Disappointment

It's not unusual to feel certain emotions without knowing why.  Disappointment is not one of those emotions.  When we feel disappointed, we almost always know what caused it...

Disappointment stems from positive expectations that never materialize or from desires that are left unfulfilled.  We expect something to go a certain way and it doesn't; we feel disappointed.  We want something badly but aren't able to have it; we feel disappointed. 

Ideally and over time, we can learn to transcend disappointment.  To do this, we must let go of our attachment to ideas about how things "should" be.  When we stop clinging to our expectations, we are able to accept with equanimity whatever the present moment contains. 

Many people never realize this truth.  Even among those who strive to let go of expectations, there are few who will attain this ideal.   As a result, the great majority of us will continue to experience disappointment throughout our lives -- disappointment in ourselves, in our circumstances, in outcomes, and in others.  For us, the task becomes finding a way to work through disappointment so that we can move past it. 

Disappointment is one of those emotions that can become toxic if left unaddressed.  Long term, chronic disappointment in oneself leads to feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing.  Enduring disappointment in someone close to us causes anger and resentment towards that person.  Perpetual disappointment in life or its circumstances leads to feelings of hopelessness and despair.  These emotional states can quickly develop into habitual ways of relating to ourselves, other people, and the world. 

These are all things I know and can pass on to others without difficulty.  It is one thing to know; it is another to do...which is what I am struggling with now. 

I believe that acceptance is the antidote to disappointment.  To feel disappointed is to wish the present moment to be something other than it is.  Therefore, the first step in overcoming disappointment is to accept reality as it is.

Sometimes letting go of disappointment feels like giving up.  For example, if we give up on pushing our child to work hard and be responsible (because we've had so many arguments about it but nothing ever changes) are we giving up on our child?  It can certainly feel that way. 

But isn't the pushing just a way to avoid facing our disappointment?  Isn't it our attempt to get our child to do what is right so that we can be proud of him?  Nobody wants to say, "My son dropped out of school and refuses to get a job."  To have invested so much of our time, energy, and love into raising a child who then refuses to become a productive member of society is a great disappointment.  So we refuse to accept it.  We push our child to do what is right.  We will not allow our child to fail.  It is simply not acceptable. 

What happens when we do this for months and then years without success?  We've probably had so many fights with our kid about it that he's stopped coming to visit.  We worry about it constantly and think about what else we can do to change things.  We feel angry at and resentful towards our child for letting us down.  In short, we suffer.

This is when it becomes time to accept.  Sticking with my example, the time has come to accept that our child is a bit lazy and doesn't care much about becoming a productive member of society.  Yes, it's disappointing; but once we've stopped trying to change our child and have accepted him as he is, we can then grieve the loss of what we wanted him to become. 

My (Blended) Family

My house feels eerily empty right now.  My stepdaughter spent nine weeks with me and my husband this summer.  This is almost twice as long as she was able to stay last summer and it's the longest we've had her at any one time.  She lives in South Carolina and we live in Virginia, so during the school year she stays with us every other weekend, alternate Thanksgivings, half of Christmas Break, and the week of Spring Break.  When she stays for a weekend, there's barely enough time to get used to her being here before it's time for her to go back to her mom's.  When she stays for extended periods of time we get comfortable.  We settle into a routine that's different from the one my husband and I follow when it's just the two of us.  Normally, I tend to like a lot of "me" time.  When my stepdaughter is here, it forces me outside of myself and into the world.  I consciously spend less time hiding out by myself and more time interacting with her.

It's not so bad when my stepdaughter goes back to her mother's after spending just a weekend with us.  Weekends are always set aside for spending time with family and friends anyway.  When my stepdaughter goes back to her mother's after staying with us the entire summer her absence is profound.  There's no one to tease about moving so slowly in the mornings.  There are no cute little outfits to lay out because there is no little person to wear them.  No one runs out to my car as I leave for work to wave goodbye.  No one needs me to answer random questions about how the world works.  No one asks me to pick them up by their feet so they can hang upside down.  There is no one to join in when I tease my husband.  No one needs me to braid their hair or to pick out a hair tie that matches their clothes.  There is no one watching the Disney Channel when I come home from the gym; I am greeted by a silent television and an empty room. 

So right now my house feels empty, although it is not.  My husband and I are there, doing what we always do.  I've always savored our quiet evenings together.  I'm sure I will come to enjoy them again.  Right now, though, the house is just a little too quiet...

Special-ness

Everyone has something they're really good at, right?  Isn't that what we tell our children when they begin to cultivate interests and hobbies?  We encourage them to try their hand at a variety of extracurricular activities.  Some children immediately find something they do well.  Others try a little bit of everything but just can't seem to find their niche.  "Keep trying," we tell them.  "Everyone's good at something.  You just haven't found your talent yet."

A patient sat in my office not too long ago.  She was struggling with feelings of inadequacy and depression.  "I'm not good at anything," she lamented.  Like most of us, she'd been told since childhood that everyone has some sort of talent.  "Keep looking," people told her.  "Don't give up."  My patient, now in her late 20's, never "found" her talent.  As a result, she concluded that something must be wrong with her, that she was somehow lacking. 

I could empathize with this patient.  There was a point in my life -- shortly after I graduated college and started my first "real" job -- when I came to the same realization about myself: I'm not really good at anything.  I am, of course, better at some things than others; like everyone, I have strengths and weaknesses.  There are even a few areas in which my performance is probably above average.  I cannot, however, think of any one thing I can do so well that I stand out from the crowd. 

And I think that's true for about 95% of us.  Theoretically, most human abilities follow a normal distrubution.  This means that for any given skill, most of us will possess an (approximately) average aptitude.  About 68% of us will fall solidly within the "average" range (i.e., within one standard deviation from the mean).  Approximately 13.6% of us will fall within the "above average" range (i.e., within two standard deviations above the mean); another 13.6% will fall into the "below average" range (i.e., within two standard deviations below the mean).  Altogether, this accounts for 95% of all people.  Therefore, for any given talent, skill, or ability, only about 0.1% of people perform at the "exceptional" level (three or more standard deviations above the mean). 

The point is, there is only a very small minority of people who we can say truly excel at a given skill.  The rest of us tend to be average, slightly above average, or slightly below average. 

I wonder, then, if we aren't setting our children up for disappointment when we tell them that everyone has something at which they excel.  It might not be so bad for the 13.6% of kids who end up being "above average" at one thing or another, but what about the other 83+% who are just "average" or even "below average?"  Are we instilling in our children the belief that it's not okay to be "average?"  If we assure our children that they will find their place to shine but then they never do, are they going to end up feeling like they're somehow inadequate?

As a child, I remember thinking that I was meant to do great things.  I believed I was somehow "special" and that I was going to have a significant impact on the world.  Children are naturally egocentric so it's not unusual for them to feel special.  Ideally, they grow up to learn that while their wants and needs are important, they are no more important than the wants and needs of others.  Unfortunately, this doesn't always  happen, especially in today's world. 

People today tend to have far fewer children than did people who lived 100 years ago.  The parental energy and attention that at one time was divided among many children is now devoted to one or two.  Many parents put their children at the center of their world, often sacrificing more than a healthy share of their own wants and needs.  We tell our children that not only are they special to us, but that they are special in general.  We heap excessive amoutns of praise upon our children in an effort to build their self confidence.  We tell our children that they can do anything and that they should never allow anyone to stand in the way of their dreams. 

We mean well.  We want our children to grow into confident, successful adults.  We want them to reach for the stars and to lead happy and fulfilling lives.  But I wonder if we might have gone overboard. 

It wasn't until I became an adult that it hit me: I'm no more special than anyone else.  I began to realize that I will probably never create or achieve anything that will radically change the world.  I can, however, make a significant and meaningful contribution to society, even if it's nothing extraordinary.  I had to adjust my expectations, but I eventually reached the conclusion that it's okay to be ordinary.  I don't have to do anything great to live a meaningful life; I just have to be myself.

Restlessness

Most would agree that human beings seem to be hardwired to seek happiness.  It appears to be an innate impulse (although in reality, it is impossible to say whether the first humans displayed this tendency).  Whether instinctual or acquired, the pursuit of happiness is practically universal among humans of the modern era.  In today's world, almost everything we do is in some way motivated by our desire to lead lives that are both happy and fulfilled.

Unfortunately, for many of us, happiness can be quite elusive.  This is especially true in Western cultures.  Modern Western societies tend to be obsessed with doing, achieving, and posessing.  We look for happiness in external activties, concrete achievements, and material posessions.  Unfortunately, evidence suggests that living this way does not make people happy.  Instead, it breeds malaise, discontent, and chronic feelings of restlessness.

Restlessness is propelled by a desire to be somewhere other than here, doing something other than the activity in which you are currently engaged.  It is a state characterized by unease and agitation. 

When people seek happiness from external sources, restlessness is the inevitable result.  When we believe happiness exists out there in the world then that is where we search for it.  We identify something we think will bring happiness and we set about trying to achieve or obtain it.  When we get it, we initially experience intense feelings of pride, satisfaction, and pleasure.  "Now," we say to ourselves.  "Now I can be happy." 

Unfortunately, our pleasure is always short-lived.  Once the novelty wears off, we realize that we feel no differently than we did before.  The thing we wanted so badly has not brought us happiness.  We feel restless, so we begin to search for something else we believe will make us happy.  The cycle continues. 

Restlessness is not a particularly comfortable feelilng, especially when it becomes a daily presence in our lives.  The natural reaction to something unpleasant is to try to get rid of it.  Restlessness is alleviated by movement.  We seek happiness, come up short, and move on to look for it somewhere else.  Perhaps we leave our spouse or begin a new romance.  Maybe we quit our job, sell our home, or move to a new city.  Or we might get a new haircut, buy a new wardrobe, and adopt a new look.  We're restless so we move, however we choose to do it. 

We look outside of ourselves for happiness; we will never find it there and so will always feel restless.  All humans have the drive to seek happiness; our restlessness spurs us to continue on this quest.

Our quest becomes much easier if we look in the right place.  Happiness comes from within...

Of course that's a bit cliche', is it not?  It's all well and good to say that happiness comes from within, but what does that mean exactly?

The first thing we have to do is stop moving.  In her article "Boredom - The Gateway to Peace," Joan Brooks explains that we must learn to do nothing.  Westerners tend to feel compelled to always be doing something.  If we remain idle for too long, we begin thinking about all the things we could, should, or would rather be doing.  There is no stillness because we don't pause long enough for our minds and our bodies to settle.  As soon as we feel bored or restless, we're on the go again.  Brooks suggests that instead of bolting into action when restlessness arises, we "need to slow down and find some peace and serenity."  This will undoubtedly be quite difficult to do, at least initially.  Over time, however, we learn to sit with our feelings, without trying to change them.  Eventually, we learn to let go, relax, and just be.

Time poverty

When my husband and I first got engaged, I had an opportunity to get a second job.  It was a good opportunity -- the pay was good and we needed the money -- but I didn't really want to work two jobs.  I didn't like the idea of leaving one job at the end of the day and driving straight to another one.  My husband, however, thought I should do it.  "Think of all the extra money!" he said.  He made a compelling argument and I was eventually persuaded to his point of view. 

I was miserable as soon as I started the job.  I always felt rushed, like I never had time to do the things I wanted to do.  I was constantly stressed out and was often irritable.  I ended up quitting after about a month.

Did my second job really consume so much of my time that there was none leftover for me to do the things I felt were important?  I honestly don't know.  What's important is that I felt like I didn't have enough time to do the things that were important to me.  My perception was what mattered.

The mistake I made (i.e., taking a second job I knew I didn't want) is a common one: I bought into the belief that money is more valuable than time.  Ours is a fast-paced society.  We are always in a hurry and there is never enough time in the day to accomplish all the things that need to be done.  Studies in both the U.K. and the U.S. have found that while a typical adult has about five to seven more hours of leisure time compared to thirty years ago, people today  feel like they have less time to engage in meaningful activities than they did back then. 

If we have more free time than ever before, why do we still feel so rushed?

As it turns out, I'm not the first person to ask this question.  And there's actually a name for feeling like there's never enough time: it's called time poverty.  Time poverty is an inevitable outcome of living in a world that never slows down.  Some suggest that it's tied to the competitive nature of Western (and especially American) society.  Culturally, we have embraced the idea that success is measured by material wealth and tangible achievements.  For this reason, we attribute more significance to a prestigious job title than to the nature of our relationships with family and friends.  We want to be successful so we constantly strive to "get ahead."  (The irony is that no matter how far you get ahead it will never be far enough to make you happy.  True happiness doesn't come from getting ahead or even from being successful).  We fill our schedules with activities that reflect the value we place on material gain and personal achievement.  Unfortunately, these are typically not activities we find to be meaningful or personally fulfilling.  Still, they consume the bulk of our time, often at the expense of activities that we do find intrinsically rewarding.

So what can we do about it?  We can't exactly get off the boat while life sails past us at breakneck speed.  Dr. Stephan Rechtschaffen believes he has a solution.  He calls his strategy "timeshifting."  According to Dr. Rechtschaffen, the problem with living in a fast-paced world is that we never switch gears.  There are times, he acknowledges, when we need to move quickly.  At other times, however, we need to slow down and be present.

Sound familiar?  Dr. Rechtschaffen is basically telling us that the way to create balance in our lives is to incorporate periods of mindfulness.  He assures us that we don't have to take time out of our already hectic schedules to integrate mindfulness practice into our day.  All we need to do is pick a mundane task and make a conscious effort to bring our full attention to the activity.

How do we spend our time?

I recently read an article about making the most of your weekends that really struck a nerve.  We're always complaining that the weekend is too short.  It certainly seems that way!  There never seems to be enough time to do the things we really want to do.  If, however, we are truly honest with ourselves, most of us would have to admit that we don't make the best use of the time we do have.  For example, we don't have to spend Friday night in front of the television.  Sure, we have plenty of legitimate excuses for doing just that -- we're tired from a long work week, we deserve a break from our constant commitments, we need some time to ourselves, etc.  All of these things are probably true and if you feel strongly about your Friday night television time then have it, by all means.  But if you decide to use your time this way, you are not in a position to later lament that you haven't seen your friends in months becaue you "haven't had the time."  Nor can you honestly say that the reason you haven't had a quiet night alone with your significant other in so long is because you're both "extremely busy."  Furthermore, you are being less than truthful when you tell your parents that the reason you haven't come to visit (or called) in so long is because you've been so busy with work and other responsibilities.

I'm as guilty as anyone of making excuses for not getting around to things I claim are important to me.  It's human nature.  Our behavior at a given point in time is strongly influenced by - among other things - how we feel at that particular moment.  That is why, despite our best intentions, so many of us never make it to the gym after work, put off projects until the last possible minute, or knowingly do something we're sure to regret later.  So while spending time with our friends and family is important to us, it is often overshadowed by our emotional impulses.  "I know I should spend some time with so-and-so," we tell ourselves.  "But I'm just so tired.  The only thing I feel like doing right now is sitting here on the couch."

Most of us know that time is a precious (and nonrenewable) resource.  Still, most of us squander our time as if it were of no value at all.  Ilona Boniwell conducted a study on how people use their time.  She discovered that while most people do not see watching television as a meaningful activity, they still spend a significant amount of time doing it, to the tune of about fourteen hours per week.  I imagine we'll begin to see similar studies about how much time we spend online. 

I've often pointed out that no one on their deathbed says, "I wish I'd spent more time at work" or "I wish I'd spent more time watching t.v."  I think about this whenever I'm tempted to turn down an invitation to get together with my friends or family.  Sure, I might be tired, but I can always go to bed early another night.  When I'm at the end of my life looking back, will I say, "I wish I'd gotten more sleep?"  Probably not.

Hostility

I used to work in a residential treatment center for teenage boys.  It wasn't all that uncommon for one of the boys to get angry at me or to become hostile.  There was one resident in particular who used to threaten to kill me everytime I did or said something to upset him.  Eventually, I learned what made him angry.  I avoided doing these things whenever possible but some things were unavoidable.  I didn't take it personally.  It was my job to give him bad news.  If it had been someone else's job, he would've threatened to kill them instead.  It was just his way of reacting to things he didn't want to hear.
I was pretty thick skinned back then.  I had to be in order to survive in that setting.  I worked there for three years.  After I left, I started working as an outpatient therapist.  One of the things I found most refreshing about outpatient therapy was how my patients treated me.  They were appreciative!  During the entire three years I worked as a residential therapist there were only two - two - boys who thanked me for helping them.  As an outpatient therapist, there were at least two patients who expressed appreciation to me in the first week.  The difference was that my therapy patients actually wanted my help; most of the boys I worked with before were only there because they had to be. 

Looking back, my years as a residential therapist were a valuable learning experience.  I not only grew as a clinician during that time; I grew as a person.  I learned to set limits, to be consistent, and to maintain clearly delineated boundaries.  I learned how to let go of wounded feelings out of necessity; I couldn't refuse to work with a resident just because he said or did something to me that was cruel or hurtful.  I left that job a better person than when I started.  I assumed these were permanent changes and that the things I learned there would stay with me forever.

But time can make you forget.  I've grown accustomed to patients treating me with kindness and respect.  That's not to say that my interactions with patients are always cheerful or pleasant; they're not.  Still, I rarely - if ever- encounter the level of hostility I used to get from some of the boys at the residential center.  I guess that's why I was a bit taken aback last week when a patient became hostile during a group therapy session. 

I really didn't know how to respond.  Group therapy has always been a struggle for me anyway; I intentionally avoided doing therapy groups for about three years because talking in front of a big group of people makes me feel self-conscious and uncomfortable.  On top of that, a couple of weeks ago my supervisor asked me to sit in on some of the groups run by other clinicians.  Our clinic asks therapy group members to complete anonymous feedback forms; it seems my groups haven't been getting rave reviews.  The hope is that by observing other clinicians' groups, maybe I'll learn something that will help me become a better therapist. 

Suffice it to say, group therapy is not my forte.  Then, out of the blue, one of the group members blows up on me.  I expected him to walk out when he was done yelling.  I was kind of disappointed when he didn't.  The entire group fell silent; no one said a word.  (I guess I wasn't the only one who didn't know how to respond).  After a long period of silence, I looked up at the clock.  "Well," I said pleasantly.  "It's a little early, but we'll go ahead and wrap it up for today.  Thanks everyone."  With that, I stood up and went back to my office.

It occurs to me as I write this that maybe it's not the hostility that upset me after all.  It is what I thought initially, but writing this has helped me to sort out my thoughts.  I think the incident felt sort of like a confirmation of how bad I am at group therapy.  It's sort of disheartening.  I'd resisted doing groups for a long time.  Still, when I couldn't get out of doing them anymore, it turns out that it wasn't as bad as I'd thought.  But perhaps I was wrong about that.

Why people have kids

I've often wondered why so many people decide to have children.  That's not to say I don't want one myself -- I do.  It's just that if you asked me why, I'd find it hard to articulate. 

It seems like the logical choice for most people would be not to have children.  For one thing, raising a child is extremely expensive - about $235,000 from birth to high school graduation, according to the most recent estimate.  Children are also a lot of work.  The time parents spend caring for a child is time not spent engaging in hobbies, self-care, or other enjoyable activities.  Having a child shifts a couple's attention away from their relationship with each other, often causing them to neglect it altogether. 

Child rearing is a thankless job.  It is a rare child indeed who appreciates all the things her parents do for her.  Sure, she might come to appreciate it once she becomes an adult, but this is not guaranteed.  Nothing, in fact, is guaranteed when raising a child.  It is one of the riskiest investments a person can make;  it requires a huge commitment of time, energy, and resources up front with few short term returns and only the possibility of long term returns.

Some may argue that children bring immesuarable happiness into the lives of their parents.  While this may be true, evidence suggests that people with children are no happier overall than people without them.  Some studies even show that parents report lower levels of happiness than non-parents.  Given all the costs associated with raising a child -  and if children don't bring joy to our lives - then why are so many of us eager to become parents?

This is not a question we often ask ourselves.  Having children is almost a given, part of a list of things we are "supposed" to do in life.  Any newlywed couple will tell you that the questions about having children start almost as soon as the cake is cut (and sometimes before).  A couple's desire to have children is assumed.

To Chrstine Overall, author of Why Have Children? The Ethical Debate, this seems counterintuitive.  Why, she wonders, are people expected to give reasons for not wanting to have children but are not asked to explain why they want to have children?  No one, she points out, says to a proud new parent, "Why did you decide to have this child?"  The decision to procreate is the "default" option; if you want to "opt out," you have to explain why. 

The decision to have a child, Overall argues, is an ethical one.  There are both good and bad reasons for choosing to procreate.  We have an ethical obligation to consider these issues, both as individuals and as a society.  "...The burden of justification," she argues, "should...rest primarily on those who choose to have children, not on those who choose to be childless." (For more, check out Christine Overall's New York Times post, "Think Before You Breed" at http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/06/17/think-before-you-breed/). 











Overall's stance is, in my opinion, a moderate one.  She asks us to examine our reasons for wanting a child before deciding to procreate.  In his article, "Is There a Moral Obligation to Have Children," Saul Smilansky makes the more extreme argument that, at least in "first world" countries, most people have an ethical obligation to procreate.  While I disagree with his central premise, he does provide some compelling reasons in favor of deciding to have children.  Smilansky believes that children bring value to the world and to the lives of their parents.  He reasons that if people are inherently valuable then creating a new person amounts to creating value.  He also points to interpersonal relationships as "one of the major sources of value in the world."  There is an emotional attachment between a parent and child that does not exist in any other relationship.

Smilansky also see parenting a an unparalleled avenue for personal growth.  Through being a parent, a person becomes less self-centered and more focused on the needs of another.  Parenting sometimes requires a person to sacrifice his own personal wants and needs for those of his children.  A good parents learns to do this without becoming bitter or resentful.  Parenting teaches a person to give without expecting anything in return.

Smilansky goes on to talk about parenting as a moral obligation to society as a whole.  He points out that not having children places a greater burden on the children who are brought into the world, as they will ultimately be the ones supporting the economy and providing for society's care and services.  He also sees having children as a familial obligation in the form of passing on our genes (and the traits associated with them).  I find these arguments less compelling, perhaps because I am less interested in the implications of procreating on society and am more interested in the decision to procreate (or not) on a personal level.

I do believe that people should think seriously about why they do or do not want to have children before making a decision one way or another.

For those of your who have or want to have a child or children, what were/are your most compelling reasons? For those who have decided not to have children (or who are leaning in that direction), what reasons led you to your decision?

Making the best of a bad situation

My parents started planning a big family trip to Disney World last summer.  They traded their Virginia Beach timeshare for one in Orlando.  My mom managed to get reservations at Cinderella's Royal Table.  (For those  who, like me, know nothing about such things, Cinderella's Royal Table is an outrageously overpriced restaurant located in Cinderella's Castle at the center of the Magic Kingdom.  What makes it so exciting for the kids is that the Disney Princesses come up to your table while you eat.  For little girls under the age of 10, this is better than meeting a pop star).  Last Sunday, nine of us (my parents, me, my husband and stepdaughter, my older sister, my brother-in-law, and my two nieces) piled into two cars and made the twelve hour drive from Virginia to Orlando, FL.  About halfway into Georgia, we ran into some really heavy rain.  We weren't particularly concerned; it's not that unusual to run into rain on a long trip.  We figured we'd pass through it and back into sunshine.  We weren't all that concerned when it kept raining all the way to Orlando.  We assumed it was just a summer storm.

We didn't start to worry until we got settled in at the hotel and turned on the television.  That's when we learned that Tropical Storm Debby was stalled off of Florida's Gulf Coast.


Because the storm was basically stationary, it was projected to hang out in the Gulf for a few days and continue dumping rain on most of the state of Florida.

Forecasts called for wind and rain the entire week. My heart sank.  We'd been planning this trip for a year and now Tropical Storm Debby was going to ruin it.  I had images of the kids staring bleakly out the window at a torrential downpour of rain, crying over their shattered dreams of Disney World.

We awoke Monday morning to dark skies and relentless downpours.  I was surprised when my parents, my sister, and my brother-in-law pulled out rain ponchos for themselves and the kids.  Someone threw a poncho at me.  "Here, this one looks like it'll fit you."

I shrugged and put the poncho on.  I said nothing but thought to myself, "I can't believe we're going to Disney World in this weather."  I imagined we'd all be soaked to the bone and miserable within an hour.

In the end, it seems that I was the only one who expected Tropical Storm Debby to ruin our vacation.  Everyone else accepted the situation and adapted.  Nobody complained, not even the kids.  (I think the kids actually liked the rain.  We had to tell them more than once to stop jumping in puddles and splashing water all over everyone within a ten foot radius).  I felt a surge of pride when I looked around at all of us in our ponchos, standing in line for the Thunder Mountain Railroad as the storm raged on.  I felt it again when we all donned our ponchos and danced in the rain along with the Disney World "cast members" at the Street Party. We stayed at Disney World all day Monday.  We did it again on Tuesday.  On Wednesday, our luck changed.  Maybe fate smiled on us.  My sister said she prayed about it, so maybe it was divine intervention.  Whatever, the reason, it finally stopped raining.

Life and death

What is the meaning of life?  Why are we here?  These are questions that humankind has asked again and again for thousands of years.  Of course there is no definitive answer; how could there be?  Still, almost every human being ponders these questions at some point in their lives.  Underlying our desire to assign meaning to our existence is the everpresent knowledge of our own mortality.  Perhaps it is because our lives are finite that we pursue our quest for meaning with such urgency.  Some would even argue that it is death that makes life meaningful.

I understand how an argument could be made for this idea.  Life is more precious to us because we know it will not last forever.  We cherish our time on earth more because we know it is limited. This is why people who have endured a life threatening ordeal and survived oftten gain a new appreciation for life; they realize with renewed clarity how quickly it can all end. 

While the certainty of eventual death makes life more meaningful for us, it also tends to generate a significant amount of fear and anxiety.  There are, of course, people who have no fear of death, but they do not represent the majority.  Most of us are at the very least uncomfortable with death; some of us are terrified of it.  Which brings me to a question I've been considering a lot lately: How do we cope with the reality of death? 

I have periodically struggled with this question for many years.  Death scares me.  The prospect of losing the people I love scares me.  The knowledge that I will someday die scares me.  Every time I try to think about death -- to come to terms with it -- I become deeply depressed.  I typically spend a few days struggling to sort out my thoughts and feelings.  (Although on one occasion I spent a whole semester doing this.  I was taking a class called "On Death and Dying."  9/11 happened that semester too.  It was probably the most depressing semester I ever spent in college).  Eventually, I decide that it's probably best for me to stop thinking about it; if I remain in despair for too long I fear I will find it difficult to get out.  I see no benefit in allowing myself to become depressed.  Unfortunately, I am never able to make sense of it all; I simply push all thoughts of death from my mind and throw myself into the business of living life.

So how do we live with the knowledge that we - along with everyone we love - will die?  I think most people do what I eventually do whenever thoughts about death arise; they try not to think about it.  There comes a point for all of us, however, when we are forced to think about death.  It might happen when a loved one dies, either unexpectedly or after a long illness.  It might happen when we (or someone we love) are diagnosed with a terminal illness.  It might not happen until we are very old and at the end of our lives.  Whenever it happens, we will be forced to confront the thoughts and feelings we have been avoiding; it is inevitable.  I believe, when the time comes, it is easier for people to "come to terms" with death if they have a head start. 

Dr. Paul Wong (http://www.drpaulwong.com/) is sort of the guru of "death psychology."   Among his many roles, he is the president of the International Network on Personal Meaning (http://www.meaning.ca/) and of the International Society for Existential Psychology and Psychotherapy (http://www.existentialpsychology.org/). Dr. Wong believes that the best way to accept death is to live a meaningful life.  He and his colleagues have developed something they call the "meaning management model."  He asserts that, "Meaning management may be the only effective psychological model that protects us against loss and death." 

Dr. Wong believes that every experience has the potential to be meaningful, including death.  The path to a meaningful death, he says, begins with examining our values, determining what is important to us, and then consciously engaging in activities that embody these values.  In other words, we prioritize the things in our life we find the most meaningful.  We stop making excuses for why we can't get around to doing whatever it is we claim is so important to us.  We make spending time with those we love a priority.  We invest time and effort into identifying and fulfilling our "purpose" in life.  We live with the awareness that tomorrow is not guaranteed. If something is truly important to us, we never put it off 'til the future because the future may never come. 

Wong's meaning management model also includes a significant spiritual component.  I plan to do more research on meaning management theory; look for it in future blog posts. 

According to Wong, when we live without regrets, we confront death with the same attitude.  We are able to face death with faith and to embrace it "with...courage and an undying hope." 

I am interested in Wong's ideas about how to come to terms with death.  My hope is that his meaning management model might offer a path for me to sort out my own fears; if so, I suspect I will grow as a person in the process.