Row 11 Seat C

Yesterday I found myself sitting in the airport waiting for my flight on Southwest. Now Southwest doesn't assign seats so the trick is to get in seating order 'A' and get there early so you can get a good seat. So I got there plenty early, in fact, there were only a few others in the waiting area when I arrived. After about a half hour or more, still before the plane even arrived, I saw this couple walk up and plop themselves down in front of the gate so as to be the first in line. Now I thought to myself, "How arrogant of them to think they can pass by all these people who've been waiting here ahead of them to get a seat on the plane." As soon as that couple sat down as if "in line", it started an onslaught of others rushing for a spot in line lest they get left with a middle seat, like the first drop of water that breaks through the dam. As the lines continued to get longer I kept thinking, "The nerve of these people to think they have any more right to get a better seat then me cause they stood up in line. I've been waiting here longer than all of them", which naturally gives me more of a right than them to get a better seat. "It's not like they're going to run out of seats before you get there. It's a huge plane, just get over yourselves and wait like all of us have had to." Fortunately, from where I was sitting close to the gate, the line extended backward pretty far, so my mind concieved a plan where I would just stand up and make my way to the gate as if there was no line and these presumptuous people were simply standing there for no particular reason. But the longer I sat there I began to actually listen to what I was thinking, that it really is just a seat on the plane and it's awful selfish to think that I should force my rights on them who actually think they have more rights because they've been standing and I sitting. I began to think of Paul talking about yielding his rights and that it's better to be wronged than to make a big deal about it and take someone to court like the world. So I decided it would probably be better of me and more Christlike to make my way back to the end of "the line" and allow the presumptuous people on the plane ahead of me. Afterall I would still get a pretty good seat because I was in the 'A' line. Eventually the plane arrived and people began shuttling off and my mind was fighting with itself over where to get in line. Then the little red 'A' light came on and we were called to board. I watched myself stand up, collect my things and make my way straight to the gate.

Why is it that our selfish desires carry so much more weight than our desire to love? Why is it that my heart tells me it's not that big a deal but my mind is so much more concerned with my comfortable seating preference? Why do I cling so tightly to what I consider to be my earthly rights? This whole process of becoming less and less earthly minded is a tough battle, especially when what I want is in such contradiction to what I know. And since it's my mind that chooses my behavior I'm pretty much screwed, huh. Oh how I long to just 'get over myself' and love people with selfless abandon.

I ended up with a phenomenal seat, an aisle seat in the exit row, couldn't ask for more. But as the guilt poured on and the eyes of those behind me bored holes in the back of my head I kept wishing I could take it back. I pulled out my book, Seizing Your Divine Moment by Erwin McManus, and read about how the choices we make define the moments in which we live. He writes, "If a moment is the gate through which your divine journey begins, then choice is the key that unlocks the adventure." Figures.

To dream or not to dream...

Before you read this post, make sure you get a little context by reading the latest Pascal quote that I've been thinking on lately. Also the movie Vanilla Sky may come to mind if you've ever seen it.

The question at hand relates to our insatiable desire to always want to be somewhere else, to do something else with our lives, something bigger, something better. We dream...and we're far better off for it, I do believe. What greatness would ever be achieved if we didn't dream? I resonate with George Mallory who, in response to the question "Why climb Everest?" replied, "Because it's there." It called out a challenge to him. It gave him a dream. Dreams are about being involved in something bigger than yourself. Something bigger than average, better than normal. Have you ever awoken from a dream only to wish you could fall back asleep because you quite enjoyed it there? It was much more enjoyable and satisfying than the reality you wake up to. That present reality, which we all live in, is far to real, with all it's pains, frustrations, annoyances, interruptions, discontentment. So we dream. Yet dreams are merely a hope, a favorable expectation of a future that may or may not ever exist. But in contrast to this present reality, we dream in perfect color, the way things could be. So we're lead to the question, if our dreams are so great, why don't we drop everything and pursue them with abandon? What is it that keeps us from following our dreams? Fear perhaps. Fear of the unknown. Fear that if we pursue our dream into the present then it may not be as perfect as we imagined it to be. Fear that if it doesn't work out then we'll have nothing to fall back on. And so we remain in discontented reality...with our dreams. But what of those who do follow their dreams? Those who give up average for the hope of fulfillment? When they get there, is it all they imagined it to be? Or do they only find another dream, like climbing to the top of a mountain only to find another mountain on the other side of the valley? So ultimately we've come to the question, is it possible to live your dream? Does anyone ever really honestly say I wouldn't rather be doing anything else than what I'm doing right now, I wouldn't rather be anywhere else than where I am right now? Is that true contentment? Is that life fulfillment?

I'm not totally convinced. Like Pascal says, we can't go on living in times that are not our own (ie, the future, our dreams). The only time we have to live is the present. So does that devalue our dreams? On the contrary, I think it revalues the in-betweens. Follow your dreams, but live the journey. Climb your Everest, but find joy in the climb, not just the summit. Maybe in the end dreams aren't really a place to be, or something to do, but a joy to hold. To hold that joy in this present reality, in the everyday, that's contentment, that's the dream.

So we continue to dream...and are much better off for it, I do believe.

Concerning fear, love, and loss

So I was just watching one of my favorite movies, Good Will Hunting, and I was struck by a conversation that paralleled some things that have recently been stirring my thinking. In a conversation between Will, an emotionally detached, young genius, and Sean, his shrink, Will asks if Sean ever wondered what his life would be like if he had never married his wife, who had died of cancer two years earlier. Sean goes on to reply that he never regretted the years of joy because of the years of pain, but he would've regretted seeing this girl in a bar and never knowing what would've happened if he had only talked with her. Meanwhile, Will doesn't want to give his heart to this girl, Skylar, because he's afraid that if she finds out about all his imperfections then she'll leave. He's not convinced the potential joy is worth the hypothetical loss.

That reminds me of these words I recently wrote to a friend:

Why is it that love always has to end in loss? Truly the tragic curse of the soul, our greatest hurt bound intimately with our greatest joy. But I suppose it's destined to work out that way. So then we're left with "it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." I guess I can accept that.

This goes right along with that quote from Pascal [reference earlier post]. If we constantly fear the pain of loss destined in the future then we will never experience the joy of love in the present. Or on the other hand, as with my friend and I, if we cling to our grief, remembering past loves, we miss those opportunities of new loves right in front of us. Or as Sean, the shrink, would say, it's time to put your money back on the table and see what kind of cards you get.

We never keep to the present.

"We never keep to the present. We . . . anticipate the future as if we found it too slow in coming and were trying to hurry it up, or we recall the past as if to stay its too rapid flight. We are so unwise that we wander about in times that do not belong to us and do not think of the only one that does; so vain that we dream of times that are not and blindly flee the only one that is . . . [We] think of how we are going to arrange things over which we have no control for a time we can never be sure of reaching . . . Thus we never actually live, but hope to live, and since we are always planning how to be happy, it is inevitable that we should never be so." ~Blaise Pascal

I've quite enjoyed meditating on that quote recently and don't have much commentary that could add to it, so I'll just let it speak for itself.

Love Advice from the Gridiron

You often learn the most profound things from the oddest places. So it should be no big surprise that my recent discoveries concerning love come from none other than the football field. No surprise to some who know of my slightly less than fanatical love of football, but surprise to me nonetheless. As many of you probably know, my New England Patriots lost in the divisional round of the playoffs after winning the last 2 Super Bowls. They were on their way to an unprecedented 3 consecutive Super Bowl victories when they were stopped short by their first playoff loss in at least 5 years. Now I've experienced playoff losses before, even a Super Bowl loss, but none struck me quite as hard as this one, and that's what took me by surprise. But that's also what helped me to realize that grief is proportional to love. You know exactly what I mean because those people who right now are saying, "Oh good grief" really have no love for the game, or a particular team. They say that those who can utter the words "It's only a game" have no love for the game. And those who say "There's always next year" just don't quite understand. But for those of us who have invested so much into following their team from free agency, to draft day, to training camp, through pre-season, the ups and downs of the regular season, and triumphantly into the post-season, there is nothing but this season. One friend told me this year he's been following the Minnesota Vikings since their induction to the league in 1961. For those fans, affectionately termed by some as fan-atics, there is nothing greater than watching your team hoist the Lombardi trophy in the air surrounded by confetti in team colors. And it's the ever present hope of that scene that causes us to carry on. But as there is always joy in love, so there is also grief. Two books that I have read recently have also helped greatly along these lines, A Severe Mercy by Sheldon VanHauken and A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis. Grief and loss are not one in the same, nor should they be feared as though they are not a natural part of love. Grief helps clarify and identify love. We shouldn't run from it as though to cut it off before it's natural term, nor over-extend it as though to keep our beloved alive. It's the continuing process of love, not a state or a phase, but an ongoing process. It's a necessary part of the journey of love. I don't know what action I mean to imply by these thoughts. Perhaps it would shed a little light on what it means to "mourn with those who mourn" if we really knew the true extent of love. Perhaps it would help us to love a little deeper understanding that loss is inevitable and grief is a consummation of love. Or perhaps just to stop telling me "it's only a game, get over it", to figure out what things you grieve over with the thought of loss, and to embrace them with all your heart. Because it's true that deeper love brings greater loss, but it also brings greater joy, and I wouldn't trade that for the world.