The Words You Can't Say

Last night I said goodbye to my brother, who's moving to England, at least for the time being. If he likes it and finds a job he enjoys, he might be there for years. As we hugged goodbye, we both wanted to say, "I love you." But you can't say that to someone who's going on a long trip, because in that context it doesn't just mean "I love you", it conveys all your fear that there will be a tragedy and the person will never come home and you want them to know, in case it's the last time you see them, that you love them. Those things are too scary to think about. You have to just say it with your eyes, and know that they know.

Empathology

I went to an interesting talk yesterday about empathy - its importance in a world that is growing more interconnected, why people feel it sometimes and not other times, the need to overcome "us/them" distinctions in order to feel empathy for people we don't know, etc. The speaker suggested that empathy is something we not only want, but need - we spend a significant part of our lives looking for a partner we can count on to empathize with us, and often the simple experience of receiving empathy from someone is enough to heal emotional wounds.

It reminded me of the Prisoner's Dilemma in game theory - when facing a competitor for resources, you each have a choice to play nice or cheat. If you both play nice, you both benefit. If you both cheat, you both lose. But if you cheat and they play nice, you get a huge benefit, and if you play nice and they cheat, you take a huge loss. Lots of applications for ecology and for human behavior. For a game with repeated play, the best strategy is to start off playing nice, and then after your first turn just copy everything your opponent does. If the game is long-term enough and if you are consistent in rewarding nice play and punishing cheating, your opponent will eventually play nice all the time. It's harder with a short-term game though (a competitor you will only interact with a few times).

Anyway, the connection with empathy is that when you offer empathy to someone who does not intend to empathize back, someone who doesn't share your philosophy or is just mean or is, say, funded by the pharmaceutical industry, it really stings when they don't return the favor. It feels like the worst outcome in the Prisoner's Dilemma. And the playing field is often unequal - if they have economic or political power and you don't, you don't have the option to punish them in your next turn.

I think one way to overcome that is to not expect empathy back. We get so outraged when we bend over backwards to be nice to people and they ignore us or take advantage. When you're up against someone who you know is not going to return the favor, you just have to school yourself not to expect anything back - to look at the encounter as an information-gathering exercise, or building credibility for the future, or just life experience on the path to enlightenment.

A Vision

Riding home on the bus yesterday, I heard a woman sitting behind me say to her friend, "Oh, look at the cathedral. It looks like Monet's Rouen." It was bathed in pink light from the sunset, every carved detail of the stonework on the towers standing out clear. I wish I was intellectual enough that my friends and I would say things like that to one another.

Cruelty

There is some sneaky, terrible, but undeniable aspect of the human psyche that gets a little kick of pleasure out of watching someone else be frustrated. I was thinking about it today in the context of cruelty to animals. To my mind there's nothing more despicable than animal cruelty; it's something that I passionately hate. Yet I have to admit that I'm not immune to feeling, on occasion, that flicker of satisfaction from watching an animal be frustrated. It can be as mild as holding my guinea pigs on their backs, where their little legs frantically churn the air as they try to flip over. Every time, I have to laugh - they're so cute. But at the same time, I feel bad. I shouldn't enjoy it, and the fact that I do disturbs me.

The other day, my friend saw some kids teasing a horse. They would hold up a handful of hay to the horse, then jerk it away as the horse reached for it. Each time they did this, the horse got more upset - stamping its feet and fussing - and each time the kids laughed harder. My friend stepped in and yelled at them. The oldest kid said, "We were just having fun." But why is it fun? Is it something about the horse's gullibility - falling for the same trick over and over? Is it funny because the horse can't predict they will jerk the hay away, so they get to feel superior? or because the horse is getting upset over such a little thing? I can't put my finger on it.

I don't think that holding a guinea pig on its back or teasing a horse with hay is actually cruel. It's obnoxious, and over time it could have consequences like making the guinea pig more skittish and less willing to be held, or making the horse into a biter, but it doesn't cause true suffering or anguish to the animal. But the sense of enjoyment that drives these mild situations is the same as the one that shows up in cases of real cruelty.

I've read stories of animal abuse from the Humane Society that literally keep me awake at night - cases where people deliberately set out to hurt or torture an animal. For most people, the distress they would feel from seeing an animal in real pain would eclipse any pleasure they'd get from the incident. But for a few, I guess the emotional wiring is off and that sneaky little kick of pleasure is magnified. I wish I could put my finger on why it brings people pleasure, so we could figure out how to short-circuit the process. What could be more important, of all the things we could teach a child, than an aversion to causing suffering?

One Writer...Nine Editors

Like an unruly child, the article I put to bed keeps popping up again. Each time I am more peremptory with it; the first few times I tolerate long rambling discourses from the various reviewers on detail and context and underlying messages, entertaining these potential changes in direction as I might smile benevolently at a small child's suggestions to be allowed to stay up late, sleep in my room, etc. But over time, I allow the course of the story to deviate less and less. I make smaller adjustments, spend less time composing tactful replies to my editors (who, after all, are responsible for the story's refusal to go to bed; they are the loud siblings who are playing some game thundering up and down the stairs, giving the toddler ideas). My vision for the story hardens. As it peeks nervously out of its bedroom for the umpteenth time, I bellow, "Into your bed! Now!" and it vanishes. I hear its feet scurrying back across the floor, then moments later a squeak of bedsprings and rustle of covers. All is peaceful at last.

Water

I was washing the dishes yesterday, thinking that running water is really a nice thing to have. It's amazing when you think about it, how you can be in an apartment ten stories up and turn on the faucet and water comes out - no delay, no sputtering, just a nice steady stream of water that is clean and safe to drink. In some areas of the world, women spend half their day walking back and forth between their homes and the nearest waterhole (which can be an hour away) to fetch water for their families. For them, being able to turn on the tap and get water - as much of it as you want - would seem like a miracle.

If I had to fetch all my own water, on foot, I don't think I could do it. Especially in the heat. I'd probably use up all the water I was bringing back, just drinking it.

Fire

Great excitement last night - we had a fire in our apartment building!

The alarm jolted us awake at about 3:30 am. I knew it was a real fire right away because I could smell the smoke. I had a moment of panic - what do we do? - and then fell back on my years of conditioning from fire drills in elementary school - oh yeah, get out of the building! and line up on the playground outside! I grabbed some sneakers and a coat, and caught the surprised guinea pigs and put them in their traveling case. Their reaction to the whole thing varied between confusion and disbelief. They wrinkled their noses at me: "You have to be joking!"

When we stepped into the hallway, the smoke was stronger - kind of a thick, yellow smell like burned toast or overheated dryer, but much more concentrated. It was worse in the stairwell. Luckily we were only on the fourth floor. We got down to the lobby and spilled outside with the rest of the population. I was hoping some people would be wearing interesting pajamas, but everyone was pretty much in sweat pants and jackets. A couple women had big fluffy pink slippers. The quintessential gentleman who lives on the second floor and never goes anywhere except in a three-piece suit with a carnation in his lapel, was wearing - a three-piece suit. He probably doesn't own any other kind of clothing.

After a few minutes the police arrived, and ten minutes after the alarm first sounded, the fire trucks pulled up. It was very exciting to see those big flashing trucks parked right next to us on the sidewalk, and the firemen unrolling hoses into our building. We heard a police woman calling out the apartment number to the firemen as they went in - it was on the second floor. I walked around to try to see it, but nothing was apparent from the outside. Shortly thereafter they let everyone who didn't live on the second floor go back indoors. We opened all the windows to get the smoke out, and went back to sleep.

This morning, because I was curious, I called the resident manager to find out how the fire got started. She said that a woman was cooking a midnight snack and left the stove on by accident, then went to bed. Fortunately, no one was hurt.

So that's the story of the Great Fire!

God's Dogs

I read an article today about urban coyotes. Apparently they're living in lots of cities in the U.S., even thriving. Urban coyotes need less land to survive (only about a sixth of the land area that rural ones need) and they live longer. A coyote in urban Chicago has a 60% chance of surviving for one year, compared to a 30% chance for a rural coyote. Imagine if your chance of living until next year was only 60% - and if that was considered good!

When Hope Ryden studied coyotes in Yellowstone, they were so fearful of humans that she couldn't risk being seen by them - they would have abandoned their den. Any disturbance in their environment freaked them out. She parked a truck on the next hill over from their den, shuttered all the windows, and spent six weeks lying in darkness inside the truck watching them through a tiny telescope. She had to pee in jars and couldn't heat any of her food or even move around much, for fear that they would hear her. They still got upset enough that they moved the pups to a new den, but she was able to follow them and they tolerated the truck's presence long enough for her to complete her observations. It's hard to believe that these shy, skittish creatures could be the same species as urban coyotes that coexist with traffic, noise, and a constantly changing environment.

Olympians

I've finally reached an age where nearly all the athletes in the Olympics are younger than me, which seems incredible to me. I guess I have the rest of my life to get used to it. I guess for most people, watching the Olympics is a week of being astonished by the feats of youngsters. It's weird to be on the other side of it, though, looking back. I always felt in the back of my mind that it was natural for them to be stronger and faster and more amazing than me, because they were older (never mind that you have to start training around the time you're born, so by the time I was in elementary school I was probably already out of the running).

I still don't think I'll ever lose my wonder at what they're capable of. In fact, knowing how young they are might even enhance it for me - remembering where I was at age 19, or 22, and comparing it with where they are.

I really felt for a couple of the skaters last night who muffed their jumps. They looked so crushed afterwards, getting their marks. I don't think I'd want all the pressure and risk that comes with being a skater...but I wish I had speed-skater legs.

A Novel Point of View?

I read a couple things recently that hit home: In The Mind-Body Problem, Rebecca Goldstein refers kind of sarcastically to "one's first novel (you know, the autobiographical one?)". In Beverly Cleary's My Own Two Feet, she remarks on the triteness of writing about a young woman's coming of age.

Darn. But that's really what I want to write about. And not in a self-absorbed way, like my life and my growing-up story are so fascinating everyone should want to read about them. More because even if it's an age-old story, no one has ever told it the way I plan to. And besides, college was one of the richest and most interesting periods of my life so far. I have the sense that even if I tried to write about something else, it would devolve into a college story - one of the characters would start hanging out at a local campus, or something.

But still. It's a little eerie that these two women, whose writing I admire so much, are already "on" to me.

Having Your Cake, and Weeping Too

Even when you have everything, it's still possible to feel depressed. I don't know why. These bleak, hollow-you-out-from-the-inside moments just come out of nowhere. Any way you look at it, I have a good life - I've had every advantage growing up, and all my ducks are pretty much in a row now. I'm looking forward to marrying a wonderful man. Everything is good. Yet, while I am nearly always conscious of these things and grateful for them, I still manage to feel swamped by a wave of sadness from time to time, for no apparent reason. Then I feel guilty for feeling sad, when I have so much. It's ridiculous.

Inevitable Imperfection

Yoga is so hard. I always get inspired to try to "do it perfectly" and for the first five minutes of my yoga DVD, I succeed - I am breathing perfectly, standing with my toes spread perfectly, my wrists aligned. Today is going to be a wonderful practice. Then the yoga teacher stands on one foot and holds onto the toe of the other and stretches the whole leg up straight pointing to the ceiling, and that's it for me. From that point on, I'm just imitating her the best I can. My hamstrings are so tight that my legs stay bent, while hers stretch out long and straight. Plank pose and boat pose are the hardest, my muscles tremble the whole time. But she talks right through it like she's comfortable. She is amazing!

Therapy Conversations

One job I wouldn't want is that of therapist. It's so much work trying to pull people up, when they're intent on dragging themselves down. I know what it's like from the other side, of course; I've spent lots of energy trying to 'prove' how miserable everything was, while patient friends argued with me. It feels weirdly satisfying, like biting a hangnail - hurts, but in a tingly way you want to explore, not in a way that makes you want to stop. Anyway, things are better now and I'm more often on the pulling-up side of the equation.

Talking to my dad today, I just kept wanting to say, "Don't look at it that way. Assume they will like you, and if they don't, so what? To hell with what they think!" etc. Actually most of my therapy-advice boils down to "Why do you care what other people think?" which is such a great mantra for life (yea Feynman). I mean, really. We're all so self-conscious and neurotic all the time. We would all be a lot happier if other people's opinions didn't matter so much to us. But I know that just deciding not to care isn't an option when you're in the situation (and this applies to me too). I guess a good therapist knows what to say so that people will find their own way to being capable of not caring. From where I am, it's like someone is asking for help getting over a brick wall, and I can't see a wall so I just keep saying unhelpfully, "Pretend there is no wall!"

Inevitable Perfection

The essence of being good at something - anything - is to make it look like it couldn't be any other way. Like having skin so good it looks like it can't break out. A girl in my dorm had skin like that, smooth and golden-tan and somehow thicker-looking than other people's. We all envied her because even when our skin was technically clear, it still looked likely to break out at any moment. Or ice-skating with such strength and skill that it's like the jumps are pulling you up and whirling you around, and the edge of your skate is drawn back to the ice like a magnet - like there couldn't be any other way for you to land. There's a world of difference between a skater like that and a skater who lands the jumps but it looks like work, and you're all clenched up watching them afraid that they will fall.

I have mastered this only as far as traffic lights. When you're waiting at a light, instead of willing the light to turn green and being frustrated that it's still red, you should imagine the light on the cross-street being inexorably drawn to turning yellow, like it just can't help it. The difference is pulling in your imagination, instead of pushing, and seeing the change not so much what you want, as inevitable. Thinking of it this way makes the time pass faster than if you're trying to force it to happen. I have not yet been able to transfer this trick to skin or skating.

Year of the Dog

Yesterday I went to the Chinese New Year parade downtown - dragon dancers, red banners, drums, and lots of people throwing poppers in the street. The crowds lining the street were five and six people deep, and the windows of restaurants and shops overlooking the parade route were packed with people watching. After the parade, everyone spilled into the street and milled around while they set up a giant six-story string of firecrackers suspended from a crane.

As we were waiting for them to light the firecracker, we suddenly heard some commotion behind us. I turned around and a man was saying "My son! Where's my son?!" He was staring around frantically. A few people asked, "What does your son look like?" but the man was so distraught he seemed incapable of answering. He cried out, "He was right here, right here beside me!" I glanced around but there were no little kids in sight, just a forest of grown-ups. Someone asked, "What color coat was he wearing?" "I don't know!" the father said. "He was right here! Oh my God, my son!!" He started dashing back and forth, wild-eyed. His face looked like a caricature, his mouth wide open like he wanted to bawl. His terror communicated itself to me so completely that I started feeling sick. I could see that his mind was already leaping ahead to encompass the magnitude of the tragedy - his son was lost; someone had taken him; he was one of the thousands of kids that go missing every year; the rest of this man's life would be looking back in regret and horror at these few minutes that were transpiring before us right now, this critical time.

Someone grabbed the father and said, "What's your son's name?" "Sammy!" the man replied. "SAMMY!" he suddenly bellowed. He plunged back and forth, yelling, "SAMMY!" A few other people called "Sammy" halfheartedly, but most turned their attention back to the firecracker preparations. "Think: what color coat was he wearing?" someone asked again. Next to me, my mother murmured, "No. What kind of shoes is he wearing. Whoever takes him will take that coat off first thing." Her comment made me feel sicker - the father and I weren't the only ones thinking, not just lost, but taken. "Blue!" the father burst out finally. "It was blue!" A few people nearby scanned around looking for blue.

Just then the firemen arrived, and the dragon dancers started beating their drums. The crowd gave a cheer of pleasure. Their happiness formed a counterpart to the father's desperation - just like all those classic movie scenes that blend a giddy amusement park atmosphere with sinister and terrible things. His cries of "Sammy!" were harder to hear over the drums and cheering. He tried to push through the crowd, but people were surging closer to the firecracker and wouldn't let him through.

Finally, just before they lit the firecracker, he found Sammy. We saw him hurrying past holding his son, a little boy who looked about four years old, in his arms. His face was still crumpled with grief, but the crowd clapped when they saw him. I swallowed the tears that were piled up in my throat. Sometimes, I'm afraid to have kids.

Beware of the Stare

Today I was reading about the thousand-mile stare. Apparently if you're in a bar fight, you should watch out if the other guy gets this look on his face, because he's about to punch you. "The thousand-mile stare" is what cops call it. I tried doing it, staring unfocused into space and imagining I was looking at some guy, and it was amazing how it worked. I could feel the rage simmering to a head; it was like I was so angry I couldn't even look at him straight, just through him at where I was going to sink my fist. I think it's a real physiological phenomenon that allows people in a confrontation to dissociate themselves from the personal reality of their opponent, so they can overcome the social taboo of touching another person in order to - beat the crap out of him.

Labyrinthine

Last night I walked the labyrinth at the cathedral. It's painted on a canvas cloth that they unroll once a month for Labyrinth Night - the cathedral stays open late and they play dulcimer music while people shuffle around the paths in their socks. I used to be really interested in labyrinths, I visited cornfield and stone labyrinths, and once helped paint one. This is the first time I've walked the one at the cathedral though.

The good thing about it is the feeling of peace that radiates from everyone - they're all in a New Agey frame of mind, and if you make eye contact with someone they give you a warm, accepting smile. The bad thing is that you can feel like you are supposed to have deep thoughts, and it's frustrating if you don't.

Here are some thoughts I had while I was walking:
- Mine were the worst socks in the room. Most people had nice, thick wool socks. My socks were dingy white and had holes in the toes that I mended with brown thread. I should just throw them out, but they're still wearable so I'd feel guilty.
- If the journey through the labyrinth is supposed to represent your life, and the way you walk it reflects who you are, then two things about me are that I am fast and non-confrontational. I walked as slowly as I could, but it was still about twice as fast as everyone else. I couldn't help it. I also couldn't stand being behind someone. I had to get around all those slow-shufflers and have a clear path ahead. And every time I came to a point where someone else was walking toward me on the same path, I was the one who dodged to the side. I think fast and non-confrontational are very much the way I am in the rest of my life. It's worked so far, but what will happen as I get older, and I can't simply speed away?
- Men don't hug each other very much. I saw lots of women hugging, but only one hug between men, and they looked like very old friends. Why is that? Do men not enjoy hugging as much? Maybe they don't get the same rush of endorphins from it? It always seemed kind of unfair to me that kids run to their mothers for a hug and don't seek out their dads the same way - the dads are usually hovering awkwardly in the background, as though waiting to be included. Do they wish their kids would hug them? or are they frankly embarrassed by the whole thing?
- It's easy to feel pure and clean and spiritually at peace when everything in your life is pretty much okay. What's hard is remembering that feeling and calling it up in times of crisis.
- In the same vein, I thought as I walked around how affectionate I felt toward the people in my life, how if anyone I knew was there, I would be glad to see them, and would readily forgive whatever there was to forgive between us. Today, that spell has worn off and I feel as aggrieved as ever toward certain individuals.
- So much of life is beyond our control. The ability to enter a "state of denial", as a mother told me recently, about the constant danger to loved ones, is vital - or you could never bear to let them out of your sight. I used to wish I could gather together everyone I loved and have us all live together in a kind of dormitory - just so I'd know they were all safe. But even then I wouldn't be able to protect everyone. You just have to hope, and take the precautions you can, and try not to think about a lot of things. It almost makes me feel like I shouldn't have kids, because it will only mean more people to worry about and potential for devastation if anything happens to them.

And that's it for my labyrinth thoughts.