This I Believe: Life Lessons (14 page)

Just Say No

Jessica Paris

I believe in just saying no.

For my sixth birthday, my granddaddy gave me a silver dollar. As big as my palm and strangely weighty, the coin bore the profile of a stern Eisenhower. At that time, 1975, a dollar was twenty times my weekly allowance and would buy me four Milky Way bars, six packs of bubble gum, or twenty Charms Pops. But this dollar was not for spending. It had risen above the pettiness of commerce. This was more like an artifact of history or a piece of public art. So despite my temptations, I said no to Mr. Feeney's candy counter and saved the silver dollar, displaying it on my dresser along with other cherished objects.

This is my first memory of saying no to the razzle-dazzle, lose-ten-pounds-in-ten-days, buy-now-pay-later, you-deserve-a-break-today, just-do-it world we live in. It's not just the media's roar I'm referring to; it's what my family, my friends, sometimes even my inner voice tells me—go ahead, take a break, splurge.

But I have skepticism about pleasure that guides me: I don't believe we satiate our desire by feeding it any more than we do by depriving it. And sometimes deprivation leads to greater satisfaction than indulgence.

Take Thanksgiving. Eating triple portions of turkey and tubers doesn't make me feel gloriously satisfied or thankful. Overcome by gravy, I feel gross. However, occasionally I fast and listen to my stomach's knock, knock, knocking for two days. How chewy, how nutty is that simple cup of brown rice that breaks my fast.

Here are some ways my philosophy currently manifests itself: I say no to sugar before lunch, no to high heels, no to a cell phone, no to artificial sweetener, no to pierced ears, no to bottled water, no to carrying a balance on my credit card.

Sometimes saying no is easier than saying yes—I don't have to say no to thong underwear; it says no to me.

It's not that I'm particularly self-disciplined. The opposite is true. It's because I'm too lazy to rise for a six o'clock jog that I have to at least be able to say “No thanks, I'll walk,” when offered a ride home. There are also things I don't resist: books, two-hour phone calls, a six-minute dose of artificial sun to survive Juneau's November.

But when I need it, my strength to say no is bolstered by knowing that every no is a yes to something else. Not owning a car for my first thirty-three years is the reason I have skied to work on the Iditarod trail and why I have walked to work under the pyrotechnics of the morning Northern Lights. And the money I didn't spend on a car allowed me to travel to India, where I rode trains, oxcarts, auto-rickshaws, camels, and even a festooned elephant.

I'm no puritan or prude, martyr or miser. But in a world of such bounty, such opportunity, such Krispy Kremes, choices have to be made. I believe that saying no to some of life's shimmering pleasures buys me a moment of peace and a small sovereign patch where I can pause and ask what it is my heart truly desires. No is not deprivation, it's deliberation. No is not loss, it's freedom.

And my silver dollar? My older brother James stole it to buy Tootsie Rolls and little plastic army men. He believes in saying yes.

Courage Comes with Practice

Theresa Macphail

I believe that embracing fear produces courage.

After my brother died in an accident, my mother was inconsolable. I was only four years old at the time, but still I understood the seismic shift in my mom's attitude toward safety. Suddenly everything around us was potentially dangerous. Overnight, the world had gone from a playground to a hazardous zone.

I grew up with a lot of restrictions and rules that were meant to protect me. I couldn't walk home from school by myself, even though everyone I knew already did. I couldn't attend pajama parties or go to summer camp, because what if something happened to me?

As I got older, the list of things to fear got longer. My entire life was divided into “things you should avoid” and “things you needed to do in order to have a good, long life.” I know my mom was only trying to protect me. She worried about me, because after my brother died I was her only child, and what if something happened to me? What if?

I became a natural worrier. I worry about things like getting cancer, losing my wallet, car accidents, earthquakes, having a brain aneurysm, losing my job, and my plane crashing—disasters big and small, real and imagined.

The funny part is you'd never know it by looking at my life because I'm constantly forcing myself to do the things that frighten or worry me. In fact, I've developed a rule for myself: if it scares me, then I have to do it at least once. I've done lots of things that my mom would have worried about: I've ridden a motorcycle; I've traveled—a lot. In fact, I've lived in China. I've performed stand-up comedy, and I'm planning my second wedding. I still travel to China often, chasing bird flu as a medical anthropologist.

There's something else I don't usually talk about, but it's a cornerstone in my belief: when I was fourteen, my mother died suddenly in a car accident. That loss on top of my brother's unnatural death could have paralyzed me, but at my mom's funeral I remember making a choice. I could either live out the rest of my life trying to be safe or I could be brave enough to live out a fulfilling, exciting, and yes, sometimes dangerous life.

I worry that I may have betrayed my mother by writing about her in this light, but she has been a driving force in my life and, in the end, I think she would have been proud of me. Courage isn't a natural attribute of human beings. I believe that we have to practice being courageous; using courage is like developing a muscle. The more often I do things that scare me or that make me uncomfortable, the more I realize that I can do a lot more than I originally thought I could do.

Even though I inherited my mother's cautious nature, I've also come to believe that fear can be a good thing, if we face it. Believing that has made my world a less scary place.

Adapting to the Possibilities of Life

Donald L. Rosenstein, m.d.

I believe in adaptation—that is, the same stimulus does not invariably elicit the same response over time.

The first time I saw my son flap his arms, I nearly threw up.

My son Koby was two at the time, and he and my wife and I were at an evening luau in Hawaii. Dancers emerged from the dark, twirling torches to loud, rhythmic drumbeats. I thought it was exciting, and so did Koby. He began to flap his arms—slowly, at first, and then with an intensity that mirrored the movement of the dancers.

In an instant, I was overwhelmed. I knew just enough about arm flapping to know that it was characteristic of autism. I was confused, panicked, and strangely preoccupied with the fear that I would never play tennis with my son as I had with my father. That one movement took on an immediate, powerful, and symbolic meaning: something was terribly wrong with my boy.

Koby is sixteen years old now. He lost his language skills, developed epilepsy, and has struggled profoundly. We've all struggled, including Koby's little sister, Emma. But we've also adapted. Koby still flaps his arms, and he's got the thick, muscular upper body one would expect after fourteen years of isometric exercise. He's a sweet and beautiful boy, and together we've been on a journey into frightening and unknown territory. Like any fellow travelers, we've learned from each other and grown.

Koby's arm flapping means something different to me now. It means that he's interested, tuned in, and present in the moment.

That Koby has autism is old news at this point. We've grieved, survived, and adapted. We've learned to be more patient, to celebrate more modest victories, and to connect with Koby whenever and however we can. Now, when Koby flaps, I'm happy for him and what it means about his engagement, not sickened by what it might mean for his and our futures.

Same stimulus, different response.

I believe that this lesson in adaptation has been one of Koby's greatest gifts to me, to our whole family. I've seen it as Emma's embarrassment over her brother's condition has faded and been replaced with compassion for those who struggle. And I've seen the influence of Koby's lesson in my own work, helping patients cope with illness and tragedy in their lives—like my patient who can finally celebrate her father's memory after years of debilitating grief that came with every anniversary of his death.

Last summer, Koby had a delirious romp in the ocean alongside Emma. Koby flapped his arms wildly in anticipation of each coming wave. Not quite the family beach day we had once envisioned, but a spectacular moment nonetheless.

Old heartbreak, new appreciation.

I believe that “reframing a problem” can help to overcome it. But adaptation is not the same as becoming tolerant of or inured to something. Adaptation allows for creative possibilities. Koby has adapted to us and we to him, and through this process our family has discovered deep and meaningful connections with each other—connections we never thought possible.

Why Are We Here?

Dale Long

Why are we here? This is a timeless question that expresses humanity's fundamental desire to understand our collective existence and value.

On a more personal level, why am I here? Many other people seem to have a pretty clear opinion of why I'm here. My wife believes I'm here to take out the garbage, help the children with their homework, and rub her feet. My boss believes I'm here to do my job and do it well. The person in the car behind me this morning looked as if she believed I was there to make her late.

However, while living up to everyone else's expectations may give our existence purpose of a sort, it's not the same as figuring out our own answer about why we, personally, are here. It took a while, but I believe I found at least part of my answer a few years ago.

I remember clearly the first time I had a real sense of my place in the universe. I was forty-two years old and had just bought our family a telescope. The astronomy software that came with the telescope said we'd be able to see Saturn that same night. I'd never seen a planet with my own eyes before, just pictures. We located a bright dot in the sky where Saturn was supposed to be and lined up the telescope. Saturn came into focus, looking like a tiny, round ball suspended inside a small, flat washer.

As I stepped back from the telescope to let the children have a look, I realized my whole view of the universe had just changed dramatically. On an intellectual level, I had always known that the twinkling lights in the sky were stars and planets. But at some primal level I had never really believed they were anything but pinholes in the roof of the world. Now, I could not deny it any longer. Planets, stars, and galaxies were real. The universe stretches to as close to infinity as mankind will ever comprehend. I got to savor the moment for all of five seconds until the children bumped the telescope and I had to line it up for them again.

I believe I understand why scientists like Copernicus and Galileo risked imprisonment and death for reporting the results of their astronomical discoveries, and it was for the same reasons that prophets like Buddha, Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad risked imprisonment and death for preaching their faith: they had discovered something wonderful and wanted to expand human understanding of our place in creation.

Many people are comfortable with their belief of where they are in the universe, of course, and will resist any attempt to dislodge their current view of reality, either spiritually or scientifically. But I believe mankind will only continue to make progress by seeking out and embracing new knowledge, wisdom, and insights into both science and spirit in tandem. Science without spirituality is cold and sterile; spirituality without science is merely wishful thinking.

Why are we here? Maybe it's simply to find a balance between what we believe and what we perceive as we journey through life. I believe I can live with that answer.