The Sixth, Seventh & Eighth Lies

To make a quick comment about my mental state, sometimes what doesn't kill you can actually make you stronger. Every re-entry seems to usher-in about half of a new life-stage -- so two re-entries means I am in a different stage of my life than at commissioning.
With this growth has come many insights that I have not always spared time to share. This morning's revelation could be that unrequited longing and having fun are not mutually exclusive. Certainly, the past few weeks have revealed that I cannot discipline myself into accepting myself and that accepting myself makes discipline much easier. If that sounds like a catch-22, then an explanation for my difficulties is not far away. At some point, I had to give myself some unearned slack and take a moment to step-back. Not only did I get that from travel but also from writing a very personal article that I think IOW might be willing to post. Since then, I am noticing how I am able to take pressure off myself to perform without slipping into total hedonism, though the mechanisms are still developing. It can be said for certain that the key is replacing negative mechanisms with neutral ones (perhaps I just debunked another lie?): instead of getting angry with myself for unnecessary browsing, I am teaching myself to recognize it and simply "call halas" on myself. Done.

The sixth lie is that I need to react to things in proportion to their atrocity -- a lesson I think I learned before but could not quite internalize -- as if I am obligated to react on behalf of humanity, with my emotions, to how terrible something is. That is a LIE: just because I find the strength to have a poker-face in the moment doesn't mean I don't care. Two things helped me gain this insight. First of all, my latest entry called for poker-face tactics. Any play-acting would be disingenuous and getting upset was a liability. Being tired helped. While I was waiting to get my skimpy (problematic) 3-week visa I decided that it was okay to take the abuse with a straight-face. It was just plain okay. Neutral mechanism. Whether that came from God, tiredness, or drugs (of which I had none), I don't care: if I am naturally calm when I need to be calm, that's a good thing! I don't need to be any more rattled than I am.

The other debunked lie has to do with more personal things but it amounts to acknowledging gaffs with courage and healthy curiosity. If a pattern continues to occur, it cannot simply be thrown under the bus: it needs to see the light of day with the help of people I trust. The problem with the forbidden fruit, I maintain, was the fig-leaf cover-up (and I read that passage allegorically, in a dream-time sense -- which means it never occurred but it's always happening). To gain clarity, I need to risk hearing bad news or perhaps accepting a new paradigm that I previously thought was "wrong". Make mistakes, admit them, be aware of patterns, etc. A life of dichotomies is too draining. Better to stay engaged with life's diametric tensions.

While I am playing catch-up with my lie detector function (and listening to great play-lists, honestly) I might as well throw the eighth lie into cyber-space for your consideration. No one in their right mind would honestly think that a peace & justice intern could keep his comments to the intrapersonal. There are plenty of lies perpetrated by society and I have become all too familiar with them. Yet, I cannot always be projecting them outward. This one has leaked into my consciousness from time to time:

"If someone would just blow them off the face of the Earth, that would fix things."

LIE. Terrible, evil, insidious lie. Lie that hurt people, lie that keeps hurting people, lie that BROUGHT ME HERE. "Shoot the bad guys" "Us versus them" "Preemptive strike" "By any means necessary". LIES LIES LIES

This is not the last time we hear from this lie, here.

Sitting in Deficit

Between being sick and traveling, there has been little time for trumpeting this past month. I have an open invitation to jam at Dar Sansour (the Wi’am office) so I absconded upstairs and sunk my lips indulgently into a few familiar strains. My embouchure not entirely lost, I was just beginning to feel a little less sick when the scent of brewing zatta reached my nostrils. Zatta is known as thyme in English but I think that I will always call it zatta: the herb sees more action in this culture.

I went down-stairs and decided to sit while the tea finished brewing. As I did so, Zoughbi began to tell everyone in the room what a great guy I was and how important it was to be hospitable to me. I must have blushed terribly. I reassured everyone that they had been very hospitable to me and that it was really my pleasure to be there. Zoughbi went even further, saying that I was welcome to play outside, if I wanted, and no one would bother me.

As I sat down to drink my zatta, Zoughbi chimed-in again: “We are going to pay condolences; would you like to come with us?”

The answer was yes. I put my kafiah back on and joined Imad and Usama R. in Zoughbi’s car. We picked-up a school-teacher from Beit Sahour on our way to a nearby church. As we arrived, the abuna from the Greek Catholic congregation came walking up the street. We all shook hands and filed inside.

There, about two dozen older men stood as we entered. Zoughbi muttered the correct Arabic phrase and I tried my best to say it to each of them but I could tell I was not quite on-target. I took a seat next to Saliba and waited respectfully while they all conversed in Arabic. Only a few words popped in my ear: Eeran, ‘Ameerca, Isryal, Filisteen. Younger men were circulating the room with pots of coffee. I had to smile at the way older men accepted the tiny cup of coffee and then tried to offer it to the abuna, who wanted none of it. Personally, I had to use the restroom and Arabic coffee was going to exacerbate that like nothing else.

Another line of men entered, so that we all stood and shook hands with each other like opposing teams after a basketball game as our line left the church. I had made it without offending anyone and that was good enough for me, so I thought. We started the car and headed to the next church. “There are two funerals today.”

This time, I made sure to find the bathroom. While I was managing my fluid problem, I took a minute to think about what I was doing there. I knew nothing about the deceased. If I were capable of asking, I would not anyway. I had already been to one of these, I mused, so that I probably had all I needed to blather about paying condolences in my blog. From my normal, American perspective I was wasting time that I might have been using to... to... to...

I left the restroom with an intentionally different perspective: I was there. It reminded me of an important realization that flowered in the past month or so. In coming to terms with my relationship to my father, I also came to terms with the fact that sometimes even my attempts to be altruistic have oriented to my need to feel helpful rather than the needs of another. Praises on High, I managed to become more aware of that phenomenon and decided that there was value in ‘sitting in deficit’ with people while they are in the midst of struggle. Imagine how different the story of Job might be if his friends had continued sitting in silence with him rather than beginning their respective analyses.

We left the second round of condolences and proceeded to the basement, where (naam) a third funeral event was in progress. As I passed through the line, I tried to meet each eye and shake each hand with sincerity. It is hard to explain, perhaps. Facial expressions transcend some language barriers. I cannot take full credit: God blessed me with an expressive face. I let each of the older gentlemen see my emotions, how I felt to know that they had lost their friend. I can say honestly that something beautiful was there that was not at the first church, when I was worried about knowing what to do instead of wearing my compassion openly, even if there was nothing to do.

Back at the office, Zoughbi began again: “Really, you can play outside. My colleagues would like to enjoy your music without, uhh, so much repercussions inside here.”

I managed not to be very offended. At least I understood why Zoughbi had suddenly decided to talk about what a great guy John Daniel is – because he is a master at conflict resolution. Let me rephrase that: a master at Arab conflict resolution. In America, I could complain that he was being too indirect or feel betrayed by my co-workers because they did not feel comfortable confronting me. Yet, this is Palestine: everyone saves face. I choose to go outside; my co-workers are complicit in my playing somewhere on the grounds. Khalid remains outside of the equation. I know trumpets are loud but that is what I play. Halas.

...and the children win. The children always win. I went outside to a play-ground with half a dozen children and left a play-ground with two-dozen children. They came in twos and threes to the funny, loud noises. They had the most beautiful brown eyes and gaping smiles... I should tell you all about them sometime soon...

Sitting in Deficit

Between being sick and traveling, there has been little time for trumpeting this past month. I have an open invitation to jam at Dar Sansour (the Wi’am office) so I absconded upstairs and sunk my lips indulgently into a few familiar strains. My embouchure not entirely lost, I was just beginning to feel a little less sick when the scent of brewing zatta reached my nostrils. Zatta is known as thyme in English but I think that I will always call it zatta: the herb sees more action in this culture.

I went down-stairs and decided to sit while the tea finished brewing. As I did so, Zoughbi began to tell everyone in the room what a great guy I was and how important it was to be hospitable to me. I must have blushed terribly. I reassured everyone that they had been very hospitable to me and that it was really my pleasure to be there. Zoughbi went even further, saying that I was welcome to play outside, if I wanted, and no one would bother me.

As I sat down to drink my zatta, Zoughbi chimed-in again: “We are going to pay condolences; would you like to come with us?”

The answer was yes. I put my kafiah back on and joined Imad and Usama R. in Zoughbi’s car. We picked-up a school-teacher from Beit Sahour on our way to a nearby church. As we arrived, the abuna from the Greek Catholic congregation came walking up the street. We all shook hands and filed inside.

There, about two dozen older men stood as we entered. Zoughbi muttered the correct Arabic phrase and I tried my best to say it to each of them but I could tell I was not quite on-target. I took a seat next to Saliba and waited respectfully while they all conversed in Arabic. Only a few words popped in my ear: Eeran, ‘Ameerca, Isryal, Filisteen. Younger men were circulating the room with pots of coffee. I had to smile at the way older men accepted the tiny cup of coffee and then tried to offer it to the abuna, who wanted none of it. Personally, I had to use the restroom and Arabic coffee was going to exacerbate that like nothing else.

Another line of men entered, so that we all stood and shook hands with each other like opposing teams after a basketball game as our line left the church. I had made it without offending anyone and that was good enough for me, so I thought. We started the car and headed to the next church. “There are two funerals today.”

This time, I made sure to find the bathroom. While I was managing my fluid problem, I took a minute to think about what I was doing there. I knew nothing about the deceased. If I were capable of asking, I would not anyway. I had already been to one of these, I mused, so that I probably had all I needed to blather about paying condolences in my blog. From my normal, American perspective I was wasting time that I might have been using to... to... to...

I left the restroom with an intentionally different perspective: I was there. It reminded me of an important realization that flowered in the past month or so. In coming to terms with my relationship to my father, I also came to terms with the fact that sometimes even my attempts to be altruistic have oriented to my need to feel helpful rather than the needs of another. Praises on High, I managed to become more aware of that phenomenon and decided that there was value in ‘sitting in deficit’ with people while they are in the midst of struggle. Imagine how different the story of Job might be if his friends had continued sitting in silence with him rather than beginning their respective analyses.

We left the second round of condolences and proceeded to the basement, where (naam) a third funeral event was in progress. As I passed through the line, I tried to meet each eye and shake each hand with sincerity. It is hard to explain, perhaps. Facial expressions transcend some language barriers. I cannot take full credit: God blessed me with an expressive face. I let each of the older gentlemen see my emotions, how I felt to know that they had lost their friend. I can say honestly that something beautiful was there that was not at the first church, when I was worried about knowing what to do instead of wearing my compassion openly, even if there was nothing to do.

Back at the office, Zoughbi began again: “Really, you can play outside. My colleagues would like to enjoy your music without, uhh, so much repercussions inside here.”

I managed not to be very offended. At least I understood why Zoughbi had suddenly decided to talk about what a great guy John Daniel is – because he is a master at conflict resolution. Let me rephrase that: a master at Arab conflict resolution. In America, I could complain that he was being too indirect or feel betrayed by my co-workers because they did not feel comfortable confronting me. Yet, this is Palestine: everyone saves face. I choose to go outside; my co-workers are complicit in my playing somewhere on the grounds. Khalid remains outside of the equation. Trumpets are loud but that is what I play. Halas.

...and the children win. The children always win. I went outside to a play-ground with half a dozen children and left a play-ground with two-dozen children. They came in twos and threes to the funny, loud noises. They had the most beautiful brown eyes and gaping smiles... I should tell you all about them sometime soon...