Author: Ricardo

Sometimes I read something that is so moving to me that I cannot really put into words what I am feeling.  So, why try?  Here is the passage that moved me today:

“Moving from teaching university students to living with mentally handicapped people was, for me at least, a step toward the platform where the father embraces his kneeling son.  It is the place of light, the place of truth, the place of love.  It is the place where I so much want to be, but am so fearful of being.  It is the place where I will receive all I desire, all that I ever hoped for, all that I will ever need, but it is also the place where I have to let go of all I most want to hold on to.  It is the place that confronts me with the fact that truly accepting love, forgiveness, and healing is often much harder than giving it.  It is the place beyond earning, deserving, and rewarding.  It is the place of surrender and complete trust.” 

From “The Return of the Prodigal Son” by Henri J. M. Nouwen.  The father and son, the platform, the light, all refer to a a painting by Rembrandt depicting a pivotal scene in the story about a son who returns home after squandering his father’s fortune.  The father receives his younger son back with open arms and a joyous heart.

 I had a great conversation today with someone at work about doing the right thing.  Sometimes, it sucks doing the right thing when you feel like you are the only one doing the right thing.  When there is evidence all around you that people are motivated primarily by what suits them rather than the greater good, it’s hard to even bother doing what’s right.  But, after much conversation, I shared with him the one reason to keep on keeping on: 

IF NOT YOU, THEN WHO?  

It is that much more important to fight to do what is right, what makes sense, when it appears that you are alone in your conviction.  Even if you are the only one, then you are the only one.  Doesn’t that make your stand that much more powerful, that much more necessary?  Besides, don’t fall prey to your own ego:

WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE?

You aren’t.  The world is filled with people on a personal quest to do the right thing.  There are billions of them…trillions.  There are more people out there who want to do the right thing than there are people who don’t.  You just have to find them.

My parents taught me not to lie.  I did anyways.  As I grew up, I learned the damage a lie can do.  I learned that telling the truth not only felt better but WAS better.  Then, I learned about “white lies,” and the world became a little less clear.  I coped, moved on, grew up a little more.  As I grew to adulthood, I learned that the space between a lie and a white lie was really, really grey.  In college, I learned that there were shades, levels, and degrees of white, black, and grey depending on socio-economic status, celebrity, political clout, tenure, and a whole host of other variables.  

At some point, I learned that all lies tarnish.  I learned that all lies dirty our hands.  I learned that there is no such thing as a white lie; there is only the consequences of telling the truth or telling the lie.  We make choices.  And one of those choices is to lie or tell the truth.  Rather than confront the truth, some times we avoid it.  We avoid the truth, spin it, twist it, and present it in a way that preserves our mental position.  In that process, it ceases to be the truth.  It’s not called a lie.  It’s not called anything because it isn’t really there.  What would you call the absence of truth without a lie?  I think omission fits.  

It’s one thing to not address a thing by not bringing it up.  It the other party doesn’t bring it up, we leave it at that.  It’s another thing to answer a direct question by leaving out a bit of truth.  Again, not a lie; it’s just an incomplete answer.  Apparently, that’s OK.  It must be because I see it all the time.  I’d still call it omission.

Apparently, omitting isn’t lying.

With a few last gulps of cayenne-pepper-infused lemonade, my time with the Master Cleanse comes to an end.

When I was in Alaska, I felt small.  I felt really, really small.  There is one moment in particular that remains vivid to this day.  I was standing next to a window that stretched from the floor to the ceiling.  The glass was spotless.  I was high up on a ship.  In fact it might have been the second highest level.  I was in a bathrobe, just having experienced my first Shiatsu massage.  My body felt wonderful…electric, supple, relaxed.  I walked up to the window, and looked down.  Stories below me, water rushed by the side of the boat.  Waves rippled out in an every growing arc from the place where water and metal met.  The boat, despite its massive size, seemed to glide over the glass-like surface of the ocean.  There was hardly a wave.  We were passing through the heart of Glacier Bay National Park.

The water was an intense, deep blue.  It was almost black.  It lacked that greenish quality that the open ocean elsewhere seems to have.  Here, everything was blue.  We hadn’t ventured far enough into the park to see glaciers yet.  Instead, the coast was rocky and snow-capped.  We were close to shore.  In fact, we were far closer than I ever would have expected.  It surprised me.  There was no shoreline of which to speak.  Instead, water lapped at sheer rock cliffs.  The face of the cliffs extended upward a dozen feet or so.  Snow and ice covered much of the tops.  Then I realized that our proximity to the coast was an illusion.  The cliffs were far.  They weren’t just a dozen feet tall.  They must have been dozens of feet tall.  Dozens.  A hundred feet.  More.  It was a smaller boat that had come into view and exposed the illusion of proximity.  I understood then that I was in a place that was on a totally different scale than anywhere else I had ever been in my life.  For the first time in my life, I can say that I truly understood how small we all are on the face of this vast, magnificent Earth.  

I stood there for a good ten minutes or more.  I just stared.  I watched water slide by underneath and the cliffs rise and fall, undulating as we ventured deeper inland.  Nobody knocked on the door.  There was no music playing.  Faintly, I could hear the world outside.  I put my hand up to the window, and cold emanated from the glass.  I stood in almost complete silence.  I trembled, not from cold but from awe.  Awe and reverence.  I stood there for a very long time.

My body is small.  My body is seemingly meaningless.  But it is mine.  It is the only one I have.  I do not think there are any others just like it on this Earth.  It is a vehicle for my soul, and my soul is joyful, indeed, to be its passenger.  I will continue to move about this Earth, relishing every moment I am granted.  

A ten-day detox may seem trivial, but it has reminded me of my place in this Universe…and just how precious this spot is to me.

I think I have a somewhat better appreciation for what it takes to overcome an addiction.  

Hunger is made up of two things: what happens to your body and what happens to your mind.  My body tells me that it needs sustenance, so I drink some water or a little bit of that wacky lemonade that has been keeping me alive.  My mind tells me that I am hungry and that I need to eat something.  Anything.  Something solid.  Something chewy.  Chewing.  I haven’t done that in days.  It’s interesting not having done that yet not truly experiencing starvation.  I am still alive, after all, and I am fully functional.  Well, mostly functional.  I haven’t had the courage to work out in nine days, and I didn’t want to push it this weekend and cut the grass.  Stuff like that I just avoid.  I’m done my normal dose of calories, you know.

The point is that my body gives the normal warning signs, and I take steps to fulfill the need.  What I am doing does the trick, so my body quiets down.  My mind, on the other hand, can keep its game up for quite some time after.  Eventually, it shuts up.  About twenty minutes later.  Hmm…Dr. Oz once talked about how part of the secret to controlling appetite is to stop eating before you are full, wait twenty minutes, then reassess how you feel.  Chances are, your hunger will have subsided.  You see, it apparently takes about twenty minutes for your brain to catch up with your stomach.  That’s precisely what I am experiencing.  It’s evidence that hunger is really the psychological response to a physical event.

It’s an interesting mechanism, and it has given me a little more empathy for those who are struggling to overcome addiction.  I understand a little better why a recovering alcoholic might want to avoid places where alcohol flows freely.  Try preparing a meal for someone while you are hungry and NOT taking a bite or two.  That’s not easy.  It may seem like a trivial thing to compare to the alcoholic’s demon, but, since I do not know that particular demon first hand, anything that can provide me with empathy brings me a little closer to understanding another form of human suffering.  And if I can understand the suffering of others, then I can love them with that much more of myself.

Any experience that can help grow a person’s power of empathy is a gift.  It’s a gift of love and compassion from something greater than any of us who suffer on this Earth.  While I am grateful that my suffering in this case is finite, a choice, and well-controlled, it still sucks.  It might be a small problem, but it’s my problem.  And our own problems are certainly the most salient problems in the world, thus get most of our attention, no?  

I think anyone can empathize with that.

I hate cayenne pepper because it ruins my lemonade.  I hate cayenne pepper because it is spicy.  I hate cayenne pepper because it inevitably settles to the bottom of my thermos, so I get a big mouthful of it at the end of the workday.  I hate cayenne pepper because I have tasted it at every “feeding” for the past six days.

I am grateful for cayenne pepper because, when you put it in lentil soup, it adds just enough kick to make me smile.  I am grateful for cayenne pepper in large quantities because it makes bad chili worth eating.  I am grateful for cayenne pepper because it tests my resolve.  I am grateful for cayenne pepper because it is doing something good for my body.  I am grateful for cayenne pepper because it keeps me honest.

I cannot think of anything in my life that is truly without some redeeming quality.  I do not use “redeeming” lightly, either.  There is redemption for everything and everyone.  It just might take a little longer to find it for something than for others.  

With redemption, there can be salvation.

Redemption.  Salvation.  These are the lessons of cayenne pepper.

The other day, someone asked me, “Did you talk to a doctor before changing your diet?”  They were referring to my vegetarian diet, not this cleanse.  I laughed heartily inside.  I wanted to ask, “Did YOU talk to a doctor before deciding that fast food should comprise a major part of your diet?”  Of course, I didn’t.  Instead, I just responded, “Yes.  I talked to my chiropractor.”

He stared at me.

My chiropractor knows more about my body and my health than any physician I have ever had.  I see him a few times a month.  He asks me how I am doing.  He asks if anything is bothering me.  He takes the time to explore any issues I might have.  He’s always willing to take a few extra minutes answering questions.  There isn’t a pain he hasn’t helped alleviate.  He knows when to recommend a traditional doctor.  He’s a kind and gentle soul, and he cares about my well-being.

Someone asked me if I had talked to a doctor about this cleanse.  What do you think my answer was?  Yes.  I talked to my chiropractor.

I’m not saying that previous doctors haven’t.  But you tend to go to them when something’s wrong.  They don’t seek to know you as well, to understand your life and your body.  It’s not bad.  It’s just different.  I prefer my chiropractor’s care as a first line of defense over just about anyone else.  So, please don’t judge me when I tell you that my chiropractor is my doctor.  Both he and I know where his expertise ends and the next person’s begins.

We all struggle with doing something that flies in the face of what we believe to be conventional wisdom.  That is one of the main reasons for complacency.  Who on Earth are we to question the establishment?  It is, after all, established.  It is uncomfortable for us to push that envelope, to ask that question, but it is downright unprofitable for the establishment when we take that moment to stop in our tracks and ask, “Why?”  A child can quickly test the patience of any adult with one too many questions.  It isn’t very different when adults question other adults.  We just tend not to question, so we lose sight of the fact that, given sufficient questioning, the apparently normal adult might resort to physical violence!  I exaggerated a bit, perhaps, but the truth is that nobody likes to be questioned.

And that is precisely why we must question.  It is how we grow, as individuals and as a species.  It has always been this way.

Fear is ultimately a poor motivator.  Fear causes resentment.  Fear causes hostility.  Fear erodes loyalty.  Fear erodes trust.  Fear promotes selfishness.  Fear promotes greed.  Fear destroys creativity.  Fear destroys hope.

And I have come to learn that hope is one of the most powerful motivators.

Hope leads to affection.  Hope leads to kindness.  Hope builds loyalty.  Hope builds trust.  Hope soothes selfishness.  Hope soothes greed.  Hope nourishes creativity.  Hope destroys fear.

Without hope, the human spirit withers.  Without hope, we cannot thrive.  Instead, we merely exist in the shadow of what could be.  Shadows are cold, dark places.

If the intent is to draw from others that which lies dormant, to tap the hidden potential, then hope cannot be extinguished.  And false hope cannot be sustained.  You can lead someone along for only so long.  Lies reveal themselves.  They demoralize others…and hope is lost.

We must live with the truth and with the very real possibility that every last person in an organization (in any population, really) can rise up to meet any bar that is raised.  What then?  How do you forcibly apply a statistical distribution without tearing at the fabric of everything that they have created on their own?  You don’t.  You can’t.  Without the right foundation, everything crumbles.

Naivete?  Stupidity?  Idealistic self-delusion?

No.  I call it hope.

I am over the goat urge.  I thought that today was supposed to be worse than yesterday.  It wasn’t.  It was actually easier.  Today was all about keeping intake up with burn.  I’m not sure I was entirely successful, but I definitely feel better today.  I’m tired, but that has more to do with going to bed at midnight, getting up at 4:45 AM, and following that up with going to bed at 11:30 then getting up at 4:45 AM once again.  That makes me tired not matter what I am eating.

The lesson today, though, is really about anticipating the worst.  I got myself all worked up last night anticipating that today would be pure HELL.  I anticipated all kinds of strange urges.  I anticipated a Cabinet of Carnage full of wonderful delicacies…pastries, donuts, and bagels…then more donuts, cake, and more cake.  It was empty again today.  I anticipated raging hunger pangs.  I anticipated smelling everyone around me eating lunch at their desks and me tackling someone to get at their styrofoam containers.  That didn’t happen.  I anticipated all kinds of horrible feelings, but none of them, NONE OF THEM, came.

And therein lies the message.

Tomorrow will only be as horrible as you make it.  You can’t possibly KNOW what tomorrow will bring today, so why bother sweating it?  I could have had a more pleasant night last night.  I probably could have gotten more sleep.  Yes, more sleep.  I think that is what I will do tonight.  I will get sleep.  I will not sweat tomorrow.  It will be what it will be, and, tonight, the only impact I can have on tomorrow is to iron my clothes so I don’t have to do it in the morning.  So there.

One of the highlights of the day?  I’m over the goat urge.

The problem that I have always had with goat is that it tastes like goat.  I imagine that if you licked a goat, it would taste like goat milk, goat yogurt, goat cheese, or a goat gyro.  That is the problem that I have always had with goat.  It tastes like goat.

Today, I had the urge to lick a goat.

I think this statement probably requires a little backstory.

Several months ago, my wife finally got the guts to do a detox.  We’d talked about it before.  I’d discussed it with my chiropractor.  She’s the one who finally got the nerve to do it.  Of course, in fashion that truly suits her style, she stumbles across this thing called “The Master Cleanse.”  And, of course, being who she is, she decides to take this path of most resistance and attempt the ten-day cleanse.

Calling it a cleanse is accurate.  It is accurate in ways that I will not explore with you, gentle reader.  Calling it The Master Cleanse may sound like hyperbole, but, truly, it is not.  It is the grandaddy of all cleanses.  Not that I’ve personally undertaken “others.”  However, I am beginning to feel the fury of THE MASTER CLEANSE.

It goes like this: for ten days, you eat nothing.  Instead, you drink lemonade all day long.  Sounds like a plan, no?  The lemons must be fresh.  The water must be purified.  To the lemonade, you add maple syrup.  Not the kind you get at Denny’s, mind you.  This stuff is REAL maple syrup.  It’s called “Grade B” or something like that.  It’s pure, and it doesn’t taste anything like Mrs. Butterworth.  To this concoction, you add cayenne pepper.  That’s right; cayenne pepper.  It’s not a secret recipe, folks.  Just Google it.

So, my wife does The Master Cleanse.  I get it into my thick head that I, too, should like to do The Master Cleanse.  However, the timing isn’t right.  So I wait.  And wait.  And wait.  Until, suddenly, I get the wild hair and decide that I should like to do this Master Cleanse now.  That is where I currently find myself: at the beginning of this ten-day journey.

So, it has been two days.  Two very long days.  I am already beginning to understand the mechanism of hunger.  It is much more psychological than anything else.  You see, the lemonade provides vitamins, minerals, and enough calories to sustain moderate human activity.  I won’t be working out too strenuously these next eight days.  So, I am truly not starving myself.  It’s more like…a less-than-nutritional diet.  Of course, I am not doing this to lose weight.  With day three on the horizon, I am simply trying to stick with it.

Day three is supposed to be the hardest day.  Today was hard.  Luckily, there was no free food on the Cabinet of Carnage at work, the resting place of all leftover food.  Fewer people at the meeting than you thought would come?  Leave the food on the Cabinet of Carnage.  Leftover pizza from a team recognition luncheon?  Leave the food on the Cabinet of Carnage.  A few surplus donuts after that breakfast presentation?  Leave the food on the Cabinet of Carnage.  This is how my world works.  And today, for a change, my vote was cast for an empty cabinet.  One day down, eight more to go.

Do you know what is amazing?  I’ll tell you.  When, for two days, you haven’t eaten anything solid or that doesn’t taste like lemonade with maple syrup and cayenne pepper, you notice how intricately linked your sense of smell is with your sense of taste.  When you breathe deeply enough of any aroma, you can actually taste that which you are smelling.  I came home to the smell of pasta with tomato sauce, and I could literally taste it in my mouth.  You know, the tongue of a snake actually picks particles up from the air.  The tongue is placed in a special organ in the roof of the snake’s mouth commonly referred to as “Jacobson’s Organ.”  I don’t know why.  The organ is actually comprised of two pits in the roof of the mouth.  They are separated, much like our nostrils are.  This is why reptile have forked tongues.  There; don’t say I never learned ya nuthin’.  In essence, they are tasting what they smell.  Or smelling what they taste.  Something like that.  Point being that the two sense are linked.  Intricately linked.  Remember that the next time you stand next to something, or someone, with an unpleasant aroma.

Hence, my goat theory.

With smell quickly replacing taste, I find that all this stuff happens in your brain more so than in the actual parts of your body.  Or, rather, I should say that the processing of these senses happens in the brain.  I know, not a huge or universe-changing revelation, but you become more acutely aware of how your body works when you push it outside normal operating parameters.  And that is precisely what I am discovering: that my physical body is something entirely different from and, perhaps, detached from my conscious self.

Damn, Erin was right.

Unfortunately, my conscious self wants a sandwich.  The only other thing, apart from the lemonade, which I am required to drink and which has a pleasant taste is tea.  Not any tea, of course.  This is a…laxative tea.  Called “Smooth Move.”  Seriously.

My mouth yearns to chew.  My tongue yearns to taste something other than lemonade with maple syrup and cayenne pepper.  And it’s only day two.

I want to lick a goat.