Category: Words and Rabble

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Generous With Me

Years ago, I was wronged by an ego-driven boss who, after manipulating me and lying to me, topped off the painful experience by sending me off with acrid words. More years came and went, and I found myself replaying those events and imagining outrageous scenarios where I triumphed on a public stage while he writhed in obscurity and ignominy. Bitterness rankled my soul. One day, it was clear to me what, if I were to live free, I had to do. I had to write a letter, and in this letter I needed to forgive. I needed to acknowledge places where I had been wrong, and though he hadn’t asked for it and didn’t for a moment believe he needed it, I was to pour out forgiveness. I was to release him. I was to be generous.

This is the sort of thing we imagine when we hear the call to generosity. We forgive an enemy or a friend. We offer what we have to someone who has less. We loosen the reigns on our time or our energy. True, every single one. However, this generosity always points outward, never inward. Generosity towards others is difficult; but for many of us, generosity towards ourself is impossible, laughable. Letting my boss off the hook was hard, but not nearly as hard as letting myself off the hook.

Do you recall Balfour’s words: to yourself, respect. He snuck that in there, didn’t he? We mustn’t miss it. To treat ourselves with respect is to listen to ourselves well, to not make severe, reactionary judgments about our thoughts or our emotions or our motives. Rather than heap shame on our souls, we nurture the freedom to be playful and curious. I respect you and choose to think the best of you. I also respect me and choose to think the best of me.

Generosity means being patient with ourselves, giving plenty of space to explore and growing more and more comfortable with dead-ends and foolish turns. Generosity means being kind to ourselves, refusing to heap hard words upon ourselves that we’d never allow to land uncontested if they were aimed at our child or friend. To be kind is to be gentle, tender. Generosity doesn’t traffic in self-contempt; we refuse to loathe the person God has made us to be. Generosity doesn’t nurture a litany of failures and misjudgments. Generosity traffics in hope, not fear.

To review, generosity toward self is patient, kind, not rude, not easily angered. It doesn’t keep a record of wrongs. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. My, generosity sounds a lot like love.

To be generous with yourself is simply to receive and dwell in God’s generous love for you.

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Generous Goes the Love

Generosity is another way to talk about love. Love doesn’t insist that the punishment meet the crime. Rather, love is always on the lookout for a left-handed way to slide someone an extra helping of mercy. Generous love plays a late game of chess with the boy who’s had a whale of a day, the same boy who’s lost his mind more than once this weekend, the same boy who made his mom and dad pull the tag-team card. Hey, Miska, you crawl into bed with the book, I’ll take the next round.

Generosity doesn’t hold back, waiting until one’s whims (or demands) are sated. Love looks for what particular grace another needs; and then, as best one’s able, love gives that costly grace away. I love Francis Maitland Balfour’s words: “The best thing to give to your enemy is forgiveness; to an opponent, tolerance; to a friend, your heart; to your child, a good example; to a father, deference; to your mother, conduct that will make her proud of you; to yourself, respect; to all people, charity.”

Find out what you can give, and go give it. And if you’re having trouble deciding, just give away love until you figure it out.

 

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Generous

I’ve mentioned that a word or two arrived on my doorstep, asking me to come out and play. I said yes, and I think we’re going to have a grand time. The word leading the way is generous.

Most of us could be more free with our funds and our belongings, me too. But the generosity that’s got me leaning forward is a generosity of heart, a free spirit that allows me to live with curiosity, to see the best in another, to believe deep in my being that there is plenty for us all. Plenty of mercy. Plenty of joy. Plenty of success. Plenty of time. Plenty.

A generous life is a spacious life, a circle plenty wide for everyone, even for the odd ducks and the ones so insecure they can’t help but preen. I can shake my head; I can even provide a firm nudge when appropriate (a good nudge can be immensely generous), but there’s no need to get ruffled. Nothing’s at stake. Generosity brushes past all that nonsense. The generous one knows there’s a difference between being a foolish fool and a holy fool — but sometimes not so much difference as one might think. There’s room for all of us to grow up and become who we are.

When I’m generous, I’ll give away my words, flinging love and hope in all kinds of places. I’ll tell people what I see in them, what they’ve meant to me. I’ll be a blushing idiot. I’ll give away my words, but I won’t believe I must speak to everything. In a stingy world, we push forward our opinion, our words, our authority. Sometimes, amid all the blabbering, generosity sits over by the pond and feeds the birds and listens to the water and knows the sadness for the beauty that’s being missed.

When I’m generous, I believe in others and cheer on the good of others. I cheer on your good. I have nothing to protect because my heart knows that more for you doesn’t mean (at least not in any way that truly matters) less for me. As Brueggemann says, scarcity is the lie; abundance is the truth. You have your voice and your vocation and (I truly hope) your vast success. I raise my glass high, raucous cheers to you. I want to help you get where you need to be going; and as you arrive, I’ll arrive too.

When I’m generous, I don’t judge my success alongside yours. I don’t hold myself back, concerned that I may be left standing on the outside. I don’t parse or protect. When I’m generous, I walk the road ahead, thankful for whoever walks with me and for whatever strange and glorious sights we encounter.

image: zela

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Letter From My 90yr Old Self

My friend John Blase received a letter from his 90yr old self, and he invited me to do the same…

Dear Winn,

I like you. You’re sure to like the man you become, but it's important for you to hear that I enjoy the man you are now. It's a powerful temptation to perpetually believe some future triumph or distant decade will signal your arrival. Winn, you've already arrived, two firm feet planted on solid ground. You're here. You're living and loving. Go with it.

This isn't to say you won't be arriving more, becoming more solid, more true. You will. But don't worry about getting there. Fretting over your story means you'll think too much and toil too hard. You've been writing long enough to know the contrived dribble that splatters on the page when we strain to make something rather than live something. Whenever you're pressing, it isn't believable. It isn't believable because it isn't true. Be true.

I encourage you to live attentively. Watch for the places where your heart is most tender or your anger most righteous. Watch for your tears. Watch for your laughter. Tune in to the yearning for slowness and quiet. Perk up when you want to punch a fellow in the face. Don't judge the right or wrong of a thing too hurriedly. Live from leisure. Curiosity is your friend, but curiosity needs room to breathe. I don’t know if an idle mind is the devil’s workshop, but I do know a leisurely mind is the soul’s friend. Remember when Ken shared his belief that we need to move toward the pain? Definitely pay attention to that. Don't be afraid of suffering. Don't be afraid of loneliness. Don't be afraid of making your mark. Don't be afraid.

I know all that appears a tall order. Let me help a little with the fear. The boys will know they're loved. They'll wrangle with some of the doubts you hoped they could avoid (they didn't kill you, did they?), but they won't doubt your love. They'll remember your tenderness more than your impatience, your presence more than your absence, your good more than your bad. Love truly does cover a multitude of sins. Speaking of fear, you'll also be glad to know you won't fight your darker demons forever — for a while longer, but not forever. It's not that you'll rally to an epic showdown where you vanquish what torments you; you're simply going to grow tired of the merry-go-round. One of these days, you'll wave down the operator, hop off and go for an ice cream instead.

In other words, you're going to become more and more the man who, in all the right places, learns not to give a shit. It's a strange thing that the good men learn to care more and, at the same time, to care less. You'll become scandalously tender, but you'll hold your tenderness and your strength with such openness that it doesn't require validation. Remember when your pastor told you to get comfortable keeping your own counsel? You will. You'll trust your wife and your sons and your friends, believing that others' good eyes and good hearts will sometimes see more clearly than your own. But you won't give credence to the people critiquing your life or your work or your way. You, Winn, won't give a shit.

And your sketch-of-a-dream comes true, complete with the worn tweed jacket and the worn books and the worn friends. You and Miska spend the next decades pouring the flames on love. The two of you become quite the spectacle. Your love weathers the seasons. More than weathers, it flourishes, love and laughter run wild. You grow foolish together, and you love others well. Keep listening to Miska. She hears things. She sees things.

Keep writing; you're heading in a fine direction. Don't spend an ounce of energy trying to tap into the flavor du jour or run after whatever it is everybody’s running after (I still don’t know). Like the song that’s been working on you says — don’t build your ego on a hungry crowd. Just keep being true, and generous. Tell us what you see.

I like you, Winn. You'll like you too. Might as well start now.

Sincerely,

your 90yr old self

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Words: Yours. And Mine.

For the first time, I’ve boarded the word for the year train. These sorts of things have to show up at your door unannounced, and for whatever reason, my bell never rang.

For a while, Miska’s had these annual encounters where a word arrives, vivid and undeniable. Given that I’ve married a mystic, I’ve found myself imagining what these moments are like for her. I’m sure she appreciates that. I imagine my mystic wife walking over the knoll of one of Ireland’s green hills (where else would such a fantasy be?). The grey mist knits a silky silhouette of her lovely shape. There’s always music, haunting Irish music. Then the word appears. The word may be aflame or carved into a rock. My favorite is when the word arrives from the voice of a man who has (of course) a strong Irish lilt, a man who is (of course) St. Patrick.

This year, I love Miska’s word. A future year, I could imagine it being mine. But it’s not – and that’s the crucial revelation. You can’t snag another person’s word. You can’t even snag another person’s conviction that you need to have a word. You can’t steal another’s word and you can’t steal another’s life and you can’t steal another’s voice or opportunity or physique. You have to find your own — find your own way, find your own self.

You’ll never meet your surprise guest so long as you’re waiting at everyone else’s front door.

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Give Us Your Joy

If someone has loved you well or helped you remember the things we must remember, if someone’s voice has pulled you through the fog or if their words have landed true, if someone has shown courage – or kindled your courage, if someone has stuck around or concocted beauty or reminded you to laugh, if someone has joined you in your wake, cursing your isolation or your demons, if someone has taught you when to listen generously and when to walk past fools, if someone has been a lover or a friend — tell them.

And tell them often. We all need to hear the goodness that’s in us. Don’t hold back; don’t cache your words or the innocence and hope they carry. Don’t be timid with your enthusiasm. We need all the light we can get in this world – don’t you dare veil any of yours. Heave whatever you have upon our shoulders, and let us feel the weight of your joy.

image: bartimaeus

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Surprise Yourself

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.  
{Neil Gaiman}
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A Tad More for Thanksgiving

One more thought: gratitude and generosity are close kin. Gratitude teaches a person that there is no need to hoard, there’s always enough. Gratitude knows that generosity is everywhere, ever ready to surprise us.

Gratitude is the old grandpa, watching on as we kid-os throw our temper tantrum because we can’t have the last cookie. Are you finished? Grampy Gratitude asks. I was thinking, if you’d ever stop kickin’ and screamin’, I’d take us all for banana splits.

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Gratitude

Show me a grateful person, and I’ll show you one who’s lived well, loved well, one who’s laughed with children and marveled at full moons.

A grateful person has learned how to give gifts and (perhaps more importantly) how to receive gifts. You can learn to bluff your way through gift-giving, you can offer the gift and still stay in charge. However, receiving a gift – that’s another thing altogether. When someone looks straight into you, beaming. Or hugs extra long and extra tight. Or offers you something you know cost them dearly. All these require a humble grace to receive, with only a thank you to offer in return.

This past birthday weekend, Miska said to me, I hope you can receive the love that people who care about you are going to give you. I hope you can just receive it with open arms. She said this because she knows it’s not easy for me, to be humble and receive. I still have fondness for the illusions that I’m the one who takes care of others, I’m the one who doesn’t need anything. What a bunch of rubbish.

This week, we’re given a stretch of days designed for exactly this purpose: to be grateful, to receive, to give thanks. Let’s give ourselves to gratitude not only around the table (though there as well, by all means). Let’s also do it when we’re playing with our kids and reading good words and breathing crisp air and receiving the smile of a stranger. And let us all turn to God with the deepest prayer I know: Thank you.

And I do want to say – I’m grateful for you joining me here, chewing on these words over the past year. I do love to give away the words. Thank you for receiving them.

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Halfway

I’m something like halfway. Today, the calendar flips to 40. There’s that moment in every good novel when you’re mid-through, the pages to the left as thick as the pages to the right. And you pause. You sigh deep for the story that won’t let you loose, resting to breathe in the words and characters and memories before you eagerly dive into the long second stretch. This is that moment in the story of my life.

I’m grateful for the place I find myself. I’m in love with the woman who owns my heart. I have two boys who are going to be good men in this world. I’ve learned what true friendship looks like. I even think I’m on my way to learning what I’m about – what I love (and what makes me roll my eyes), where I’m eager to give energy (and what I simply don’t have time for). I’ve learned more of the questions worth asking – and yes, a few answers to the questions I’ve long been asking. Added years brings fewer words but more tears, less BS but more fire. With age, you learn it’s ok to shrug and walk away. I’ve got plenty of time to putter, but no time to dink around with another man’s fight or another man’s dream. If you’re pushing ego, you’ve lost my interest. But if you’re dealing with life, I’m on your team.

And I’m hopeful for where I’m heading. I plan to walk slower and watch closer and get misty-eyed more often. I want to call friends for no reason and kiss Miska for every reason and make space for stories – because stories are the language able to carry the weight of our life. I want to be generous. I want to stop and chat with the trees more often. I want to drink more tea – on the balcony, at sunset, with Miska. I’ve found brotherhood with a few good men — I’ll be sticking with them. I want to craft words that are true to the way I see things, even if what I see is foggy or foolish. I want to keep telling Wyatt and Seth who they are. I want to be a lover.

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