From Brick to Loyalty and Beyond

Once, many years ago, I remember receiving the highest compliment I could ever have received.  A friend of mine—for reasons I have since forgotten—said to me, "You're a brick."

I, being terrible at receiving compliments, turned it aside in my customary literal fashion, making some joke about being heavy or not being rectangular or some such nonsense.  I have entirely forgotten my exact response, but the memory of the experience remains strong.  Why when I received a compliment that warmed my heart to its core would I act as if it meant nothing to me?  Why did I not even give the customary "Thank you" that politeness deserved?

We humans are contrary creatures.  We want things and then go to great lengths to avoid receiving precisely what we desire.  Why?  It might be from fear.  Or guilt.  Or some desperate feeling that we could never be worthy to receive anything good.

Let us return to the idea conveyed through the wonderful compliment I received.  Apparently this term has become dated, at least according to the online Oxford dictionary, which defines it as "a generous, helpful, and reliable person."  The online Merriam Webster dictionary mentions nothing about its archaic nature, but simply states its meaning as "a good-hearted person."  These definitions speak to a meaning you might well guess simply from studying a brick, which has a certain solid quality about it (although their quality may be declining also...).  The term implies a certain steadfastness, a reliability, a loyalty.

We do not always find that loyalty, even though we desire it.  In the words of Shakespeare (Henry VI, Part II, Act V, Scene 1):

O, where is loyalty?
If it be banished from the frosty head,
Where shall it find a harbor in the earth?

Loyalty certainly seems to be a rare quality these days.  Loyal friends are difficult to find, although a great treasure when one discovers them.

Thoughts on loyalty often lead my mind to the haunting lyrics of a song known as "Gollum's Song."  I will leave aside any comments on the appropriateness of the title for the sake of the point I wish to make, for that argument would be a lengthy aside.  In any case, the line from the song I mention bewails a lack of love and loyalty:

"No loyal friend was ever there for me...."

By contrast, Tolkien himself proposes a beautiful and keen insight into what true loyalty and friendship are through the mouth of the Hobbits in The Lord of the Rings:

“But it does not seem that I can trust anyone,' said Frodo. Sam looked at him unhappily. 'It all depends on what you want,' put in Merry. 'You can trust us to stick with you through thick and thin—to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours—closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo.”   

Friendship is a topic I ponder often.  Many problems in society and wounds in our own hearts could be healed if friendship were taken more seriously—as seriously as the Hobbits took it.

That truth leaves me with many questions.  Why, for instance, do men and women seek so desperately to find their partners and then cut themselves off from anyone who might be there to support them along their journey when the relationship gets tough?  Why must a close friendship automatically be required to be sexual?  Why does society regard friendship so poorly?

Throughout my life I have been blessed with many wonderful friends—some of which amaze me still by their beautiful loyalty—and there are few things I value more highly than friendship.  I have grown so much through those friendships.

I am myself, if I may boast a little, loyal in my friendships.  Sometimes I wonder if I am too loyal.

Loyalty seems a difficult quality to have in excess and yet perhaps it is possible after all.  Sometimes it can mean clinging to the past, holding onto the nostalgia of past experiences, and longing for the continuance of old friendships.  It can become controlling, needy, and desperately afraid to lose the good of the past and accept the gifts of the present.  One desires of course that all good things remain, but in reality they must ultimately come to an end, as that trite expression reminds us.  

Sometimes one must say goodbye.  Sometimes one must let friends follow other paths as distance, physical or mental, broadens the gap between them.  Sometimes one must let go for his own sanity.

Yet the loyal heart lets go only with difficulty.  The loyal friend desires to be there when the going gets tough, even if the other withdraws.

As one committed to loyalty, I assure you that I am here if you need me.  Despite my own flaws and failings, I will remain as true to you as I know how.  I will reach out to you even if years have passed since we last spoke and I think you no longer care to continue our friendship.  I will call you on your birthday just so you know you are loved.  I will write you a letter to know I am thinking of you.  If I happen to be in your region of the world, I will let you know.  Time may be lacking these days, but the desire for friendship and the will to be loyal are not.

In the end, perhaps true loyalty lies deeper.  Perhaps one must be courageous enough to let go even of what seems to be the loyal response so that the friendships may continue into eternity.

The Food of Inspiration

Let me introduce you to the most amazing food for inspiration (although not by its proper name, as then you couldn't eat it—see Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll if you are not familiar with that reference).  Perhaps you have already guessed what it is.  If not, give it a try.  Hint: it actually is not chocolate.

In any case, and without further ado, except a brief imaginary drum roll....

The food of inspiration is ice cream.

My grandmother has repeatedly assured me that ice cream is brain food.  The brain typically provides the functions necessary for inspiration, so it makes perfect sense.

Rather than draw my conclusion from the above syllogism, however, I pull it from personal experience.

I was at a bit of an impasse with a writing project.  Some might call it writer's block, but I tend to dislike that term—more for reasons of contrariness than anything else, I suppose (although I may one day address this idea in more suitably rational form).  I digress.  My point is that I was doing just about anything I could to avoid trying to work on said writing project.  After all, there is no fun in gazing at the computer while that powerless feeling of despair at ever being able to get any further grows and grows....

It is amazing all the things one can do to avoid working on a writing project.  Even the things that I would naturally avoid—like cooking for instance—suddenly seemed far more important than working on that dreaded project.  Time slips away very quickly in this fashion.  I believe in most circles they call this procrastination.

Then—lo and behold!—my mother returns from the store and offers me an ice cream bar.  I accepted of course—who would say no to ice cream?

As I enjoyed the delicious crunch of the chocolate coating and the soft cold cream of the vanilla ice cream, I found my mind relaxing.  The thought of the play I had been avoiding came to mind.  Then—voila!—all of a sudden I knew what to do with it.

So if ever you find yourself lacking in inspiration, you may consider learning from my example.  All your practiced efforts to defeat writer's block may be of no use.  You may just need some ice cream.

Warning: Do not try this at home without supervision from a qualified health professional unless you possess sufficient willpower to prevent excessive intake which can lead to side effects such as obesity, diabetes, heart disease, and inability to be productive without ice cream.

You Must Say "Yes!"

A little while ago, I was ushering for an Improv show at a local theatre and—per my instructions—stood in front of a door curtained off where the audience was not supposed to go.  The purpose of my standing there, as I understood it from my previous time ushering, was to keep the audience members from wandering backstage.

So as I stood there trying not to look completely stupid, the owner of the theatre happened to come along and mention that I did not really need to stand there, as the door really went nowhere.  It turns out, there was a bunch of junk behind the curtain now, so no audience members would go through it.

As I stood there, watching her walk away and feeling superfluous, my thoughts took a strange turn.  Rather than feel stupid, I decided to say yes to superfluity.  I would stand there in all my superfluousness and be the best superfluous-usher-standing-in-front-of-an-unusable-exit that I could be.  So I owned my superfluity.

That is what Improv teaches.  "Say, 'Yes!'" you are told.  Actually to say, "Yes, and...." but that is a topic for another day.

What a perspective it is to say yes to the most foolish things, eh?  Instead of feeling like a failure, or feeling guilty, or feeling like one ought not to belong to society or existence of any of those ridiculous negatives, one can own even the ridiculousness and superfluity.

I guess this is what people mean when they say snidely, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

In conclusion: say "Yes!"  And be superfluous if you cannot be useful.  A toast to superfluity!

"Death . . . "

"...comes for us all, my lords."

So says Sir Thomas More in Robert Bolt's excellent play, A Man for All Seasons.

Death is a topic brought to my attention of late through its intrusion into the steady pace of irregularity in my life.  Also, I had read not long before a psychological-spiritual book addressing fear in terms of death: the author made the point that death is what we fear most, whether physical or psychological.

Fear of death can cause us to do strange things.  If you look at the fear of death in its broadest sense (including psychological death), perhaps you might even trace everything back to it.  (Forget Freud for a moment.)

How do we deal with that fear?

Well I would argue that the fear of death is not of death itself, for we do not truly understand what death is.  Indeed death may even be what we desire because it brings us to what we long for most.  Think of Hamlet:

To be, or not to be? That is the question—
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them? To die, to sleep—
No more—and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep....

Yet he is afraid of death because of what lies beyond.  Also, I would argue, because he is powerless.

Personal experience confirms for me this reality.  It is not so much a dying of self that I fear, but the feeling of powerlessness, of not being in control, of losing all that I perceive as good.

If you look around you at all the people trying desperately to seize power in their various ways, either over themselves or others, you may agree with me.  We want to feel in control.  We want to look like we have it all put together.

Yet this very need for control cuts us off from those around us.  They may fear us.  They may envy us.  It is doubtful whether they will love us.

Again I find myself facing the old theme of vulnerability.  All the paths seem to lead there these days, as if it were the Rome of human life—of the interior world.  For in choosing vulnerability, we accept our powerlessness.  We accept the pain, the ache that will not go away, our loneliness, our fear, and all the shadows that we wish the light would banish.  Then their power over us begins to fade and we realize that there is a deep undiscovered country within us, a secret cell where none can trample save if we open the gate, a sanctuary for what we treasure most.

If we flee the pain, if we flee the powerlessness, we cut ourselves off from the depths of our own hearts.  Nor can we bridge the gap to another's heart.

Only a full three-dimensional object can cast a shadow.  The flat characters of poorly-written fiction have no shadow because they are not fully human.  If we would be fully human, we must accept that shadow side, embrace it, and let it take its place in our lives.  Only then can we grow.  Only then can we be fully human—fully alive.

Ought we to fear something that makes us beautiful and whole?  In the words of Hamlet:

Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a special
providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now,
'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be
now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the
readiness is all: since no man has aught of what he
leaves, what is't to leave betimes?

Sometimes One Just Needs a Bit of Humor

I find humor in strange places.

Often I laugh at my own jokes because I am the only one who finds them funny.  If others find my jokes funny, I tend to remain serious (and then people can't even tell I am joking, but that is another problem).  It is a strange paradox.

Although those around me may grow tired of my punning and literal humor, somehow it never grows old for me.  Perhaps I have the gift of having a child's sense of humor, for a young child will ask again and again for the same good thing and never tire of it.  Imagine loving the present so much that you wanted to live it again and again....  Imagine seeing such treasure in each moment!

Aside from my penchant for literal humor and an occasional ill-timed morbid joke, I have another form of amusement recently discovered.  I would like to share it with you, for no matter how much I may laugh at my own jokes, I still desire to make others laugh more.  Sometimes it becomes a sort of game for me with friends.  I often measure how well I know people by whether I can make them laugh.

Enough about me.  I want to tell you about this new form of humor.  Perhaps you have guessed it already from the pictures, but I doubt that you have guessed it fully.  (If you have, however, you must possess the precise mental approach to life that suits you to be my partner in a traveling Improv troupe, so please submit your application below in the comments.)  All right, what is your guess?

I suspect that you have discovered that these are pictures of a compost pile holding tea bags with lovely trite sayings.  If that is so, you are entirely correct.

The sayings on tea bags can of themselves be quite humorous.  As for example that first picture where the little tag says, "Patience pays."  Every little child knows that it certainly does not pay.  Patience only means that the parents forget that the child needed something and the true way to get what you need is to scream and cry and throw a fit.  I am fairly sure that is the opposite of patience.

Well have you ever considered how amusing these sayings might be as dialogue tags from a compost bin?

Yes, there is my secret bit of humor: compost speaking through dialogue tags.

How can you look at something like that and not think of a dialogue tag from some comic book?  It is too perfect.

So next time you find your day rather dull and humorless, you may just want to check your compost bin and see whether it has any messages for you.  Note: essential ingredients are actually having a compost bin (any bucket is satisfactory) and drinking Yogi teas (or other tea with suitably silly mass-produced sayings).

I leave you with one last question and all of its existential implications: what is the compost in your life saying?