Finding Hope

It seems that our nation, in its great divisions over the economy and healthcare, has lost hope. People are depressed. They see themselves as merely scraping by, and they’re not sure that the nation is going to pull itself out of the quagmire anytime soon. It’s no accident that The History Channel is capitalizing on fear through all of its apocalyptic shows on the end times. So where do we find hope? Under what rock is the secret hiding that will take us out of our misery?

Ten years ago, two close friends were killed. My boyfriend dumped me the following month, and I had no job or money at the time. I went to the mall and looked at the coin fountain, wishing I could scoop up all the loose change without the mall cop arresting me. I was hoping to be abducted by aliens.

I went home and did the only thing I knew how to do: write. Then I prayed, cried, beat my fists against the wall, and wrote some more. I did this every day for a week. When I couldn’t write anymore, I went to a small town newspaper and asked for a job.

“Got any writing samples?” the editor asked.

I pulled out my steno pads full of scribbled angst and bitterness and handed them to the editor.

“You can start tomorrow if you don’t mind writing obituaries,” he told me. “You’ve got a knack for chronicling the morbid. Just try to lighten up a bit, okay? Remember, you’ll be writing about people’s relatives.”

Desperate, I took the job. A year later, I was covering dog shows and county fairs. After that, I changed papers and started to cover human-interest stories.

Here’s my point. The way to find hope is not to keep sitting around waiting for a result. Hope is a process, not an end-product. When I wrote those obits, I connected with people and was able to show real sympathy to individuals mired in grief. In covering other people’s losses, I shook off my own. My work, my skills, my talent—they were all parts of a process by which I connected to other people, and ultimately, bigger stories. Many years later, however, I’m still writing about people. Finding hope is a process of focusing on others and affirming them to the best of our abilities. Remember, they’re looking for hope, too.

The Vicarious Pleasures of Voyeurism

I'm disappointed with David Letterman, but not shocked. He's human, but he stepped up to the plate and told the truth without mincing words. No rationalizations, no stalling, so spin.

But why are we so fascinated with celebrity affairs (or with celebrities in general, for that matter)? I'll answer the second question first. The reason is because we don't feel we've accomplished very much and we're bored out of our minds.

The answer to the second question is a no-brainer and related to the first. We're jealous. We wish that we could land in so much trouble as long as it involved the pleasures of forbidden sex. We self-righteously shake our heads while inwardly we're jealous that we weren't the ones caught in bed with the actress or the leading man.Why do they get to have all the fun while we're stuck in our routines? We become voyeurs through the medium of television, simultaneously condemning and relishing the plight of Letterman and others.

Temptation comes easily in an age when role models from all walks of life break the rules. We don't know how to live comfortably in our own skins. We live vicariously instead of making something of our own lives. But here's the good news. Every one of us, if we would sit down and think a little and use some imagination, could enhance our lives tenfold. We could start a new business, volunteer at a homeless shelter, mentor a fatherless child, discover a comet, or fall in love with the pretty single woman at the supermarket. We all have unlimited potential, and we might actually accomplish these goals if we stopped watching shows about Jacko, Jon and Kate, and who's doing who. Dare to be the hero of your own life. Wear the white hat and make people envious of you.

You heard it from Cat.

Cell Phones, Hell Phones

Cell phones are here to stay. I guess that's a good thing for the most part, but I recall George Carlin's theory as to why we call each other on the phone: to make sure the other person is there. In public places, however, I think it might be the better part of courtesy for people to momentarily assume the other person is indeed "there" and spare the rest of us from the mundane details of their lives.

I was in a doctor's outer waiting room the other day when a woman in her late fifties unfolded her cell and began talking to her friend Agnes. "I'm just sitting here, Agnes. Nothing to do. You know the way it is in doctors' waiting rooms. I think I'll turn into a potted plant before they call me." Never mind that nine other people were trying to read magazines or make appointments and discuss insurance coverage with the receptionist. We had to listen to the woman's life history for twenty-five minutes. In that span of time, I found out that she had a corn on her big toe, varicose veins, was a grandmother, planned on cooking meatloaf that night, and that her husband couldn't find a pair of dress shoes that fit him to save his life, which was a pity since he had to attend his sister-in-law's third wedding in two months. Wedding details then spilled into the waiting room, from the flavor of the wedding cake to the color of the bridesmaids' dresses. The honeymoon would take place in Cancun. So much for trying to read about the U. S. Open tennis tournament. Unfortunately, the woman didn't turn into a potted plant.

This kind of aggravation is multiplying. No one goes anywhere without their cells, and we must listen to the prattling of rude people in restaurants, stores, malls, and on public transportation. People using bluetooth technology walk about in public, appearing to talk to themselves. We don't give the slightest thought that others may not want to here chapter and verse from the narratives of our lives.

We're bored. We can't stand to be by ourselves. George Carlin was right. We call people because we don't want to be alone. We want to know that someone else is there.