On Being Thankful

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Well, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, and, besides football, discarded cranberry sauce, and tryptophan naps in a recliner, an annual American tradition will take place: completely insincere thankfulness.

You know the scene: the extended family will gather, successfully (to some degree) tamping down the dysfunction long enough to occupy a home and share a meal. As the stuffing is passed, Uncle George will comment on how thankful he is that the Cubs had a good team this year. Aunt Gertrude will counter with how thankful and happy she is that her manicurist recovered from gout in time for the holidays, and Grandma Jolene will praise the new choir robes at church. Nephew Jordan won’t be listening, but he’ll be thankful for his new tablet computer.  You’ll probably smile, listen politely, and shake your head. But maybe you’ll also think to yourself, “These people aren’t thankful for any of this stuff.” And, you’d be so, so right.

Many of us (including me) live lives of such comfort, predictability, and plenty that genuine thankfulness is difficult to come by. We like things. We might even love things. We recognize how lucky we are in many respects, but thankfulness requires an emotional elasticity wrought from pain, want, and need that we cannot imagine, much less draw upon. No one will be thankful for oxygen, rocks, or paper plates. We like these things, especially asthmatic geologists at a picnic, but their ubiquitousness precludes being thankful for them.

A handy rule to live by is that you cannot truly be thankful for something unless it has, at some point, driven you to tears. That’s a minimum test. If you’ve faced a serious illness, you can be thankful for your health. If the worst you’ve soldiered through is a cold and raw nose, you cannot be thankful for your health. See the difference?

Am I playing semantics? Am I setting the bar for thankfulness too high? Maybe, but, then again, maybe it’s time we raised the bar just a bit. Our cultural conversations are dominated by reality television shows, the latest social media apps propelled by nothing but our vanity, and  political candidates in a race to the bottom in just about every category, including offensiveness, nuanced ideas, and statesmanship. At some point, don’t we have to ask for more? Could we be asking for any less?

So, tomorrow, as you gather, as you feast, take the opportunity amongst friends and family to name the people, places, and things for which you are genuinely thankful. The things that have touched your life. The things over which you have cried but now rejoice. Not things you like. Not things that make life a little easier. But, rather, the things that are your life, that made you who you are, and that give you hope and strength for tomorrow.

On a Day at the Beach

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Dancing in the sun, yellow bright,
sand deep in my toes.
Lobbing the ball back and forth,
the score marching to and fro.

Days of youth and splendor,
a long future ahead.
Care free and free of care,
not a worry in anyone’s head.

A pass, a serve, and a spike,
a call to teammates beat.
Blue and green surf all around,
lapping on our dancing feet.

Soak up the sun, swirling sea air,
loping down the wooden pier.
Red skin stinging, but
nothing more to feel or fear.

Frozen in time, frozen in warmth,
the games to fifteen reset.
The punched ball sailing and sliding,
past the ragged black net.

Those long ago days at the beach,
clear as the emerald green wave,
a time to be young and cool,
a treasured memory to save.

Serve the ball one more time,
sneak it ‘cross the other side,
let the sun kiss your neck,
and never fear confide.

On 100 Years From Now

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

Today, as Hubby and I snacked over chips and salsa during lunch, we discussed a particularly annoying relative. Ruminating over her laziness and propensity to live through the accomplishments of others, I made the accurate if harsh comment, “100 years from now, it will be as if she never existed.” Further reflection has me appreciating the power of the comment even more, for it’s quite clear that, 100 years from now, it will be as if I never existed. And do not feel smug just yet, for you, too, are most likely in that camp.

When we think of the legacy we leave, we most often think of children. This seems right and obvious. But, in so many ways, it reduces our legacy to biology only. I cannot tell you one significant fact about any of my relatives that lived 100 years ago. At one time or another, I have most certainly heard the names of my great-grandparents, but I know nothing about them. I am the beneficiary of their DNA. It is certainly my gain, but, to me, it seems little solace to those long gone. Given the choice between being actually known in 100 years or simply having my DNA carry on in 100 years, I think I’d prefer the former to the latter. Besides, if we truly cared that much about our genes carrying forward, one might expect significantly busier egg and sperm donation centers.

The problem is we can’t all be famous. I’m not talking reality TV famous. I mean George Washington, Napoleon, Aristotle famous. For the remaining 99.99% of the rest of us, we must face the fact that, in a century’s time, it will be as if we never existed. Our DNA may carry on, but that will be the extent of our legacy. No one will remember our appearance, our voice, our personality, our triumphs, our challenges. At best, perhaps some future cyber-archeologist (with fedora and whip) discovers our blog and studies the insights of the early 21st century mind. But, absent that, we are destined to be forgotten.

Time marches on. People live, people die. Places, events, and times are forgotten. Entropy is relentless. The future is not for us. We will not enjoy it, we will not be a part of it.

But that is as it should be, for our time is now.

Understanding that our time is fleeting should be a call to action to make our legacy now. To understand that the worth of a life is not held by the minds of those in the distant future, but, rather, in the hearts of those with us today.

My lunchtime criticism was not only unduly harsh but also ineffectively broad. A century from now most of us will be forgotten, and that’s okay because that’s not what counts. Ultimately, whatever happens after we’re gone is irrelevant. Whether our name is never whispered again or statues are erected in our honor in every corner of the globe, we won’t be around to notice. We can notice, however, our life as it is today, and, if it’s not worth remembering, well, we can do something about that.

 

On the Ineffable Delicacy of Souls

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I had a crazy 5th grade teacher, Ms. Conkle. An older, skeletal woman with platinum hair, Ms. Conkle should have retired a decade before I landed in her classroom. As if it was yesterday, I can recall her telling the class the odd story of an Indian man forced to drink his own urine. When my family moved mid-way through the school year, I attended a better school staffed with teachers in their right minds. I know my parents were happy.

In that context, it may seem a little odd that my strongest teacher memory from 5th grade involves a substitute teacher. When Ms. Conkle was absent one day, Mrs. Pruder, the principal’s wife, graced us with her presence. I can recall her high frozen hair, bold (overdone) makeup, and dour demeanor.

At some point in the day, one of my classmates accused me of something I did not do. I cannot recall the specific accusation, but you can be sure that, in a 5th grader’s mind, the accusation was dramatic. As I attempted to defend myself — ever the good little boy — Mrs. Pruder cut me off, in front of the entire class, and took my accuser’s side. I now understand this to be a gross violation of the 5th Amendment due process rights and 6th Amendment protections guaranteed to me as an American citizen, but, at 10 years old, I did not yet have my law degree. I cannot recall what Mrs. Pruder said, but I can recall the horror of being wrongly accused, the feeling of defenselessness, and the fundamental unfairness of it all.

And I’ve never forgotten.

Once a year, I’ll daydream I encounter Mrs. Pruder and tell her how her unkind, thoughtless behavior has stuck with me for three decades. That, in her smugness that day, she embarrassed a scared little boy for no reason. She should have known better.

Admittedly, it’s very silly, but these are the little battles we all fight in our heads, solitary soldiers fighting over and over the lost battles of our lives.

That said, from my life, it’s the earliest piece of evidence that wholly validates Maya Angelou. The famous American poet once said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

It’s a blessing to consider that all of the thoughtless, mean-spirited, ignorant words that leave our mouths at one time or another will, eventually, fade into the mists of time. But that blessing does not compensate for the curse that is the realization that we are accountable to the ineffable delicacy of the souls around us. The long ago fights, the bitter resentments, the venomous retorts, all vanished from exacting transcripts, but ever present in the emotional memories of friends, colleagues, and loved ones.

So, say and do what you want, for the specific memories of those acts will fade, but people will never forget how you made them feel. Worse yet, you may send a young boy down the path of a career in the law, looking for guaranteed rights of cross-examination.

On Smoky Doggy Dens With Loud Children

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Today, Hubby and I picked one of our favorite spots for lunch, and the food did not disappoint. It was difficult to enjoy the meal or focus on the conversation, however, as the booth behind us included a coterie of squealing, jumping children and, unfortunately, two adults oblivious to the disruption. From there, we walked into two retail stores, but not before navigating through the cigarette smoke haze emanating from the man puffing away right by the front door. Once inside, I encountered four dogs, all with different owners, walking around. Who knew dogs shopped at Crate & Barrel?

I was raised to understand that part of good manners is respecting others’ comfort. That means you conduct yourself at appropriate volume levels in public spaces, like restaurants. You don’t wear noxious scents or smoke where your bad habit or bad taste congests others. And, perhaps most of all, you don’t bring your animal into a retail store, unless it is a pet store.

I’m glad that folks go to a restaurant and have a great time. I’m also glad that folks take their small children and older kids out. Young families have every bit the right to enjoy public spaces as much as I do. That does not mean, however, that you have a license to disrespect others’ presence. If your child or children are being loud, you correct them. You stop it, or you leave the restaurant. It’s really that simple. Yes, children are loud, and no one expects a parent to have the ability to mute young children. However, when your children are becoming a repeated nuisance, you are the adult. It is your job to require good manners. If you cannot achieve that, for whatever reason, you leave. There are no exceptions.

Similarly, just because you smoke doesn’t mean everyone smokes. I have no problem with smokers, as long as they keep the carcinogens to themselves. I’m a little baffled by those who smoke around others. You must know you are doing something that bothers others, yet you continue to do it. This is also known as a definition of rudeness.

Finally, we come to the dogs. I will own the fact that I am no fan of dogs. I understand I am in the minority, or at least it feels like that. I know and love people who love their dogs, and I say good for them. Dogs can be wonderful companions, and I’m glad they bring joy to so many. But, as cute and fun and dedicated and playful as they are, dogs do not belong in retail stores. Sure, a service animal is an obvious exception, but the reason they are exceptions is that most of us realize that the hygiene issues, the conduct and safety issues, and the respect for others’ comfort trump your shopping with Fido. I know you think it’s cute; it’s not. It’s entitled.

As much fun as it is to complain about others (and we must acknowledge the conscious or subconscious claim to moral superiority when doing so), we well-mannered are part of the problem. We suffer in silence. We don’t speak up, we don’t point out the boorish behavior. And, honestly, that’s probably for the best. It’s doubtful the ensuing conflict will help matters. More likely, you’ll be cursed at and seen as a prig. Even more importantly, those that allow their children to run wild in restaurants, that smoke in doorways, and that feel entitled to make a public space their private dog run probably won’t change. They’ll get defensive, they’ll rationalize. Few people want to acknowledge to themselves they’re being rude.

It’s tempting to think that, in this selfie-obsessed, social media culture where every idiot blogs about how right he is, selfish, rude, entitled behavior is on the rise. It’s hard to say; maybe I’m just getting older and grumpier. Perhaps technology just shines a light on a problem that has always been around, and always will be. That’s a deflating thought, but it underscores the ultimate truth about rude people: you really can’t change them. Manners are self-regulating, an agreed upon code of conduct, and, when folks decide not to play the game, well, all you can really do is ask to change tables, hold your breath, or leave the store. And, hey, if it makes you feel better about the inconvenience, hold your head a little higher, confident of your good breeding.

It’s little consolation in the moment, but, in the long run, living your life in a way that respects and considers others is its own reward. Say “please” and “thank you.” Hold doors open. Be courteous and respectful, even to those who don’t deserve it. Treat others as you would want to be treated. And, last but not least, don’t bring Fido into the store. Trust me, his wardrobe is set, and he doesn’t need that ottoman on clearance.

On Punch Bowls and Other Totems

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

My parents inform me that my grandmother has agreed to give away her punch bowl, but only on the condition she does so after the holidays. Her reason is simple: she wants to make me happy.

Growing up, my Christmas days began with reveling in Santa’s generous bounty, followed by breakfast at my grandmother’s house, followed by an afternoon nap, followed by dinner at my grandmother’s house. Essentially, my job was to receive gifts and eat. Luckily, I am very, very talented at both tasks. A staple of Christmas dinner for many years has been a (non-alcholic) punch served on a structurally questionable card table used as the official “kids’ table.” My grandmother sets out an assortment of crackers, cheeses, and chocolates, as well as the punch. I love the punch; no Christmas would be complete without it. I’m pretty sure I’ve made myself ill on the punch a time or two. Again, I’m good at gluttony.

Now, relatives have, for unknown reasons, requested the punch bowl, and my grandmother — no longer at the height of her hosting powers — has agreed to gift the punch bowl, but only on the condition that she has it for the holidays this year. I’ll be home for Christmas, and my grandmother wants me to enjoy the punch out of the punch bowl one last time. Cue sweet memories, touching music, and warm hugs.

Sure, you can make the punch in any bowl, but as my grandmother and everyone else knows, over time, objects can become totems, taking out-sized importance in the course of our lives, infused with meaning beyond the superficial.  It’s not clear why the human animal engages in this behavior, but we do. It’s not just a punch bowl, it’s a representation of happy Christmas memories and family traditions.

Once we grant these special powers to objects, it can be difficult to part with them. As I spent my day off today cleaning out our garage, I was confronted, time and time again, with objects long-buried in plastic storage containers but still alive with connections to the past. My pre-teen comic books, the wooden Indian souvenir from my role in the Agatha Christie play ‘Ten Little Indians,” the t-shirt my junior high classmates signed for me at the mock United Nations when I was Secretary of the Security Council, the rubber bouncy ball I hid in my palm and passed to the college president as I received my diploma as part of an annual class prank. Paper, wood, cotton, and rubber, but then again so much more. If lost to me today, life would go on without issue, but, every now and again, it’s nice to take them out of the crates and take a spin down memory lane. For a few moments, these totems render the ephemeral present again.

My Christmas punch will almost certainly be accompanied by rolled bananas, baked beans, iced tea, and a long stretch on old green shag carpet. These are the things that are the chorus to the holiday song of my life. I don’t need the punch bowl to enjoy the holidays, but, knowing that my grandmother cares enough to hold in place that small detail for me for another holiday season, well, that’s what you call love.

On Making Giants

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

I took a man and made him a giant,
crafted in my mind the story,
a hero’s tale, a hero for me,
to him all the honor, love, and glory.

I took a man and made him a giant,
the benefit of every doubt,
always a winner, always there,
never left alone, never left out.

I took a man and made him a giant,
tales in my silly head,
crafted the greatest character,
ignoring reality instead.

I took a man and made him a giant,
filling the blanks all the time,
never wondering if he was
genuinely a friend of mine.

I took a man and made him a giant,
made him into what I dreamed,
never realizing what I needed,
was not what it seemed.

I took a man and made him a giant,
tales in my silly head,
crafted the greatest character,
ignoring reality instead.

I took a man and made him a giant,
towering so high and so tall,
I never really saw it coming,
the precipitous, duplicitous fall.

I took a man and made him a giant,
only realizing too late,
that wishes and hopes and dreams
don’t tempt fate.

I took a man and made him a giant,
tales in my silly head,
crafted the greatest character,
ignoring reality instead.

On Healthy Eating

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Well, it’s Sunday night, and yet again I find myself boiling water to make a few hard boiled eggs for breakfast in the morning. After my friend Kitty scolded me about my sugar intake and my diet soda consumption last weekend, I’ve been thinking about my diet, looking at labels a little more, and considering some minor changes.

For years, I’ve considered my diet to be fairly decent. I rarely eat fast food, don’t snack (a lot), and get a good amount of exercise. Still, I know that I carry around some extra pounds I shouldn’t, and I’m reaching the age where exercise alone doesn’t address all my sins. Still, it’s hard to really know where to go when you’re trying to have a healthier diet. Go out to almost any restaurant, and the portion sizes are gargantuan. Yesterday, after I ordered my $5 “small” beverage at the movie theater, I was handed a cup approximately the size of a 2-liter bottle. I worried how the movie patrons could actually lift the weight of a “medium” or “large” drink. Forklift?

Grocery stores aren’t much better. Portions aren’t the problems, price is. Slap the word “organic” on, and the price climbs 25% or more. I’m sure the fruits and veggies were better tended, and probably carried to market individually swaddled in silk by cherubs, but I’m not sure how much more I’m really getting for my money. It certainly sends an interesting message: truly good eating is only for the better off.

Even if you jump the portions and price hurdles, other riddles await. My friend Kitty encouraged me to dump my morning breakfast cereal given its sugar content. I had never really considered its sugar content, given that its name — Smart Start — was all I needed to be reeled in. Who wants a Dumb Start? With my limited cognitive capacity, I need all the help I can get. Nevertheless, Kitty assures me that the protein in the eggs will help me feel full longer. I’m sure she’s right. What she neglected to tell me, however, is that each egg has approximately 75% of my daily cholesterol allowance. Thus, her recommended two egg breakfast puts me at 150%. I have no idea where that extra 50% is going to go, although I can only guess it heads right for my heart, clogging every artery. Ultimately, when my heart stops, I hope the less sugar in my system and that full feeling offset the defibrillator and hospital bills.

And, on top of all that, even if you can figure out what is healthy for you, afford it, and get it in the right portions, you may now be stuck in a food desert. That’s right, we know have food deserts, where dietitians, statisticians, politicians, and probably magicians, have discovered that, in certain areas, healthy eating is near impossible. Seriously. You might see that cucumber for your salad, but it’s just a mirage. When you reach for the cucumber, you actually pick up a donut. Cream filled. With sprinkles. It’s a horrible, horrible place.

But, just for a moment, let’s pretend you escape the food desert, your adventure is not done, because, after you identify, pay for, and mete out the right proportion,   now you must wrestle with your conscience and determine if your food was ethically raised and harvested. Was your lettuce raised cage free? Were your radishes allowed to roam? Did a member of the board of directors of the parent company donate ten dollars to a charity you do not support?

It just gives me a headache. It’s all so confusing. We psyche ourselves out, running from one idea to another, fretting that what we are putting in our bodies will kill us. Maybe we aren’t addicted to bad food as much as we are addicted to worrying. Should we chew on that for a bit?

On Expensive Hover Boards

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

My nephew got on the phone to talk to me several weeks ago. He had a very special message he needed to deliver. You see, he had decided what he wanted for Christmas, and he knew I would be just the person to get it for him. He wants a hover board.  Maybe you’ve seen these hot new toys/gadgets. Part electric scooter, part skateboard, all the cool kids zoom around on them now. Inside, outside, it doesn’t matter. They are the “in” thing this year.

I admit they look pretty fun. Practical? Of course not, but practicality does not enter into a nine-year-old’s wish list calculations. I like to make my nephews happy, and so I listened to his wish attentively. At the time, I had no idea he’d call me the following week to remind me how much he wants one. Or the week after that.

With my holiday mission so clearly set forth before me, I launched out to find one of these hover boards. Turns out, they’re not hard to find, they’re just hard to purchase. As in, they are very expensive. Most are way too expensive for a 4th grader Christmas gift, and, as much as I want to see a smile as the family gathers on Christmas Eve, I can’t justify spending that much money. I’ll find something that’s great (and affordable), but it will sting a little not to get him what his heart desires.

Part of my angst is, no doubt, coming from a place of wanting to make my nephew happy, but I also think there’s part of me longing for the days when a gift under the tree can elicit yelps of joy, claps of happiness, and excited jumps, twists, and turns. I can still recall, vividly, my 4th grade excitement when Santa delivered all of the Transformer Dinobots. Not one Dinobot. Not two, three, or four, but all five. I had them all! I’m fairly certain that, should my life ever flash before my eyes, one of the images will be those Dinobots. Three decades later, I still have them all, minus a few well-earned scrapes and scratches.

We grow up, mature (a little), accept some responsibility, pass the torch of holiday excitement to a younger generation, and learn to appreciate gifts not made of plastic. But, if we’re honest, we never recapture the pure magic of it all. The unbounded joy, the possibility, the mystery, the anticipation. Sure, we gain a deeper appreciation of the traditions and the togetherness, we reflect on our blessings, and we contemplate joy, but it lacks the lightning bolt intensity of seeing two rows of Star Wars action figures surrounding the Millennium Falcon. And I’ll fight any man that argues otherwise.

I know the upcoming holidays will be meaningful for me. I’ll return home for the first time in a year, see old friends, and spend time with my family. It will be fantastic and full of warmth, peace, and meaning. It will be a deeper experience. And I’m great with that. But I hope, in some way, I get to witness my nephews revel in those moments of pure excitement. They’re getting older, and I know it won’t be long before those days are over. They’ll end, but, if they’re lucky like I was, the memories will last a lifetime.

On Our Broken Bodies

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

After shoulder surgery at the beginning of the year, I grudgingly cut my exercise regimen to walking and not much more. Five months later, I started to jog again, but, today, almost ten months later, I enjoy a bonus gift from my surgery: ten pounds I can’t seem to lose. I feel like my body is saying, “Hey buddy, cut on me, I’m making you have all your slacks taken out.”

The weight gain after the shoulder surgery is really just the latest in a long line of betrayals. It’s difficult to pinpoint when it started. The 2014 bunion diagnosis? The 2013 orthotics for flat feet? The odd eye rash of 2012? The accelerating hair loss around 2010? The knee surgery of 2005? The need for glasses in 2001? The pulled hamstring of 1989?

Maybe there’s no real starting point. Maybe, once we reach adulthood, we’re all at war with ourselves, relentlessly and unsuccessfully bridging the gap between our limitless spirits and our increasingly limited bodies. Aches, pains, injuries, diseases — we want to be whole, our spirits are whole, but our bodies break down. Biological entropy.

Of course, it’s not just the failures that bother us, it’s the inadequacies too. The nose that is too large. The breasts that aren’t big enough. The spare tire. The bubble butt. The muffin top. At my gym, I frequently run into a fellow exerciser. He vigorously pumps away at the weights, working his shoulders, arms, and chest relentlessly. And, his efforts have produced results; he, indeed, has very large upper body muscles. When one glances down, however, you see the skinniest toothpick legs you’ve ever seen. Maybe he can’t put on muscle in his legs. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Who knows, but he stands as an odd (top heavy) testament that, even with our best efforts, the end result is still sometimes less than balanced, less than aesthetically pleasing.

Yesterday, I read an article about the fruitlessness of dieting. Turns out, the vast, vast majority of dieters gain almost all lost weight back within two years, regardless of the specific diet, age, sex, income, and any other health factor. That’s a bummer, but, hey, go ahead and have that dessert. What does it matter!? It’s just more evidence that, despite our ceaseless attempts to control our bodies, we most often fail, coming up short (or fat or skinny or lame or hurt or sick, etc.).

Perhaps we need to come to peace with these imperfect, frequently broken vessels we’ve been gifted. We should be active. We should try to eat a healthy diet. But we can’t expect that even perfect efforts will yield perfect results. They don’t and never have. The sooner we accept our broken bodies, the sooner we see the unblemished, amazing beauty staring back at us in the mirror.