"...Everyone You Meet is Fighting a Hard Battle"

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." Plato wrote those words over 2,300 years ago. An interesting footnote to history may be that Plato had once been a wrestler, but we all know that's not the kind of fight he was talking about.

We read those words and know exactly what is meant. We are familiar with the lay of our private battlefields. We have our strategies, our victories, and our losses. Our scars are usually invisible to everyone other than ourselves. And, we're never quite certain when the battles will rise up again. We only know that they will.

Plato believed there were three levels of of human nature: passion, courage, and thinking. His proposed goal was, through thinking, courage would overcome passion to bring one to a higher level. Later, St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas, among others, would expand on the idea. Yet, aside from philosophical discussion, aren't these the components of so many of our personal battles? Right vs. wrong, what we want vs. what is best, what must be done vs. the easy way out.

It's all familiar to us. But what we forget is that everyone around us, from the stranger in line in front of us at the post office to our closest friends and family members, are just as vulnerable, just as battle-weary at times.

One of the clearest examples I've seen of this was when my late mother-in-law was in an assisted living facility. The residence was lovely, the employees compassionate. Yet, the battles of the individual residents were less hidden than they are with the rest of us. One woman would work so hard to maintain a conversation, trying to mask her bewilderment at the rush of words that were somehow so difficult to follow now. A man, a veteran from a distant war, struggled to keep his dignity while trying to walk on his own to the dining room, where he'd feed himself with a trembling hand.

It took little effort to exchange a few words with them, to offer them a smile and nod. The challenge is remembering to do that with everyone we encounter. No one deserves less.

Facing Fear

Each of us has at least one irrational fear. Ask anyone to name their's and you'll most likely hear answers like "spiders", "snakes", "heights", or even "enclosed spaces". Oddly, one of my main fears has always been having to serve on a jury for a mob trial. Or, even worse, being the only witness of a crime. I'm pretty sure the only explanation for how this started was that I must have seen Some Like It Hot late one night on tv as a child. However it started, I was fairly removed from it becoming a reality until I moved to Philadelphia.

As tends to be the case, what frightens us often intrigues us. The Philadelphia Inquirer always seemed to provide some information on current mob arrests and news, which I could never resist reading. The day after mob leader, Angelo Bruno, was shot through the mouth in his car, parked outside his favorite South Philly Italian restaurant, the more lurid Philadelphia Daily News had the crime photo covering its front page, complete with red ink to accentuate Bruno's bloodied face. It was very shortly after the incident that I received my jury duty notice in the mail.

Of course, as creative as my mind can be at times, there was no way out. I remember all prospective jurors were shown a poorly lit, decade old film about our "responsibilities". No one paid attention. Looking around, I realized I wasn't the only one feeling nervous. A man next to me was ferociously biting his fingernail. Another person was hastily shredding a paper napkin into tiny bits. As we went into the courtroom, I was almost numb with anxiety. As the judge called each prospective juror to the stand, literally pulling names from a hat, I tried to be a detached observer. I looked around the courtroom, packed with tough-looking men with slicked back hair. They wore dark suits and held pens and notepads in their hands. As each potential juror sat on the stand, they had to state their name, their home address, where they worked, and so on. All of it being dutifully noted by the intimidating men sitting yards away from me. Now and then, one man would whisper to another, pointing at something he'd just written down. Once, one of the men glanced at the written information, smiled, shook his head, and shrugged.

At the time, I was single, living in my own apartment, and suddenly feeling very vulnerable. My heart was pounding. And when all but one juror had been selected, it was down to two people. Myself and a man who had already served on a jury twice in the past three years. And all I can say is my prayers were answered that day because his name was pulled from the hat instead of mine. He wasn't happy about it.

Of course, I read every newspaper article about the trial. It was, as could be expected, full of witnesses who had somehow completely forgotten what they had once seen. There were testimonies about the accused being exemplary family men, devoted husbands and fathers. Follow-up arguments spoke about the right of people to protect themselves from those who would do harm to them. Yada, yada. Bada bada bing.

I believe it's true that when you face your fear, it is diminished and you are stronger for it. I still follow news stories about the mob for varied reasons, but they no longer sends chills down my spine. That said, when I received my more recent jury duty notice, I gave a deep sigh that I now live in a small city where most crimes that are committed would be more worthy of an episode of the old Andy Griffith Show. And there's something to be said for that.

A. A. Milne Thoughts

When I was very young, my bedtime ritual included my father reading to me from The House at Pooh Corner or When We Were Very Young, both by A. A. Milne. I'd sleepily rest my head in the crook of my father's elbow and stare at the detailed pen and ink Ernest Shepherd drawings, trying to keep my eyes open as the hour grew later. And when Disney came out with their bright, boisterous version of Winnie the Pooh, the outrage from my father was memorable. How dare they dumb down one of the most charming children's classics? How could they turn the sweetness of the deftly drawn sketches into flat, color-saturated cartoons? In all honesty, he had a point.

Tonight, a good friend had posted a long-forgotten quote of A. A. Milne's:

"Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."- Christopher Robin to Pooh

It made my eyes water. Then, I remembered another A. A. Milne quote:

"Never forget me, because if I thought you would, I'd never leave."

What is it about these words that make me wipe my eyes, just a little? Even: "We can't all, and some just don't. That's all there is to it," suddenly seems profound.

A. A. Milne had been a playwright prior to writing his books dedicated to his son, Christopher Robin. And after the success of the Pooh stories, Milne's reputation as a serious author evaporated, leaving him deeply bitter until his death. Even Christopher Milne had no affection for his father's works, nor for his childhood. They're among those rare facts that I deliberately turn from.

Instead, I think about the winding, sandy paths through the 100 Acre Woods, the pajama-clad child whispering vespers at the foot of his bed, and words of advice such as "Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge and lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known.".

There's something satisfying in the idea that the honesty of young children is a kind of wisdom that is regained years later. The same quote attributed to six-year old Christopher Robin rings just as true when it's credited to an adult. Sometimes, it takes decades to strip away the layers of image, posturing, and affectation that have been acquired, like an unnatural patina. And when it's removed, all that ever really mattered can once again be seen.

"So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest a little boy and his Bear will always be playing."

Good Memory! Good Thing?

Like many other people in my family, I have a good memory. I don't say that to boast. To me, having a good memory is like being tall or having freckles. It's in the genes and has nothing to do with hard work, talent, or dedication. It just exists. I know there are many who will say that you can train yourself to have a good memory. Perhaps. But those recommendations always seem like little tricks to remember names or dates, not to contain a fairly full recollection of your life.

It had been decades since I saw the old photograph above. Of course, the awesomeness of wearing bright red pants that matched those of my always-groovy older sister and my young friend could be memorable to many. But, I also remember the friend's full name, that her father was a pastor at a church we sometimes attended, that she had two much older siblings (one with a lazy eye), and that, after eating a double portion of cake that day, she soiled her bright red pants. Which is why I'm kindly not saying her name. All of this came instantly back to me, in spite of the fact that at the time, I was clearly engrossed in a book published by mice.

My memory is nothing compared to that of my older sister or my deceased aunt. Aunt Gretchen, honestly, could tell you what she ate for dinner on any given occasion during the past decade. She knew birthdays, anniversaries, and addresses of rarely seen second or third cousins. My sister may start a conversation with, "The other day, I wondered what happened to Ed E., the nephew of Jenny L.'s handyman, during the fall of 1972." My more recently discovered aunt is the same way. She described, in detail, a hotel she stayed at when she was six in the late 1920's. Curious, I googled the "historic" hotel and it was exactly as she'd remembered it. This, it appears, is my heritage.

A question I often wonder is whether or not a good memory is truly an asset. The scales are usually in even balance on that one. Of course, the warm, bright, all-is-right-with-the-world moments are always wonderful to embrace. I decidedly force myself to turn away from the sometimes darker recollections of regret, anger, and sorrow. In between the two, though, are moments so fragile, so nearly elusive that I only speak of them in a whisper. And when everything is before me, those are the past experiences that make me deeply grateful for my memory.

More Than a Place: Eagle River

It's hard to say what suddenly made me feel nostalgic about Eagle River, Wisconsin. Maybe it's the suddenly tolerable summer temperatures that reminded me of the north woods. It could have been the fresh raspberries I just sampled, tasting very much like the berries I'd pick at my grandparents' secluded property.

Growing up in Buffalo, New York, we spent every summer visiting my grandparents, who like so many other Chicagoans, had retired to one of the northernmost towns in Wisconsin, Eagle River. Their home sat amid thirty-six acres which included a dizzying valley view, densely forested borders, and a serene lakefront area reached by a small, sandy path. It was truly idyllic. I'd wander down gravel trails alone, imagining I ruled this forested kingdom; or, that I was inside a giant's greenhouse; or, that I was on a secret mission. I imagined a world.

When I was twelve and living in Washington, D.C., my parents went through a difficult, painful divorce. Like wounded animals, my mother, sister, and I numbly left what had been home and moved in with my grandparents. Eagle River, The Idyllic, had become a retreat in which to heal, to hunker down, and to breathe again.

Eagle River is where I came of age. Never an easy process. It was where I first fell in love and where I felt the sting of it fading unaccountably away. It was a time of uncertainty. There was a kind of wild joy mixed with mistakes, teen arrogance tempered by occasional insight. Each day seemed to contain a lifetime.

I like to imagine that, sometime, I will go to Eagle River again. It would have to be in the summer, when my friends and I would spend hours in a boat on a lake, unaware of the time until the sun started to set. The memory reminds me of a stock image you'd find in one of the souvenir shops there. But, I could never fit my thoughts about Eagle River on the back of a postcard.

So, A Woman Signs Up For a Comedy Writing Course...

Here's the thing: Comedy is difficult to do on paper. Unless it's a very short piece, like the guy (above) I saw in Santa Monica had figured out. And his bit was even on cardboard.

The curious thing is that there are writers who are hysterically funny in person, but can't compose a single, truly funny line. I've talked about this with at least three experienced writers and none of them can quite figure out the answer to the problem. Taking the easy way out, I resigned to simply not attempt comedy until I came across a workshop being offered in comedy writing for the screen. The company offering the course came highly recommended, the workshop is just 11 days, and the fees were reasonable. I signed up. Two days ago.

So, I've already learned something about what makes comedy work. It involves set-up and structure, incongruity and absurdity, and, certainly, creativity. While doing the daily assignments, I feel like I'm using my brain in a different way, as if I'm retraining my mind. Which pleases me because it makes me feel like something's happening. I've gotten attached to a couple of my scenarios already and have been amazed to discover that "funny" to many males in the course seems to consistently include strippers. I suspect they're doing that in hopes of having to do casting research or something.

Since we receive our assignments daily, I have no idea what's coming next. But, when we had to do set-ups yesterday, I abandoned my hastily thrown together idea when it dawned on me that I may have to build on it for the remainder of the course. Much better to work with an idea you actually like. And, interestingly, I've found myself thinking about my project throughout the day, imagining various situations and dialogue. And trying not to grin while I'm walking the dog by myself.

At the end of the eleven days, I wonder if I'll actually be able to write comedically. I imagine I'll shyly try to insert some slightly funny scenes into a drama at first. It will be some time before I'll have the nerve to attempt writing a full-fledged comedy. I wouldn't want to end up with pie in my face.