The Random Thoughts of Louis Schmier

As the clouds pulled apart, the trees and bushes seemed to swell as if they were drinking in the moonlight. The air has a refreshing autumnal coolness about it. The fishpond’s quieting waterfalls had a assuring melody. The pond was its own repose. As I cooled off, I was both drawn into it and it poured into me. It was as if in the midst of all that had happened these past weeks, the fish in the darkened waters consoled me in a mysterious way, countering these sharp, seismic weeks with their smooth flowing motions. It was almost as if in some muted voice they bore witness to a continuing life as our lives shifted.

To Bear witness. What does that mean? It has something to do with awareness, information, conscience, conveyance. Of what? We curiously all have experienced a bearing witness to the toppling of two towering material hulks; we also all have experienced a bearing witness to the erection of a far more steelier, towering, and imposing spirit.

It’s almost Yom Kipper, the Day of Atonement, a time that takes you to the place of refuge that heals your heart, mind, and spirit. And these days after a psychological whupping, what spirt doesn’t need healing places, places safe and comforting, places where we can be united with ourselves, places affording solitary contemplation, and places where we know that it was all right to stop watching and reading and to take a breath, that to do so was not a withdrawal from reality, not a betrayal to those lost lives, not a weakening of commitment, not a waning of resolve, not a sanctioning of a crime.

You know, none of these places are loaded with “things.” This morning it struck me that with all the heart-breaking profiles of the missing that are appearing in print and on the screne, with all those descriptions of lost ones pinned on New York boards and fences and lamp posts, I heard and saw a lot about who people were, and almost nothing of what they did.

So many things converging. Again, I thought of that professor professing the authority of all her wall hanging. All those “things,” all those titles and degrees and awards from which so many of us academics draw our their identity, like money, are among the most misunderstood commodities in the academic world. They are so misunderstood that they border on being follies. We too often allow these placards to hide the human stories. Those hangings do not memorialize lives. All those letters in front and behind a name don’t spell out true–and lasting–achievements, successes, or authority.

So many of us academics are so engrossed in doing things that have outer appearance that we forget that the inner value is what it’s all about. We academics are so trained to be loyal to our discipline to the extent we far too often confuse it and the quest for its material accolades with our identities. “I am an historian” describes what we do, not who we are. “I am a professor” tells what we would do for a living. “I have tenure” does not proclaim how how we live or should live. And so, so many of us focus only on our discipline, and commensurately have little sense of beyond the information of our discipline and our academic position. We talk of dreams and reality, and sometimes I think we confuse the two. We confuse reputation, ambition, position, gain–sometimes driven by intellectual and social avarice and greed–with “riches.” And so as we pursue promotion, tenure, awards, grants, we ought to go to a place that will tell us that none of those “things” will give us the experience of that rapture of being alive, of living the miracle of today to its fullest.

So, what is reality? Well, reality is that those “things” won’t get you an extra day of life; they won’t make you healthier; they won’t guarantee happiness; they won’t get you a true love; they won’t ease nerves; they won’t ease your pain; they won’t relax your muscles; they won’t straighten out your stroke or improve your serve; they won’t instill courage; they won’t strengthen; they won’t establish caring relationships; they won’t stop worry; they won’t save you from sickness; they won’t cure your sickness; they won’t avoid divorce; they won’t raise the children; they won’t stop taking a drink or downing a pill or smoking a weed or sniffing; they won’t make you less suspicious; they won’t catch the “big one;” they won’t sharpen your aim; they won’t protect you in an accident; they won’t prevent an accident; they won’t make you honest; they won’t make you more positive; they won’t stop you from biting your nails; they won’t eliminate childish ways; they won’t cure your eating disorder; they won’t win friends; they won’t give you family; they won’t endow you with wisdom; they won’t generate love; they won’t alleviate sadness and depression; the won’t sharpen your vision; they won’t avert danger; they won’t give you common sense; they won’t solve life’s problems; they won’t accept and overcome challenges; they won’t make you flexible; they won’t plow through barriers; they won’t instill humility; they won’t make you a safer driver; they won’t stop foolishness; they won’t give you peace of mind; they won’t help face change; they won’t help you listen to the rustling of leaves; they won’t make you trusting; they won’t make you less arrogant; they won’t make you respectful; they won’t make you tolerant; they won’t put you at peace; they won’t make you a loving spouse or significant other; they won’t make you have fun; they won’t let you play and laugh; they won’t stop abuse; they won’t make you sensitive to others; they won’t generate respect; they won’t make you compassionate; they won’t make you passionate; they won’t provide good judgement; they won’t make you hopeful; they won’t turn you into a believer; they won’t make you like people; they won’t make people like you; they won’t foster creativity and imagination; they won’t make you appreciate the sunrise or sunset; they are not the foundations of morality or ethics; they won’t even make you like what you do; They sure don’t make you superior. And, I’m not sure they even indicate that you are smart or educated.

No, those tappings on the wall don’t put into focus what needs to be in focus.

And, in the end, we will be remembered as those lost on the fateful September 11th, by the impact we have on others, not by titles or salaries or degrees and awards.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

After my walk this pre-dawn morning, I sat out by the fishpond enveloped by blissful darkness. It was the total darkness of the woods where everything disappears. Nevertheless, the darkness mysteriously soothes. Being sightless, sounds seem to multiply and heighten. They enhance the dark. Undistracted mental images sharpen.

It is Rosh Hashonah. I didn’t have to make the transition I normally make from my head to my heart. I was already inside myself. I had gone there a week ago in response to the horrible events in Pennsylvania, New York, and Washington. As I sat in synagogue these past two days, I realized that Rosh Hasonah, the Jewish New Year, comes with a great gift: the opportunity to begin again. And in a perverse way, because of the terrorists, we Americans have been given the gift to open a new page and it is up to us to decide what the pen of life will record.

I and my family have just returned from a grueling zig-zag trip up the east coast to Boston in order to attend the wedding of our nephew. We had tickets to fly on Friday, didn’t think we would make it, changed them to Saturday, didn’t think we would make it, changed them from Jacksonville-Boston to Atlanta-Providence, left Valdosta at midnight, drove almost fours hours to Atlanta, thought we had made it, waited in the empty airport, found our flights were cancelled, didn’t think we were going to make it, got new flights, we and bags were thoroughly searched, passed uniformed and armed air marshals, flew, drove from Providence to Boston, made it, arrived three hours before the wedding–fifteen tiring hours with almost not sleep after we left Valdosta. On Monday, we zig-zagged by car and plane and car another fourteen hours back to Valdosta.

I have admit I was feeling a tad uneasy, almost guilty, about celebrating in the midst of death and destruction. But, I strongly felt that life takes precedent over death. The rabbi officiating at the ceremonies understood this. She explained that we who had traveled were there because of our strong sense of family and friendship. She wisely told of the Jewish tradition that when a funeral procession meets a wedding party, the former gives way to the latter. It is more than a symbolic embracement of life. It is a commitment to life, the rabbi reminded us. Life goes on. Life is good.

I saw and felt that persistence in life, that commitment to live, in the wee hours of Atlanta. A man entered the airplane slowly waving a small American flag saying, “F— the terrorists.” He defiantly nodded his head and smiled. There was applause, mine included. Tears came to my eyes. I don’t think I was the only one. I, too, felt a patriotic obligation to fly. Maybe the planes that crashed into the Towers and the Pentagon also shattered our complacency. More importantly, they awakened our consciousness out from a taking-for-granted stupor and slammed into our psyche to remind us who we are. That man colorfully said it all. Buildings are structures. They even may be symbols. They are not that indefinable but powerful American spirit. And if it was the American-thrashing and American-hating terrorists’ intent to destroy our will to go on living, they will be defeated by people such as this man who refuse to let that spiritual destruction happen.

It is wrong to think that America goes on unchanged. It is also wrong to think that America is utterly changed. It’s okay to be nervous and even afraid. The thing is not to let that nervousness and fear control you. Things may not be the same, but they will be okay in another kind of way and in the same way. And so, on that plane, I also felt a firmer resolve to go on being an American.

I cherish my basic freedoms, civil liberties, and the sanctity of the individual. In this struggle, whatever the contrary temptation, we are invited and challenged to protect our rights and freedoms. It is the only right thing to do. It is the only right way to do things. We don’t need another set of blotting and smudging Alien and Sedition Acts. We need to write clear and fine words and phrases. To leave those freedoms and liberties we so cherish unaltered, not to forget who we are, to retain dearly what we value, and remember how we should live is an essential part of winning in this “war.” No, it is THE essential part. If we don’t, as we’ve lost before we’ve begun to fight.

And so, I don’t think at all of the rhetoric of “crusade” or the “first war of the 21st century” or “dead or alive.” I think most of the public statements that the FBI, while in the midst of this crisis, while it is engaged in a massive hunt for the perpetrators of this hienious attack, will with equal vigor pursue hate crimes launched against innocent Arab and Muslim Americans. That is a powerful statement of what we are all about.

Of all the pictures I’ve seen on TV and in print, the most powerful image burned in my soul during these terrible days is not that of a plane hitting a building or of the collapse of structure mesmerizing as they may be. It is that of three heroic NY firemen raising the flag over the rubble as if it was a reenactment of the marines on Iwo Jima. In those firemen and the police, lead by real values to risk and lose their lives, we saw that as steel and glass and concrete collapsed, the American spirit rose up stronger than it ever has been in a long time. I saw images of death and destruction born from a hateful womb. I also saw with pride images of courage, generosity, and strength emerging out from a compassionate womb. I saw resolve, character, and the resurrection of a spirit that has brought us together. I am not ashamed to admit that I cannot count how many times I was brought to tears. I was reminded that love of country is really love of this country values, liberties, and freedoms. It is the glue that binds all of us diverse people together into one people. “I love America” doesn’t mean a thing if we don’t care about and care for and love one another.

And to all those extremists on the left and right, I now say we are a good people. We are not a perfect people. We have built a just place to live, a fair place to live, and a decent place to live. We have not built a perfect palce to live. The American spirit won’t be conquered. We’ll preserve what we have and write to improve on it. We will defiantly rebuild and live. Others places have risen from greater ashes: London, Sarajevo, Tokyo, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Dresden, Berlin, London, Beirut, San Francisco, Chicago. And so will New York and Washington.

Those terrorists reminded me who I am. They reinforced who I am as an American and more importantly as a human being. I will not–I cannot even if I wanted to–separate my mind and body from my heart. And when I return to class today, this is who and what I will share and discuss with students when they inevitably will ask me today if I had felt a “fear of flying.”

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

As I walked through the watery air, I looked up at the stars this inky morning after a very dark day. It was hard not to think of all that loss of life, all that phyisical destruction, all that loss of American “it won’t happen here” innocense. Amidst all that tragedy, I also couldn’t stop thinking of an incident that occurred at 12:23 pm yesterday. I wanted to focus on it. In the immediacy of the moment, it seems like a faint flicker of light. I hope it will nova in time to come.

I was moping around the classroom stunned, sad, anxious. The tragedy was reaching into our classroom. I already had received a message from a student whose ex-boyfriend worked in the Pentagon and a family friend worked in the World Trade Center that she couldn’t come to class. I already had received messages from her community members that they were going to stay with her. I was watching the students write on the blackboard, “I am pissed.” “I am scared.” “I am sad.” “I am wondering about a friend.” “I am confused.” And, so on. I knew full well that the project presentations were going to be put on hold and I would let them talk.

Then, through the doorway came a “hulk” of a student who had been in my summer class. I was surprised to see him. He wasn’t what you would call a fan of my educational philosophy and methods. In fact, he fought it kicking and screaming, tooth and nail, to the end. He took a few steps into the room and then motioned me into the hall. He turned. I followed.

He turned towards me, extended his hand, smiled, and said, “I want to thank you.”

I clasped his hand and asked, “For what?”

He caught me by surpise. He was a member of what I called my “Oreo Community”: two controlling perfectionists sandwiching a go-along. He and the other controller would go at it loudly in class over every project. Both always talking at the others; neither listening to anyone; each wanting to dominate; neither trusting nor respecting. I had many a conversation with all three. It was to no avail. They did their projects, but went through wars, bloody wars. During closure he stood up and proclaimed that the class was a waste of his time, he didn’t learn anything, and I hadn’t done my job.

“For teaching me that I had to be respectful and humble.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, something that made me see, like you once saw of yourself, that I was more of a ‘hot shit’ than a ‘hot shot.’ When the light was focused on me this time, I saw the shadow I was throwing. It looked like what you told me it did only this time I saw it and I didn’t like it.”

“You’re courageous. You didn’t have to come to me.”

“Yes I did. Now I know what humble means.”

“What?”

“Like you said, it means there is more to go. Perfection doesn’t exist. I don’t know it all and have to trust other people. Just wanted to say, ‘thank you’ and just keep on doing what you’re doing. I just learned that I learned a hell of lot more than I thought, and that includes history.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “I needed that today.”

He clasped my hand again, turned, and walked down the hall. I turned and went into class more than a bit invigorated and strengthened. He was a bright star in another wise very dark day.

Oh, by the way. Did I say I was stunned and sad. I am also angry. I gave blood yesterday. I urge all to do so. I heard one of those expert talking heads that always come out of the woodwork in such times as these. This time it was an economist who said that this country will slide into recession because of lost confidence and people will travel less. For what it’s worth, I’ll be damn if I’m going to let any fanatic shake my confidence. I am going to stay the course. I am not going to be frightened; I am not going to cower in a corner; I am not going to be demoralized. I and my family are supposed to fly to Boston this week. If there are flights, we will fly. I will not be nervous about flying. That victory is mine. A small light in dark times. I am angry. And if that be chauvinistic, so be it.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

The other day, I came in from an outside blanching in that boiling South Georgia humid air only to find that someone wanted to roast me as well. As I calmly entered the computer room, cup of coffee in hand, eager to work the online Washington Post crossword puzzle, I paniced. Thick smoke was pouring out from the computer. At first I thought it was going to set off the fire alarm. Luckily it was only virtual billows coming from a flaming message in response to my last Random Thought about my apology to Melody.

Did I say flame? It was a blazing bonfire. No, it was a raging forest wildfire. Boy, this professor’s collar must have been white hot. Melody was not a happy tune for this particular professor. Melody was more of a dirge. In blistering, no uncertain, and less that cordial and collegial terms, she told me she had received what she called “the last straw” and she “couldn’t hold back any longer.”

“It is touchy feely people like you,” she accused, “who are undermining the professorhood. “There is no place in our intellectual environment for the emotion you want to ram down our throats,” she wrote in something of a denouncing tone. She blamed me for “helping to destroy what’s left of the academy’s sanctity with continued demonstrations of weakness in the classroom.” She bemoaned the need to “sacrifice my valuable time for students who shouldn’t be in my classroom in the first place when I could be doing important research .” She continued, “My class is not a charity ward. It is not my job to hold their hands or wipe their sniveling noses. I don’t get paid for that.” She went on to proclaim, “We are professors, not teachers! I am dedicated to my discipline!” She ended her scathing message with “”my position of authority comes from the degrees and awards hanging in my office. My legitimacy rests on my research and publications, not from pandering to unprepared and incapable students. Your Dean ought to take you out to the shed and spank some sense into you”

What could I say. I don’t believe in corporal punishment. Actually, her message sounded like she was preparing to go before a Tenure and Promotion Committee. Anyway,I couldn’t disagree with her more. This professor seems caught in a despairing obsession of literary proportions. She denigrates and dismisses the very people she is supposed to notice and elevate. She confuses things with people. I can just imagine her stately office decorated with what I call a credentialing look-at-who-I-am “wall of fame.” It probably looks like a patchworked quilt of various sized and colored framed squares of degrees, honors, awards, and appointments. It may even be adorned with an autographed photograph of and signed letters from the “rich and famous.”

I didn’t know how to answer her without seeming to be high and mightly. This professor is committing what I think is the ultimate sin, the sin of not being aware, of not being alert, of not noticing. Being buried in the literature of her discipline, of being “dedicated” to her discipline, both in mind and spirit, to profess the information of her discipline rather than teach students, ultimately is not to value the spirit of education and teaching. It is not to have a value center for what goes on in the classroom.

Trouble is that those “things” on the wall don’t have a high message no matter how high they are hung on the wall. Our ultimate destination is not on that wall. Too often those things on the wall are bricks that we use to wall us in and wall us off. If we think who we are and what we’ve done are nailed to the wall, we’ll be separated from the feeling of being alive.

I didn’t even know if I should reply. Was there anything I could say that she would hear. Would what I have to say make her want to turn me slowly over a bonfire on a spit? Probably so. Was that important? Remembering the words of Martin Luther King, it more important not to be silent. But, what to day.

Then, yesterday, Melanie provided the music too which we should dance in the classroom.

It was the day we set up the last and most challenging of the four working themes of the course. We had already done the exercises to establish: “It’s Communication, communication, communication;” “Never Forget the Story;” and, “Remember ‘The Chair.’” These themes are the foundation upon which all supportive and encouraging community building and class projects rest.

Now came the final theme. Using a quote from a student in a semester from long ago, it is called: “I sang; I can kick ass!”

I ask each student, as well as myself, to stand up and sing solo from his or her seat. They can sing a few notes, a bar or two, or a stanza from anything they wish. Yesterday we heard a range of melodies from operatic aria to “Jesus Loves Me” to rap, to “ABC” to “When you Wish Upon A Star,” to “Baa, baa, black sheep” to “Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall” to…..

I never realized in my wildest dreams what was about to happen. It was one of those “YESSSSSS!! Thank You!!!” days you dream about but never dare believe it will happen.

Almost all the students had sung. Now it was Ron’s (not his real name) turn. He’s a football player. This day he would much have preferred bungie jumping or playing in a game without protective pads to singing alone before the class. He had risen from his chair as if every muscle in his athletic body was aching and tight. He stood there going through the full range of fidgeting. His head stared at the floor. He and I had an exchange. He’d momentarily lift his head, look down at me sitting on the floor against one of the walls, whispered an excuse or reason not to do it. I would reply with silence, a smile, and a caring twinkle. His eyes would return to the floor. At a few second, we’d start our “discussion” again. Each time he said an “I can’t sing,” “I don’t know a song,” “My mind went blank,” “I don’t like to sing,” “Do I have to do it,” or “This is embarrassing,” I would reply with a caring silence.

Then, from far across the room came a soft, angelic, caring, and audible “I’m here for you.”

I slowly turned my head toward the voice. Ron looked up and turned toward the voice. It was Melanie. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to.

“You’re not alone. You can sing.” And with a quiet, support, and encouraging voice whispered as caring, “You’re safe here. We all are doing it. Go ahead, sing.”

He smiled. And, slowly he sang. At first quietly, very hesitantly, and then he got louder, and then he got into it, and then he started to move his body, and then we couldn’t shut him up. I didn’t want to. He sat down, beaming, and threw a pointed finger of thank you at Melanie as if she had just thrown him a touchdown pass. She did. He caught it.

After I sang in my off-key voice, “I’m a Little Teapot” but before I could start a “why did we do this” debriefing discussion of the reason for the exercise, Melody jumped in. “In high school I was deathly afraid of doing anything in front of people. It really held me back from seeing what I was capable of doing. I once had to give a recital of a passage from Shakespeare on stage. I was paralyzed with fear. I knew I could do it. I was just so afraid that I couldn’t do it. Then, a friend of mine said to me, ‘Melanie, I love you. I’m going to be sitting in the front row. I am going to smile at you and support you even if you forget your lines. Remember when you’re up there, I’m down here for you. Just look at me. You’re not alone.’ I looked at her smiles when I was on that stage and did my lines. I never forgot that. Ever since then, I am there for anyone with a smile and encouraging support.”

She turned to Ron and continued, summing up the whole purpose of the exercise: “Whenever you do anything in this class, remember you’ve already sang and can’t do anything that can scare you more. And remember, you’re not alone. It’s safe here. You can risk it all. You’ll never be embarrassed or humiliated. You’ll never do anything stupid in our eyes. No one will laugh at you. You’re free to show yourself and us what you can do. And don’t ever forget that you’ve always got at least three people in your corner: Me, Dr. Schmier, and…..” She stopped.

“Who’s the third?” Ron asked. No answer. Silence. Then, Don answered his own question, “And me.”

I turned to Eva, saying, “And you, too.”

Melanie echoed, “And, you, too, Eva. Anyone. Everyone.”

Nothing like experiencing that rapture.

I once read a short Hindu tale. A woman approached her master and said, “I do not find that I love God.” The master replied with a question: “Is there nothing you love?” The woman answered, “My nephew.” And the master smiled, “There is your love and service to God, in your love and service to that child of God.”

This is my response to that professor.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

On this first day of the Labor Day Weekend, my walk was laborious. After two hot and rainless weeks, plants all along my route were raising their leaves in hosannas after last night’s torrential downpour. Nevertheless, this morning’s misty air was anything but airy. It was solid sogginess as the fallen waters were returning to the heavens in wispy, heavy pillars of steam.

As I sailed in and out of patches of superheated oceanic fog, I was thinking clearly about yesterday’s class. Community portfolios were due. The Communities introduced themselves by presenting their portfolios bedecked with their Community name, logo, and motto. For some people, it was a challenged to stand up there. They probably would have preferred bungie jumping to talking in front of the class. The first Community, after it presented its portfolio, decided each member would say a few words about him- or herself. That wasn’t required. They just decided to do it, and all the other Communities followed suit. That never happened before in any class. It was neat because everyone had to say a few words.

One student whom I’ll call Sammy was a bundle of nerves. She was not happy being up there much less having to say something. She was closing her eyes and taking deep breaths and figeting as the other members of her Community discussed the portfolio and then introduced themselves. Her voice shook and cracked. She hesitated. “You don’t know how scared I am. I’m so shy. I just want to turn around and talk to the wall. This is so stupid. I’m so dumb. And, I want to be a teacher.” Tears were forming in her eyes.

“That’s okay,” I calmly assured her as I immediately thought of Claire in the other class. “It’s not stupid and you’re not dumb. It’s okay to be nervous. You’re already talking to us, and you’re saying courageous things. No one is pressing you. Just look at the ‘Words for the Day’ and decide what you want to do.”

The “Words For The Day,” just happened to be ten powerful two-lettered words: “If it is to be, it is up to me.”

She stared at them. She read them, read them for what seemed like a long while. The class was quiet. I saw one student mouth, “come on, you can do it.” And then Sammy turned turned back to her classmates and ran through a few sentences describing herself.

She raced back to her chair as if she was running the final leg of a 440. Her seat happened to be in front of where I was sitting. I leaned over, lovingly tapped her on her head with my index finger, and said, “You did it. First step to being a great teacher.” The rest of the class was applauding. She turned around with a beaming smile and caught me off-guard with a whisper. “Well, Dr. Schmier, if you could apologize to the class I decided I could do this. Step one to being a voice instead of an echo.”

Her comment took me back to the previous Friday. Fall semester classes had been in session a week, but most of the students were still in summer mode. The hot August days didn’t help to dissuade them.

I knew there would be absences on that first Friday as first year, late teenage students struggled to cut the home town umbilical cord. Actually, only about five of 43 weren’t there. I don’t know why, but I decided to preach to the choir about responsibility and commitment. Maybe I was convinced, afraid would be a better term, that the upcoming Labor Day Weekend would decimate Friday class and add to already cancelled class the following Labor Day Monday.

I wasn’t loud. I wasn’t agitated. I wasn’t sneering. I wasn’t wildly gyrating. I thought I was firm but assuring and supporting and encouraging. And yet……As I was talking I thought I heard a whisper inside trying to interrupt, saying to me, “you don’t trust the ones who are here.” And, as I was putting a muzzle on that inner voice, it became a ventriloquist. From the back of the room came Melody’s interrupting voice, “Why are you so cynical? We’re here. Don’t you trust us?”

Ah, but, I side stepped her comment with a knee jerk defensive reply, “I’m not being cynical. Sure, I trust you. I just want you to help me with those missing in action and I don’t want you to do things that would disrespect yourself.”

“What makes you think we would?”

“Nothing. Just heading things off at the pass.”

Truth was that I was being cynical and that I didn’t trust them. I was being negative. Melody won the game of pin the tail on the prof. Her words gnawed at me all weekend. I had discussions, conversations, and arguements with myself on walks and by the fishpond. At times, I felt like a pondering Spencer Tracey standing on his patio in GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER. Her unrequested feedback was not tasty, but oh did it prove to be nutritious

Sunday night I swallowed Melody’s medicine, without any sugar to make it go down. I finally said to myself, “Louis, you’re stupid. If you hadn’t forgotten how powerful your thoughts and words are, you would never have been negative.”

I wrote myself a note on the roll pad Monday morning, “Cynical. Don’t ignore. Apologize.”

First thing I did Monday, after we did our opening minute meditation to the rhythms of Barry White, I publically admitted to Melody that she was right, that she was right to nail me. I apologized to the class. I thanked Melody for her candor.

That is why we all have to be honestly open to good honest criticism, evaluation, assessment, feedback, or whatever you want to call it. Our outward behavior is the truth, our inner perception of our behavior is our emotionally self-satisfying and self-serving, “how could they say that” illusion. We have to listen and hear because many of our patterns, idiosyncracies, quirks are really invisible to us. We’re not conscious of them. We don’t think about them. They are not operating in the realm of the aware. That’s why, we have to ask. We have to follow that fundamental dictum: ask and you shall receive, seek and you will find. To ask with a true open openness leads to education; to ask with a closed openness results in continued ignorance. I once read the acronym that to ask is to “a”lways “s”eek out “k”nowledge, to get ideas, insights, information, approaches. We need to ask in order to be informed, inspired, and energized; to generate a rich inner dialogue and thoughtful reflection. And so, as Oliver Wendell Holmes, once said, “we all need an education in the obvious.” Then, there will be a yield of unimaginable rewards and unbelievable miracles.

Boy, did Sammy bring all that home!

Make it a good day.

–Louis–