A rather unsophisticated man endured a medical operation with a 20% chance of survival.  When told about his condition and the odds that were against him, he engaged in no calculations and did not consult with another physician. He said simply, "I want to be one of the twenty percent."

One year later, he reduced his work hours in order to make the time to travel several miles for radiation treatment, asking about increased dosage in order to "heal faster." Intrigued by the man's capacity to take charge and his persistent drive in the midst of a toxic environment--including the cacophony of expertise--his therapist, Dr. Edwin Friedman wonders, "How is it possible?"

In a session with the man, Dr. Friedman tells a story about the USS Indianapolis. At 14 minutes past midnight, on July 30th, 1945, midway between Guam and Leyte Gulf, two torpedoes from a Japanese submarine hit her. 900 hundred men were left helpless in the hostile environment of the Japan Sea enduring constant shark attacks, potential starvation, terrible thirst, suffering from exposure and their wounds. Although they knew it was to their advantage to stay close to one another (there were no life boats), some of the men swam away from the safety of the group and, either willingly or out of madness, gave themselves up to the sharks.

"How do you explain that?" Dr. Friedman asked his client.  "Unless you assume they were exhibiting extraordinary altruism, those men who swam away functioned in exactly the opposite direction from the one you have followed with regard to the dangers to your own life.  And yet, you have responded with cool, with stamina, with perspective, and with courage."

The man answered quickly, "Those guys who swam away, they didn't have no future."

We are not in shark-infested waters. Although, some days it feels that way.

It may have been cruel luck; or in my case, this week, the loss of a loved one.

So which way do we swim?  

Which way to we turn?

And how is that some of us make it, and some of us don't?

There is a notion that such people--those who make it with stamina, perspective and courage--are not the norm. They must be exceptional for that very reason. They have some brand of willpower or inside connection with God or miraculous luck. Go figure.

Lord knows there are enough tragic cases of heartbreaking luck.

This is where we go amiss with our mental gymnastics. To have a future is not about eternity or even our about golden years.

love this

very

day.

Have enough courage to trust love one more time and  

always one more time.  Maya Angelou

In his book Crossing the Unknown Sea, David Whyte talks about exhaustion. He asked his spiritual director for help. He was told, "The antidote to exhaustion is wholeheartedness."

"Excuse me?"

"You are so tired through and through because a good half of what you do here has nothing to do with your true powers. You are only half here; half here will kill you after awhile. You need something to which you can give your full powers."

After listening to his patient, Dr. Friedman writes, "Whenever anyone is in extremis--whether a marital crisis, an economic crisis, a political crisis, a health crisis--their chances of survival are far greater when their horizons are formed of projected images from their own imagination rather than being limited by what they can actually see.  Or to reverse it, to the extent the horizons of individuals in extremis are limited to what they can actually see, their chances of survival are far less than if their horizons include projected images from their own imagination.  Actually, even the thinking processes that lead one to assume that one's life situation is in extremis are partially determined by the breadth of one's horizons at the time--which, of course, correlates with one's imaginative capacity and sense of adventure."

Here's the deal: From hope comes imagination.

From imagination comes the ability to dream.

From ability to dream comes the capacity to love.

From the capacity to love we know wholeheartedness...

and in wholeheartedness, there is a future. 

Let us be very clear. This is not about glass half full.

It is not about the power of positive thinking.

And it is not about preying upon hope. (I heard one preacher tell a couple that their daughter's cancer is linked to a lack of faith.)

Which way we choose "to swim," is about seeing what we want to see.

A man discovered his axe had been stolen. His task? Find the culprit. He had a suspect in mind. His young neighbor--high school age--seemed the most likely candidate.
The man began watching the boy, coming and going from the house. What he saw only confirmed his suspicions. The boy carried the air of a thief.
The young boy walked like a thief.
The young boy talked like a thief.
The young boy looked like a thief.
After two weeks of watching, the man was certain. The young boy stole the axe.
One afternoon, in the corner of his garage, the man found his axe, in a place where he had left it a few weeks earlier. The axe, had not been stolen after all.  The next morning, the man watched as the young boy left the house. And the man noticed (with new eyes, and perhaps to his chagrin), that the young boy no longer walked like a thief.

Which means that we may not see what is already there. What is already inside of us. Here's what I know: When life crises are viewed in terms of "systems thinking" rather than "straight-line linear thinking," then outcomes other than giving up or escape become possible.  One outcome is the mobilization of what is inside--such as resiliency, courage, determination, self-regulation, stamina, audacity and faith.   

Remember this: Many battles can be won simply by not given up; one does not have to conquer the other.  

Just like the man in the story, when you don't give up, when you know you have a future (even if that future is only today), you become less reactive, less anxious, less blaming, more imaginative and more responsible.

Although (if we're honest), in our anxiety, we seek our relief from gurus.

That's where this story--about the man with cancer, or the survivors of the USS Indianapolis--is a little unnerving.

There's no list.

It would be easier with a list.

This week my heart is heavy because of a loss.   

Although, I'm the first to admit that I can't compete with shark-infested waters. And yet. Every loss hurts deeply.   

So. What does it mean to process that loss believing there is a future?

I am inspired when I read the stories of Nazi Holocaust survivors, because they had a capacity to see beyond the barbed wire.

Does it guarantee survival? No. But it maximizes our chances to live wholehearted today.

In the retreat last week, someone asked, "How do we know when we've begun to make the paradigm shift?"

As if there's a switch. What strikes me is that we don't give ourselves credit for the steps we've already taken.  No, I didn't have a list for him...

Only this, from Maya Angelou... "My great hope is to laugh as much as I cry; to get my work done and try to love somebody and have the courage to accept the love in return."   

The true voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes  

but in having new eyes. Marcel Proust

(1) Shark attacks began with sunrise of the first day and continued until the men were physically removed from the water, almost five days later. Of the 900 who made it into the water, only 317 remained alive. After almost five days of, the men of the Indianapolis were at last rescued from the sea. 

(2) Story from A Failure of Nerve, Edwin Friedman