One of my favorite stories is an old one, told by a friend of mine 20 years ago.
His editor had had a terrible day in the newspaper office. He was about to explode with anger. So he got in his car, drove about 30 miles to the ocean and sat alone on a rock.
The waves crashed in and rolled out a hundred or so times while the editor watched. Finally calm, he walked back to his car, ready to face the world again. That’s when he realized he had locked his keys inside the car.
Unleashing a loud, steady stream of profanities, he began pounding on the car window. Suddenly, a bicyclist rode past. Scarcely slowing down, the bicyclist said, “Dude. Accept and move on.”
It’s always made me chuckle. But for many years, that has been the phrase I’ve whispered to myself when I’ve felt anger or disappointment rise within me.
The story was told to me at a crucial time in my life. Within a two-year period, my father, my father-in-law and one of my most cherished friends had died. I was in a toxic work environment and wasn’t feeling like I was in control of my life. And, like everyone else, my sense of comfort had been shaken by the events of Sept. 11, 2001.
I began leaning on a calming inner voice. A tree limb fell on my car. Accept and move on. An umpire called me out when I was safe. Accept and move on. The candidate I supported lost an election. Accept and move on.
All I needed was a second or two to open the door of reason. I have enough money for a new windshield. I have a spouse who can pick me up at the car-repair shop. It will be OK. I would rather this happen to me than to someone who is penniless or alone.
“Accept and move on” became one of my core refrains, not much different from the “Now I lay me down to sleep” prayer we learned as children.
I wasn’t perfect, but I renounced anger. I stopped nurturing grudges. I found easy solutions to my troubles. I slept peacefully at night.
I learned to prepare myself and to minimize risks. I bought and organized tools. I put labels on my workshop drawers. I know exactly where the hammers and wrenches are. I have a sturdy ladder and batteries for my flashlights. If something is too complicated to fix, I can gather all the advice I need from YouTube videos.
This worked fabulously for me, until it stopped. That occurred about the time the Covid-19 pandemic began.
On the first Saturday of the pandemic, before we all started isolating indoors, I went to a funeral home in South Bend to help mourn the death of a friend’s son. After that, we went to a memorial service in Niles for a former newspaper colleague. It seems like a steady death-fest since.
I lost a sister-in-law and my mother-in-law within a two-month period about a year ago. Four more former work colleagues died. Friends have lost family members. It seems like we’re getting bad news like that every couple of weeks or so.
That’s not the worst of it. With the way things are around me, I’m losing the sense that things will turn out in a way that I can accept. It’s not because of the deaths or the virus in our community. It’s the community itself, which won’t support a peaceful mind.
Like most of us, I have things I regret. I’ve said things to hurt people. I’ve run away when people have needed me. I’ve failed to be the person I think I should be. There are times as well when people’s words have hurt me, when they’ve run away, when they’ve failed me.
I have created a special part of my brain because of this. It’s like a deep bag and a dark one. With the deaths, the diseases, and the dogmas of the past few years, I’ve found myself drawn too often toward that bag.
When I do, I still hear myself saying, “Accept and move on.” But the tone of that inner voice has changed. It has been tainted by louder voices uttering other commands: Build the Wall. Stop the Steal. Never Trump. Fake News. Orange Guy. Antifa. Socialist. Chips in the Vaccine. Hunter’s Dad. All Lives Matter. Hillary’s Emails. Hang Mike Pence.
It seems like a constant barrage, whether from the TV news, my social media, or even simple conversations over beers after softball games. We aren’t accepting and we aren’t moving on.
Faithlessness, hopelessness, senselessness – this is the real virus, and maybe ignorance, fear and loathing too. People somehow feel this state of perpetual outrage is where they need to be.
When I think of the beach story now, I don’t find as much comfort. The bicyclist no longer seems to carry the voice of a higher power, the flutter of an angel’s wings.
Instead, he’s barking at me, with just one more poke in the eye. I’m doing it wrong. Shame on me. Tearing open the grudge bag.
How long will we all have to sit on a rock before we feel better about this?