Notianalism

Britons vote to “take their country back” by exiting the European Union; Donald Trump and his supporters promise to “make American great again;” even the Scots, who hardly seem the sort to get their kilts in a twist, tried recently to secede from Great Britain.

Frankly, I don’t get it; what’s the big deal with having your own country?  It’s hard enough as it is just to keep one’s own lawn mowed.

I always thought that by the 21st century, nationalism would be dead and we’d all be “citizens of the world.”  Historical boundaries and allegiances would be cast off and humanity would unite under a single flag.  No doubt the failure of the space aliens to attack and provide earthlings with a common enemy is part of the reason that hasn’t happened, but still…

Americans are taught that the USA is the greatest country on earth; Dutch children are told that Holland is number one; even countries like Canada where the name of the people who live there, Canadians, is based on the name of the country, are brainwashed to love their homeland above all others.  This all seems about as silly as being trained up to root for your hometown sports team above the rest; sillier, even since there’s no way America is ever going to win the Superbowl.

Civic pride is a fine thing, surely; we should all feel good about where we come from and the qualities we share with our neighbors, but ultimately, we’re all homo sapiens; let’s take back our species and secede from the phylum Cordata if anything.

Nationalism has been the cause of countless armed conflicts, untold numbers of international incidents, and some of the ugliest outfits ever designed for Olympic competition.  It’s time for the human race to set aside tribal loyalties and pledge fidelity to the entire family of man—not just national brother and sisters.

That way, we’ll actually be ready when the space aliens invade.

Ideas

I want to invent the machine that turns my ideas into reality.  The problem is that  I need the machine in order to do that.

Ideas are much easier than execution.  If just merely conceiving of something could bring it into being, I’d have a stack of best-sellers under my belt to go along with several successful companies and a coffee shop that looked like a science lab where caffeine was dispensed in scientifically-measured doses.

“Genius,” said Thomas Edison, “is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration;” if only the numbers were reversed, I could be a genius.

If you’ve got an active mind, it’s hard to carry out your ideas.  It’s not that I get bored exactly; it’s more that once I’ve thought of something, the really interesting part is over.  “I always wanted to be a writer, but I couldn’t stand the paperwork,” is how Lily Tomlin put it.

To paraphrase Stephen King: just because something is hard is a terrible reason not to do it.  He’s surely right, but then again, terrible reasons are, in practice, just as compelling as good reasons.  Just because a reason is lousy doesn’t mean it doesn’t motivate; just look at all the things we’ve done in the name of pride, or fear, or boredom.

If I had three wishes, I’d naturally wish for more wishes.  Duh. 

But after that, I’d wish that by writing down an idea for a book would bring it into being.  Like this: here’s a book about how a gang of teenagers saves the world from invaders from another dimension by taking psychedelic drugs secretly given to them by their physician fathers during the 1970s that ultimately derails the lives of each of the young people and breaks the hearts of the parents who had no other choice if the human race was to survive.

The story runs to 600 pages and intertwines the lives of dozens; it practically writes itself.  Unfortunately, only practically.

Sports

I wish I didn’t care about sports.

It’s annoying, not to mention embarrassing, petty, and incredibly stupid to be made happy or sad by whether your preferred team of highly-paid grown men in pajamas prevails in a child’s game on television.

But there you have it.

When the Mariners—or the Pirates, Steelers, Penguins, even sometimes the Dodgers—win, I experience a little shot of dopamine that cheers me up more or less depending on the nature of the contest and how it played out.  When those same teams lose, especially after enjoying a lead, it’s like a little poke in the ribs or tweak in the nose; I really don’t like it.

It bothers me that my reaction is quite inconsistent with the importance of the event; I’ve been known to feel worse about seeing the Mariners losing in the bottom of the ninth than reading news reports of another mass shooting or stock market crash.  And then I feel worse that I feel bad, and so on, and so on.

I assume it’s possible to wean myself from this predicament; all I’d have to do is simply stop investing so much psychic energy in whether “my” teams wins or not.  It shouldn’t be any harder than stopping biting my nails or giving up milk in my coffee.

And yet.

Here I sit, watching the Mariners blow another lead and damn if I’m not having a worse day than I was when they were winning.  This surely makes no more sense than being displeased that Romeo and Juliet didn’t live happily ever after: for one thing, I can’t do anything about it and even if I could, so what?  It’s not like my health, wealth, or general well-being is affected by the outcome.

Nevertheless, after well more than a half-century of this, I’m apparently stuck.  I see only one way to not feel bad after this game: the M’s had better just come back and win.

Patience

Perhaps the best advice my yoga teacher, David Garrigues, ever gave me was “don’t panic.”  He offered this counsel as I pressed up into a backbend and immediately began gritting my teeth and hyperventilating.  Not surprisingly, neither of these did anything to improve the pose, hence David’s admonition.  Thanks to his words, however, I was able to slow my breathing down and relax, at least a bit.

Point being: most of us are very impatient, especially when it comes to experiencing discomfort.  At the first sign of something uncomfortable, we begin frantically searching for an escape; it’s our biological “flight” mechanism in action.  And while this probably served us well when that discomfort was a saber-toothed tiger with designs on us for dinner, it’s not so useful when all that threatens us is a little physical challenge, or boredom, or a problem whose solution isn’t readily apparent.

Take, for example, what routinely happens during the writing process.  I find myself stuck halfway down a problematic sentence; immediately, I incline towards surfing the internet or opening the refrigerator to graze for carrots—anything to avoid feeling the uncomfortable feelings I’m feeling: self-doubt, embarrassment, and fear, a low-level panic that raises the hairs on the back of my neck and has me shouting inwardly, “Get out now! Run, you fool, run!” although not in those words.

Usually, I respond to these feelings as expected, which is why it typically takes me all morning to write two paragraphs and why we go through carrots so quickly in our household.

What’s sad is that I know if I just allow myself to sit for a moment with the feelings, they’ll pass.  If I refrain from panicking, I’ll eventually find my way out of the corner I’ve backed myself into.  Instead of wildly seeking solace via the internet or refrigerator, I just need to look within. 

Of course, that means confronting my panic head-on, but if I’m patient, I can do so.