(Note - go to the next essay below this one for a belated but always welcome comment from Cal)
The great shaman/huckster Gurdjieff once said that if we could truly see our lives in reflection, we would not be able to stand to live. Unfortunately, I think I understand at least part of what he means.
It comes to me in dreams, and in this last, I am with a crowd of tired, dirty people who are nevertheless elated, having just achieved some great goal on a dangerous expedition. They have been to the ends of the earth and they have grown in their wisdom and found fulfillment and comradery. I, on the other hand, stand aside as they congratulate themselves. For some reason, I have missed out. I am on the outside. I have missed out on the great adventure of my lifetime and now I can only imagine what it might have been, and how that empty longing within might have been filled.
It is a terrible feeling, and I think it is to this that Gurdjieff directs his warning: that most of us do not fulfill even a fraction of what is possible for us; that most of us, in the dark words of a writer I have forgotten, live lives of quiet desperation. We want something great; we know we are meant for something great, and we do not do it. This is from lack of imagination or of courage, but mostly it is from our lack of vision as we see ourselves trapped by our circumstances, be it family or mortgage or some other perceived obligation. We think “if only” and then go about our meek lives, so much less than some other hero who has responded to his calling. I do not think this is enough to force us to leap from a cliff in despair – Gurdjieff was a showman after all – but it is a great tragedy of our, and of many other, times.
However, many of the greats, those who fulfill themselves, do so with disregard for others. Some are born egotists, or are born with such overriding talent that, like a golden retriever chasing a ball into the water, they are simply towed by instinct. But many do find a way to walk the fine line, controlling impulses while still achieving their goals.
Such, it seems, was the case of Jon Kerstetter in his autobiography, Crossings. I have mentioned him before: this is the man born in poverty on the Oneida Indian Reservation in Wisconsin in 1950 who beat all odds to become a medical doctor. For him, though, that was not enough; he then went on to become a flight surgeon who served three tours during the second Iraq War. It was during his last tour that he fell into some earth pits by an airfield and broke several bones in his arm and leg. He was flown stateside for surgery, where they found another more serious problem with blood vessels in the brain. During the operation to fix them, the worst happened: he suffered a massive stroke that left him almost incapable of walking, and more: it left him almost incapable of thinking.
As we read the book, we come to realize (with almost disbelief) that it was written by a man who struggles to form complete and cogent sentences, even though it is well done, largely because of its unflinching truth. From the start, he admits to his drive, which he attributes to his insatiable need to learn, but which, with no great thinking on our part, leads us to understand that it comes primarily from an intense need to be somebody. We understand this in the context of his life, this same struggle that my parents had as they fought to rise above the Depression-era poverty that they were born into. It is this, this need not only for basic material necessities but for self-approval, which drives so many new immigrants in this country. Like so many rags to riches stories in American, Kerstetter fulfilled his own need by excelling at the highest levels. Then, with one operation, he was functionally reduced to one of the lowest, that of stroke survivor.
We learn of his anger and frustration with completing the simplest of tasks, but more importantly, of his struggle to maintain the level of self-respect that he had worked so hard to construct. It was agonizing for him to realize that he would never be the competent surgeon/soldier that he had been, and we see that as he writes to the Medical Board to revoke his medical license. A doctor, a soldier no more, but instead, a struggling invalid.
It does not end there, obviously, but rather at this very book that he wrote. We understand his fortitude as he enrolls in a master’s program for writing, where he finally completed his MFA. He has not stopped, even though writing a simple page for him might take hours or sometimes days. We are encouraged by this strength. Still, I sensed something was missing in his conclusion.
This ‘something missing’ I deduced from my dream. Kerstetter needed the excitement of combat, but just as importantly, he needed his own approval, which was shaped by society. He was willing to sacrifice even his life for that goal. When he was greatly decreased, he admirably did not rest on his laurels or succumb to depression, but still, there was something almost pathological about his need to become ‘somebody’ again.
I understand. In my dream, it was not the adventure I dreamed of, but the results, the kudos and the camaraderie that comes from insiders, from the people who have been there. It was, simply, ego boost, which is as insatiable as a drug or sensual addiction.
Think of the movie, “The Karate Kid.” Wasn’t the Japanese master a gardener? Didn’t he live in obscurity, awaiting the will of heaven with abiding patience? Could we imagine him planning to do something - damn it! - to get the recognition he deserved (needed)? No, that would have ruined our vision of him as a wise man. As a wise man, he did not need outside props or approval, from himself or from anyone else. His satisfaction was in knowing who he was in the face of eternity. The rest, life, was a short play, a shadow from eternity meant to teach or to prod or to lead. From this, we can get the impression that the Way of Heaven was leading Kerstetter to the wisdom of the humble, and that he did not quite understand. Close, but not quite.
Instead, his is still fighting, as if life is a foe. Which it is, but of an entirely different kind. It is instead a fight with oneself, with one’s petty needs. How many times does Jesus say, “abandon all and follow me”? How many times does the Buddha tell us to turn from the celluloid-like play of existence to live outside of the ego and all its distractions?
As my own dreams tell me, I speak as someone who knows; someone who knows wisdom but does not live it, for the obsessions of this world still cling. Kerstetter wanted action and challenge and he got almost more than he could handle after his stroke. He dealt with it as he dealt with everything else in this life – with dogged determination to overcome. But it seems something greater was waiting at his door that he didn’t quite get; something that he couldn’t quite live with that heaven was trying to teach him. I, most of us, understand and could not have done better.
I had hoped that he would get it, for heroes make it easier for us to go the distance, but maybe it is better this way. In his failure (by my view), Kerstetter has helped by showing the tenacity of the tune master who makes us dance to his harsh demands, like those found in my dream. Like most of us, I hope I don’t have to have something like a stroke to fully understand who our true adversary is. But, as with most, I probably do. Hopefully, it will prove worthwhile in eternity.
The great shaman/huckster Gurdjieff once said that if we could truly see our lives in reflection, we would not be able to stand to live. Unfortunately, I think I understand at least part of what he means.
It comes to me in dreams, and in this last, I am with a crowd of tired, dirty people who are nevertheless elated, having just achieved some great goal on a dangerous expedition. They have been to the ends of the earth and they have grown in their wisdom and found fulfillment and comradery. I, on the other hand, stand aside as they congratulate themselves. For some reason, I have missed out. I am on the outside. I have missed out on the great adventure of my lifetime and now I can only imagine what it might have been, and how that empty longing within might have been filled.
It is a terrible feeling, and I think it is to this that Gurdjieff directs his warning: that most of us do not fulfill even a fraction of what is possible for us; that most of us, in the dark words of a writer I have forgotten, live lives of quiet desperation. We want something great; we know we are meant for something great, and we do not do it. This is from lack of imagination or of courage, but mostly it is from our lack of vision as we see ourselves trapped by our circumstances, be it family or mortgage or some other perceived obligation. We think “if only” and then go about our meek lives, so much less than some other hero who has responded to his calling. I do not think this is enough to force us to leap from a cliff in despair – Gurdjieff was a showman after all – but it is a great tragedy of our, and of many other, times.
However, many of the greats, those who fulfill themselves, do so with disregard for others. Some are born egotists, or are born with such overriding talent that, like a golden retriever chasing a ball into the water, they are simply towed by instinct. But many do find a way to walk the fine line, controlling impulses while still achieving their goals.
Such, it seems, was the case of Jon Kerstetter in his autobiography, Crossings. I have mentioned him before: this is the man born in poverty on the Oneida Indian Reservation in Wisconsin in 1950 who beat all odds to become a medical doctor. For him, though, that was not enough; he then went on to become a flight surgeon who served three tours during the second Iraq War. It was during his last tour that he fell into some earth pits by an airfield and broke several bones in his arm and leg. He was flown stateside for surgery, where they found another more serious problem with blood vessels in the brain. During the operation to fix them, the worst happened: he suffered a massive stroke that left him almost incapable of walking, and more: it left him almost incapable of thinking.
As we read the book, we come to realize (with almost disbelief) that it was written by a man who struggles to form complete and cogent sentences, even though it is well done, largely because of its unflinching truth. From the start, he admits to his drive, which he attributes to his insatiable need to learn, but which, with no great thinking on our part, leads us to understand that it comes primarily from an intense need to be somebody. We understand this in the context of his life, this same struggle that my parents had as they fought to rise above the Depression-era poverty that they were born into. It is this, this need not only for basic material necessities but for self-approval, which drives so many new immigrants in this country. Like so many rags to riches stories in American, Kerstetter fulfilled his own need by excelling at the highest levels. Then, with one operation, he was functionally reduced to one of the lowest, that of stroke survivor.
We learn of his anger and frustration with completing the simplest of tasks, but more importantly, of his struggle to maintain the level of self-respect that he had worked so hard to construct. It was agonizing for him to realize that he would never be the competent surgeon/soldier that he had been, and we see that as he writes to the Medical Board to revoke his medical license. A doctor, a soldier no more, but instead, a struggling invalid.
It does not end there, obviously, but rather at this very book that he wrote. We understand his fortitude as he enrolls in a master’s program for writing, where he finally completed his MFA. He has not stopped, even though writing a simple page for him might take hours or sometimes days. We are encouraged by this strength. Still, I sensed something was missing in his conclusion.
This ‘something missing’ I deduced from my dream. Kerstetter needed the excitement of combat, but just as importantly, he needed his own approval, which was shaped by society. He was willing to sacrifice even his life for that goal. When he was greatly decreased, he admirably did not rest on his laurels or succumb to depression, but still, there was something almost pathological about his need to become ‘somebody’ again.
I understand. In my dream, it was not the adventure I dreamed of, but the results, the kudos and the camaraderie that comes from insiders, from the people who have been there. It was, simply, ego boost, which is as insatiable as a drug or sensual addiction.
Think of the movie, “The Karate Kid.” Wasn’t the Japanese master a gardener? Didn’t he live in obscurity, awaiting the will of heaven with abiding patience? Could we imagine him planning to do something - damn it! - to get the recognition he deserved (needed)? No, that would have ruined our vision of him as a wise man. As a wise man, he did not need outside props or approval, from himself or from anyone else. His satisfaction was in knowing who he was in the face of eternity. The rest, life, was a short play, a shadow from eternity meant to teach or to prod or to lead. From this, we can get the impression that the Way of Heaven was leading Kerstetter to the wisdom of the humble, and that he did not quite understand. Close, but not quite.
Instead, his is still fighting, as if life is a foe. Which it is, but of an entirely different kind. It is instead a fight with oneself, with one’s petty needs. How many times does Jesus say, “abandon all and follow me”? How many times does the Buddha tell us to turn from the celluloid-like play of existence to live outside of the ego and all its distractions?
As my own dreams tell me, I speak as someone who knows; someone who knows wisdom but does not live it, for the obsessions of this world still cling. Kerstetter wanted action and challenge and he got almost more than he could handle after his stroke. He dealt with it as he dealt with everything else in this life – with dogged determination to overcome. But it seems something greater was waiting at his door that he didn’t quite get; something that he couldn’t quite live with that heaven was trying to teach him. I, most of us, understand and could not have done better.
I had hoped that he would get it, for heroes make it easier for us to go the distance, but maybe it is better this way. In his failure (by my view), Kerstetter has helped by showing the tenacity of the tune master who makes us dance to his harsh demands, like those found in my dream. Like most of us, I hope I don’t have to have something like a stroke to fully understand who our true adversary is. But, as with most, I probably do. Hopefully, it will prove worthwhile in eternity.
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