Lessons from an iguana.

In 2006 a high school English teacher asked students to write to a famous author and ask for advice. Kurt Vonnegut was the only one to respond – and his response is magnificent:

“Dear Xavier High School, and Ms. Lockwood, and Messrs Perin, McFeely, Batten, Maurer and Congiusta:


I thank you for your friendly letters. You sure know how to cheer up a really old geezer (84) in his sunset years. I don’t make public appearances any more because I now resemble nothing so much as an iguana.


What I had to say to you, moreover, would not take long, to wit: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.


Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you’re Count Dracula.


Here’s an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don’t do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don’t tell anybody what you’re doing. Don’t show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK?


Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash receptacals. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what’s inside you, and you have made your soul grow.
God bless you all!” ~Kurt Vonnegut

There is something soul-stretching about entering the zone, that timelessness we find in creating art. Writing, drawing, dancing, singing. All of it. Lose yourself in creating and find yourself a bit different on the other end.

Listening to hear.

Communication can be tough, particularly after a long silence. Finding inroads, healing thaws, rediscovering common ground takes effort.

Sometimes it’s nice to have a game plan before going into what might be an emotionally-charged conversation.

Consider this one:

So often we get lost in who’s right, who’s wrong. But is that really the point? Harsh words are often spoken in just such a competition to be right. Often the words cause more harm than the original conflict. Is right/wrong really the best way? Especially when the objective is to try to get a friendship back on track.

Being gentle, vulnerable, attentive is true strength. Moving through the world with a genuine sense of curiosity rather than an avowed sense of your own rightness can open the door to a better appreciation of someone else’s point of view and a greater chance of improving, rather than destroying, the remnants of a relationship you hope to save.

Keep pushing forward.

In a difficult and challenging place and time, we are called to continue the fight for what is right and good, true and just, honorable and compassionate. We push forward– listening more, caring more, giving more. We can drown out the din and listen to our hearts which strive for peace and harmony, communion, reconciliation. We must hold fast to our principles and to hope as our anchor, especially now.

Choose joy.

These days it feels a bit like we are bombarded by news, so overwhelming in scope as to cloud out the sun. Overwhelm is on the menu. And joy can feel like an exotic indulgence. And yet, choosing joy can be an act of resistance.

As Maria Popova notes, drawing on her experience in writing The Marginalian:

14. Choose joy. Choose it like a child chooses the shoe to put on the right foot, the crayon to paint a sky. Choose it at first consciously, effortfully, pressing against the weight of a world heavy with reasons for sorrow, restless with need for action. Feel the sorrow, take the action, but keep pressing the weight of joy against it all, until it becomes mindless, automated, like gravity pulling the stream down its course; until it becomes an inner law of nature. If Viktor Frankl can exclaim “yes to life, in spite of everything!” — and what an everything he lived through — then so can any one of us amid the rubble of our plans, so trifling by comparison. Joy is not a function of a life free of friction and frustration, but a function of focus — an inner elevation by the fulcrum of choice. So often, it is a matter of attending to what Hermann Hesse called, as the world was about to come unworlded by its first global war, “the little joys”; so often, those are the slender threads of which we weave the lifeline that saves us.

Delight in the age-salted man on the street corner waiting for the light to change, his age-salted dog beside him, each inclined toward the other with the angular subtlety of absolute devotion.

Delight in the little girl zooming past you on her little bicycle, this fierce emissary of the future, rainbow tassels waving from her handlebars and a hundred beaded braids spilling from her golden helmet.

Delight in the snail taking an afternoon to traverse the abyssal crack in the sidewalk for the sake of pasturing on a single blade of grass.

Delight in the tiny new leaf, so shy and so shamelessly lush, unfurling from the crooked stem of the parched geranium.

I think often of this verse from Jane Hirshfield’s splendid poem “The Weighing”:

So few grains of happiness

measured against all the dark

and still the scales balance.

Yes, except we furnish both the grains and the scales. I alone can weigh the blue of my sky, you of yours.

Pausing to notice and delight in these little moments can counterbalance the great and pressing weight of darkness. It is from each of these moments, we draw value and solace, hope and strength.

And we persevere, weaving the ‘slender threads’ of the lifelines that save us.

No offering too small.

Speaking to graduating law students, Julian Aguon said

No offering is too small. No stone unneeded. All of us – whether we choose to become human rights lawyers or corporate counsel, or choose never to practice law at all but instead become professors or entrepreneurs or disappear anonymous among the poor or stay at home and raise bright, delicious children – all of us, without exception, are qualified to participate in the rescue of the world.

And this is true for any profession, calling, or vocation. We each matter. We each contribute to the mix. We each are qualified to rescue this world.

In any time in history, including our own in which we now find ourselves, some individuals stand apart from the crowd on behalf of what is right. Their example inspires others from that moment forward in time.

Who are those role models giving us strength now?

How can we shine the light for those to come?

Friendship in these times.

Friendships are taking a hit these days. Politics, world views, differing opinions are tearing people apart.

What is it that holds people together instead?

One thing is an abiding concern for the other person, despite your differences. If you can advocate against the death penalty on behalf of a stranger, couldn’t you bring yourself to see what is good and redeemable inside a former friend? Inside an enemy even? Searching for common ground is hard work, but really the main point of living in community. Isn’t it?

Look out for each other.

I was recently reminded about a story from 2017 where two little boys were caught in a rip tide and swept out to sea. Their entire family and four woud-be rescuers tried to swim out to save them but ended up similarly stranded.  Officials on shore stood, helpless, waiting for a rescue boat while the family and would-be rescuers floundered.

But then the people on the beach did a remarkable thing. People from all walks of life, across every possible difference or division, linked arms together and formed a human chain stretching out into the ocean until they reached those stuck and and then passed them person to person, beginning with the little boys, Noah (11) and Stephen (8), and ending with their grandmother who had tried to save them, back to safety.

Stories like this don’t get a lot of press. But it’s why we’re here.

To help each other. To make a difference.

Dance. Now.

Have you ever been to a ghost town? You see the saloon and can picture it with card games going on and drinks being slid down the bar to thirsty patrons. The hoofbeats of horses maybe bringing strangers into town, the scurry to safety if a gunfight breaks out, breaking glass, swishing skirts, laughter and tears. Lives lived and lost all as rich and complicated, full of joy and strife, as your own. And those people who once lived there, chugging their whiskey and loading their pistols—they’re gone. Their time came…..and went.

In Dead Poet’s Society, John Keating (played by Robin Williams) encourages his young students to remember that life is short and that they need to live fully now:

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish…what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here—that life exists, and identity, that the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

We dance because, for now, we inhabit these bodies and it is joyful to get lost in the beauty of music and move to its rhythms. We sing because we have a song. We love because that’s what life is all about.

Isn’t it?

What would you ask your older self?

One of the frustrations of life is you gain perspective as you mature which may have come really in handy back when you were young. So many mistakes then could have been avoided if you had then the perspective you have now.

Movies like Back to the Future and The Kid have fun with this premise allowing a character to return to their younger selves with their current perspective or vice versa. In Back to the Future, Marty McFly changes the whole course of his family history. In Disney’s The Kid, Russ Duritz, played by Bruce Willis, is confronted by an 8 year old version of himself who wants to know where their dog is since he assumed he would have one as an adult.

What would you ask your older self? What would your child self have wanted you to remember? Would your younger self recognize who you have become?

Each year as I grew up, my mother would have me fill out a school years book of memories. One of the checklists asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up. For girls, the choices were pretty stereotyped: mother, teacher, nurse, stewardess…. But there was an Other box with a blank. One year, I checked that and filled in ‘Pet Owner’. My little self hadn’t know a day without pets to love and couldn’t imagine my older self wouldn’t have pets, too.

My cats then

My cats now

And, each year, I checked, among other things, ‘Mother’. Now, I’m lucky to be a mother and a nana to this lot.

So in some ways, I have been true to little Shari. But I wonder what else she might have wondered about me. What questions would I have had?

In Pride Month, I’m reminded of the videos of people telling younger people, ‘It Gets Better’, that the loneliness and questioning they may feel now won’t define them later. That impulse to tell their younger selves to hold on has been a powerful statement for youth coming to age later. Www.itgetsbetter.org has become the world’s largest story telling effort to help LGBTQIA youth.

The perspective we’ve gained now, lessons we’ve learned, can be lifeblood to others going through struggles like what we have overcome. One of the gifts of age is to be able to use our experiences to help others. Indeed, many therapy models embrace the idea of nurturing your own younger self now in ways you might not have received when you were young, to listen to your own inner young self, and treat yourself now with the kindness you wish you had had then.

It’s an interesting exercise to sit and imagine what the conversation between your current self and your child self would look like? What questions does your younger self have? What comfort and reassurance can your older self provide?

Consider this video, years in the making, where 6th grade children recorded the questions and their older 12th grade selves recorded the answers.

In the end, only kindness matters.

Most of us will not be inventing a vaccine to end a pandemic or donating millions to the research. Most of us will not be heroes in the saving the day sense. 

And yet each of us has incredible power to choose how we want to meet each day when life is so stressful. Whether we want to retreat into a cocoon focused only on our own wants and needs or use this as an opportunity to reach out to others. Whether we want to add to someone’s anxiety or be their shelter in the storm. Whether we want to be comforted or to comfort. 

And the impetus for any acts of kindness comes from the deep recognition of how important those acts of kindness have been to you when you have despaired. The kind gesture, the comfort of a friend simply abiding with you as you travel a dark path, the reminder that you are precious when you’ve forgotten and can see only your mistakes. These have been your lifeblood. And you can offer that gift to others, particularly now.

Take a moment to enjoy this profound poem by Naomi Shihab Nye. 

Kindness matters. 

Kindness

Naomi Shihab Nye – 1952-

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.