things together in one day can create some serious thinking.

I hope The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day saints is true. It is such a lovely view of the purpose of our lives here on earth. It gives a glorious future for us to look forward to after death. It motivates us to act and think in ways that help us form a stronger social network to support each other. Following its teachings leads us down paths that increase happiness in our lives, guides us to invest in aspects of life that will pay off the most, and protects us from much of the pain and sorrow in the low parts of life that inevitably happen to everyone. If we follow Christ's example and choose to trust in Him, we will achieve a higher level of maturity and development than we could have ever achieved just believing in our own abilities. These things I know, at least to some degree, by personal experience. I know them, because their proof is scientific, sensory based, involving things that can be counted and measured.

Is it ALL true? God, miracles, the afterlife, etc? Do those spiritual things really and truly exist? Now that, I don't know. Such things are outside the physical realm, so can only be believed, not proven or disproven with facts. What I do know is that it WORKS. Aspiring to be what this church asks me to be has made me a happier person. I feel more joy and peace because I trust, obey, and hope. I have grown more by following the basic principles of faith and repentance than I could have ever done without them. I don't know the Church is True with a capital T, but I hope, and with that hope, I push forward every day, doing my best, and putting my shoulder to the wheels the gospel asks me to push.



Alma said faith is to hope for things which are not seen but which are true. And how do you know it's true as a seed? You don't. You can't. Even Alma admits it. He says IF it is a good seed, it will grow in a good-feeling kind of way. If it isn't, it won't. The Gospel can look just like any other seed, good or evil, before you plant it. That's why the planting and watering is so important. You have to give it a shot, nurture the idea with some effort in your life, and see what sprouts up. So far, my choice to hope and work towards the principles of the Gospel has been delicious to me. I'm going to pour more of my hope and work into that deliciousness. Faith without works is dead, you know. Hope needs work to turn into faith.

So I hope The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true, and I work towards that hope as if it were true. It's my faith that carries me forward, not my knowledge. Atheists, no matter how sound their arguments and logic, cannot touch my hope and determined choice to invest in it, and most especially the delicious result. For those things outside the knowable realm, they can choose to see a godless existence, but I choose to Hope for something better. I am so very grateful to have the Gospel in my life to give me hope and direction. I feel sorry for those who don't know the joy of hoping for such things, for those who don't even know what faith really is and what it could do for them.

Invest in the process

I talk too much without saying anything sometimes. I'm just going to let this guy speak for himself. It's about 15 or 20 minutes, but it is worth it. It is a philosophy that aligns itself with everything I know to be true about happiness.