HOLLY DAYS

My process with these posts had been to go back and re-read all the old posts in an effort to avoid repeating myself and to seed my contemplation of these big ideas. I’m not doing that this year. Sorry if I’ve said all this before, but these days I can’t really recall the content of previous years posts , so am just going to assume that if I’m repeating some sentiment, that only means it bears repeating,

I just turned 75, and like 18 and 30, it somehow marks a boundary between the stages of our lives. I am now unquestionably an old man, though you can tell the Sphinx that thanks to titanium and UHMW, I am not yet on three legs. The saddest hallmark of this stage are collapsed dreams and aspirations. Nope, not going to sail around the world single handed, not going to be on Survivor, not going to direct a movie. So we look back rather than to our puny futures. Edith may have had no regrets – though I think she fibs – but I certainly do. This refrain of aging without regrets is so pervasive precisely because it is so difficult, I suspect the only folk who really have no regrets are psychopaths, and others like Edith who deny them, are actually only aspiring to it. Me too.

Memory degradation is characterized by first in-last out, so details from decades ago can feel more vivid than recalling the immense joy of a toddler’s smile from a week ago. But also, pain strengthens memory (as well it should from an evolutionary perspective) so myriad tiny slights from the distant past can well up with their shame, regret, and anger surprisingly intact . When I was about 8 years old my dad, Ned, was cooking up one of his famous feasts for a gathering of cub scout families at the Big Fireplace in Griffith park near the Greek Theater. He was always the Chef Hero at these events, with effusive praise heaped on him for the huge quantities of amazing food he learned to single handedly and effortlessly create during his time as the mess Sargent for the Hey Rookie show during the war. As we tended the shish kebabs together, I was basking in the reflected glory of this adoration, watching him deftly whittle a little pig’s head out of some scrap of firewood as a gift for my sister. I was lost in filial admiration when another scout came up and scolded him, “You know, you should never use a knife like that, cutting toward your thumb”. I don’t recall what Ned said, but his withering gaze and whatever it was sent the poor scout sulking off humiliated, His tit of rudeness escalated over the scout’s arrogant tat. The reply seemed excessive and unnecessary and the warmth of my fondness collapsed to ear-burning embarrassment. I kind of hated him for his cruel condescension of one of my friends, then kind of hated myself for hating him.

I’ve been surprised and perplexed at how often and vividly this ancient and trivial memory has popped up for me over the years, always accompanied by a bite of complex and ambiguous self loathing. I was a supercilious pain in the ass when I was a little boy, probably a lot like that pedantic scout. I know I drove a lot of folks crazy and recall an endless string of similar humiliations though my life. But as with most things it is double edged. Others, certainly including my mom, appreciated my curiosity and eloquence, however annoying she may have found my relentless prattle. Just as with my film production course, I know many more of my students found my sermonizing lecture more inspiring than annoying. Sadly though, the pain of these barbs makes their recollections so much more durable and persistent. There are myriad of similar moments tucked away in my network of neurons, which surface more easily in the rearview mirror of old age, always spoiling whatever good mood they may find me in. I regret them, but mostly, these days, try to find compassion for that wounded little boy or foolish young man that I still remain. It is too easy to judge, not just others but ourselves, and compassion may be the most powerful tool we have to short circuit that often futile and counterproductive condemnation.

My dad had a bit part in George Stevens’ pompous Greatest Story Ever Told. It was one of his last jobs, and despite him spending a month in the Arizona desert on location (at double scale!) I’ve never been able to find him in that film. He was a Jerusalem townfolk, and loved to tell the story of how he got to be one of the stone throwers at the temple. But as in so many of JC’s teachings that seemed to have been stolen from the Buddha, it was good advice. We are all sinners, hypocritically humiliating our fellow sinners, and just as they should be spared, so should we spare ourselves.

Compassion is within the reach of all of us (save those pesky psychopaths), nurture it, celebrate it, and share it, most especially with yourself. HAPPY COMPASSION!