Driving You Crazy

I hear it, I say it: _______ drives me crazy. I suspect if offered that fill-in-the-blank, you could rattle off any number of suspects, or perhaps a particular candidate is now or was recently up your nose. Computers, phones, elected officials, service or lack thereof, children, parents, friends, neighbors—sometimes trivial, sometimes not.

Unfortunately, what really drives me crazy is allowing externals to drive me crazy. Yep, the conclusion is obvious, I make myself crazy. Great.

New mantra—okay, not so new—folks are going to do what folks are going to do. This guidepost is not so simple because expectations are a necessary part of the social compact. We need to know others will perform, will deliver as needed, and yet often, we will be disappointed when our expectations are not met.

Now I am wary of advocating an expect-nothing, never-disappointed outlook. And expectations do shape behavior, for good or ill to be sure.

Perhaps, as I have seen many times, the balance to strike is akin to the parenting process that leads to the moment when a child does the expected unexpectedly. You may have seen that knowing look between parents. Or wildly exuberant high-fives.

The slack we cut, based on understanding the child’s moment in time, may seem unnecessary when counting on adults to be, uh, adults. Don’t count on it. Besides, more significantly, the world bending to your worldview is a fantastical longshot.

You want someone to say X, or you want someone to think X, or you want someone to do X—sure, that’s fine, but know that’s not how it’s going to go a fair amount of the time.

X driving you crazy? Do yourself a favor and keep your own hands on your crazy wheel.

Let me wrap up with a little lagniappe for a certain generation. Sing the title of this post to the song “Having My Baby”. You’re welcome. Have a good day. 

Monumentalism

Cassis is a small town on the French Mediterranean coast that has been to sometimes a greater and sometimes a lesser degree a fishing village since 500 BC, or perhaps earlier. Nearly 500 miles to the north stands the Arc de Triomphe, commissioned by Napoleon to honor his Grande Armee, the nearly invincible force that conquered most of Europe.

Begun in 1806 and completed in 1836, the 164’ arch provided a focal point for victorious armies marching through Paris—including the Germans in 1871 and 1940. Napoleon’s military campaigns led to an estimated 2.5 million military deaths and perhaps more than a million civilians killed.

But back to Cassis. The town, or more significantly the inhabitants, went about their lives for more than 2300 years before Napoleon came to power. Fishing, developing vineyards, trading. Did his reign as emperor rouse the townsfolk to a patriotic frenzy? Were men, young and old, eager to be part of his mighty military machine?

No doubt some, but surely some continued with the daily tasks at hand, mending nets, harvesting grapes, living life as mapped out in homes, the hills, and the sea. No fervor for grand designs to conquer the world, to crush foreign nations—especially the British. No particular reward or suffering came their way for Napoleon’s victories or the ultimate defeat at Waterloo.

In 1982, the second largest triumphal arch in the world at 197’ was built in Pyongyang, capital of North Korea, to commemorate Korean resistance against the Japanese from 1925-1945. In particular, the monument recognized President Kim-Il-sung’s role in liberating what is now North Korea from Japanese rule and his 70^th birthday. According to international sources, he is thought to be accountable for one to two million civilian deaths during his reign.

Nearly 100 miles south of the capital sits Songang-ni, and by zooming in via Google map, fishing boats can be seen tethered together on the tidal flats nearby. Information specific to the town is difficult to come by, but historical evidence suggests the peninsula has been occupied since 300 BC. Most likely—and I am speculating—locals have been fishing this coastline for more than 2200 years.

What, I wonder, what is in the hearts and minds of the fisherman who take those boats out into the Yellow Sea these days? 

Not Judging

But.

I struggle with being judgmental. After all, I’m a human being and so a lean, mean judging machine. Okay, not so lean. And, really, not so mean.

A case can be made for linking judgments to staying alive, Survival 101. Dangerous adversary or welcoming friend? Edible mushroom or poisonous? Spring rain or late season blizzard?

More to the point, I am thinking of less dramatic situations, rather more of the smaller exchanges we have with one another. For example, I tell a friend how much I love raw oysters. My friend makes a face distorted by disgust and spits out “I hate oysters!”

Now I could be playing either role, positive statement made or the negative rebuttal. Here’s what is slowing me down—when I manage to slow myself down. Doesn’t my judgment—my sharing of an opposing opinion—add a little toxicity to the exchange?

Let me stop right here, I know how this can go discussion-wise: Jeez, put your big boy pants on, you might say. People are going to disagree. Got it.

But what if the psychological stakes are higher and what the person shares is more significant than whether rutabaga ought to be considered a food? Am I listening in non-judgmental fashion, or can I hardly wait to wade in, especially with a negative take?

Here’s the kicker for me. Did the person ask for my opinion? Truth: hardly ever.

Besides, how often I plow forward without having any real understanding of another’s situation, the circumstances, the background. I own 64-years of judging, evaluating, opining, pontificating, and as soon as the other person takes a breath, I’m putting on the robe and bringing out the gavel.

Not judging? Oh, yes I am.

Note to self: Shut up, and listen.