When my youngest son Everest was in kindergarten he came home one day bursting with joy. His friend Brandon had invited him over to play. The problem was we didn't know where Brandon lived. We lived in a rural area of the Navajo Nation and almost all of the students were bused into school, often down long, muddy lanes before the bus even reached pavement. Early on in the school improvement process, when we had officials from the department of education visit, we put them on the buses so they could experience a tiny slice of the daily reality of our students. There was simply no way to understand our school without first understanding those muddy, rutted roads. Everest's friend could have lived down any of hundreds of such roads in a twenty-mile radius. There was simply no way for us to get him to Brandon without knowing where to go. He was heartbroken when I explained the situation to to him.
The next day, walking to school with him, I said, "Now get his phone number so that we can call his parents and find out where he lives." He optimistically departed from me once we entered the school, running down the hall joyously towards class.
After school, he announced that Brandon had invited him over again. "Okay, what's his number?" A look of horror passed over his face. It turned out that Brandon didn't know his own phone number. It had not sunk in deep enough to Everest that this was a crucial detail. I guess he thought I'd say something like, "Oh Brandon doesn't know his phone number; well, let's do this instead." This went on for days. It tore me apart inside. We finally sent Everest to school with a paper with our phone number. "Now give this to him. Tell him not to lose it. Have him call us."
One Saturday we came home late from Gallup. There was a message on the answering machine. "Everest, can you play?" That was it. There was no return number, and we didn't have caller ID. And so the painful plot continued. I don't remember how we got it resolved. However I do remember the day I finally got my youngest son over to his friend's house to play as one of the most joyous moments I have ever experienced. I knew just how important a friend could be, not only as a person, but as a symbol, a rite-of-passage, a sense of well-being. Our society openly shows it is thus so for girls, through movies and television, but not for boys. Girls go through emotional ups and downs as they navigate the world of friends and growing up, so the media portrays. Boys just magically walk around in gangs of five or six tossing a football back and forth between them as they walk through quiet, little towns. They talk of sports and girls, but there is no real attachment to their friends, no highs, and no heartache. Just tossing footballs and pranks.
However, I knew Everest's excitement personally. Even though I was much older, I felt it the first day Jim decided to hang out with me. I don't remember at all what we did. I just remember the excitement I felt when I saw his brown hatchback drive up. He was more than a friend. He was a symbol. In my mind, the hell I was going through in high school was over. He got out of his car, and walked across the street wearing dark sun glasses and a Police Synchronicity concert t-shirt with the arms ripped off. He was clearly cool. And in a way, I was right, the inferno was over. I had survived it. It's not that anything would change at school, but it no longer mattered. Jim was in college. He was well liked. He didn't gain popularity by putting others down. He did it simply by being himself. He seemed completely uninterested in being popular. I think the reason becoming his friend was so important to me is that I knew he had nothing to gain from it. That was important to me. My few friends were amazing, but they were either socially ignored at school, or like me, outright tormented. We were all good friends, but we were good friends out of necessity. Jim was a symbol that I could just up and walk off the battlefield of high school mentally even as the war continued to wage on all around me.
And I did. The moment I saw Jim walking across that road, sun glasses on, keys dangling in his fingers, my high school days were over. I was leaving that stupid dumb ass world behind and becoming what I always wanted to be in the first place, an adult. I wouldn't graduate for a few more months but the hell was over, because I refused to any longer participate in a system that put me down. The jabs and scoffs no longer touched me; they rolled off like water from a raincoat.
Why I needed Jim as a friend to make that leap, I don't know, but I did. I needed someone to tell me through their actions that I was worth knowing. My other friends couldn't do that. We were good people, but I knew they needed me as much as I needed them. Our friendships were forged through survival, not choice. At least that was my perception then. Once I was mentally free from the stupidity of high school, I realized they were just as cool as Jim. But it took that rite-of-passage in order for me to rip off the blinders that had been forced upon me.
For being so important to me, I discarded Jim's friendship rather easily. I guess I wasn't yet the adult I thought I'd become. Jim and Andrea moved in with each other. They had a cute, little loft apartment. For whatever reason, things did not go well. When it became clear there was conflict in their relationship, I convinced myself that since I was friends with both of them, there was no reason to choose sides. I could hang out with Jim, and I could hang out with Andrea. There was no reason for us all to be together. Of course, I was lying to myself. What I was really trying to do was move in on my friend's girlfriend. Andrea was a good friend too, and even though my tactics were slimy, we got to know each other better in the process.
But I got it wrong. Andrea never did love me, but even if she had, it wouldn't have changed things. The world has it wrong also. I know that when people say, "All is fair in love and war" they are being ironic. They aren't saying that things are really fair in love and war. They are saying that rules are thrown out when it comes to matters of the heart--love and hate--those two polar passions. But, as they say it, they are also implying that it is justified. They're excusing it, saying "everyone is human" or "it's only natural."
The world has it wrong. We are not born to become human. We become human to be born again as something divine. Mortality, if experienced correctly, is schooling for perfection. The people we all admire in this life--Gandhi, Mother Theresa, the Buddha, the Dali Lama--that's what they get that the rest of us don't. They understand that the natural man isn't natural at all. It's an illusion. The ways of the world don't lead to happiness. Overcoming the ways of the world does. Disciplining the mind, the heart and the soul leads to freedom. Giving into natural lusts--whether they be food, flesh, or drink--leads to addiction, to captivity. Freedom is a reward of discipline. Bondage is a result of succumbing to desire. What people like Gandhi get that the rest of us don't is that the illusion is both real and unreal, simultaneously. What I desire now is indeed real, and the fact that I am experiencing that emotion doesn't make me evil. However, there is a super-reality beyond it that is more real, that provides a greater reward. If one is tired of being overweight, that brownie-fudge, chocolate-smothered sundae is most definitely still real, but the enjoyment of being free from the burden of the extra weight becomes more real. Putting others before your own desires becomes the ultimate reward for those losing the weight of the world. The reward is not necessarily anything tangible that arises out of not giving into desire, although that does often happen. Rather, it is freedom from the constant need of the ego screaming "feed me" that is the ultimate reward. That is why Christ said he was the bread of life. Spiritual transformation diminishes the constant craving of the natural man, which left unchecked, devours not only everything around it, but ultimately the self. There is no way to constantly give into desires and remain happy.
Sin is real. So is repentance. I might as well do that here.
Jim, I'm sorry. I definitely exploited the tensions between you and Andrea for personal gain. That is not what good friends do. For a while, I definitely was not your friend. Furthermore, not only was I exploiting you, I was also exploiting Andrea. I was not her friend either, although I did get to know her better. One should not manipulate people to make them part of one's life. Those who truly understand happiness realize that not all is fair in love and war. The minute love is not fair, it is no longer love. Desire, sure. But desire is not always love. And war. Well, war is war. Those who truly know love, don't believe in war--not that war is not real; they just know that it's the scum on the lens of the telescope that blots out the ultimate reality from being perceived. That's why Gandhi and his troops knelt down before their enemies. They refused to engage in anything less than who they were born to be--not only for themselves, but for their enemies too because divine potential is no respecter of persons. They didn't want their enemies defiling themselves either.
When I exploited the tensions between you and Andrea, I was definitely engaging far below my divine potential. I betrayed both of you, and to both of you, I am truly sorry. That you still consider me your friend just exemplifies the incredible person you are.
Thank you.
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