Day: July 19, 2014

Socrates wrote that wisdom is knowing when to seek help, but that unwanted advice was a poison, the enemy of identity. I don’t know what Socrates would have made of open heart surgery, it brings the idea of help and advice sharply into focus. I am receiving more help that I have ever asked for or received – from doctors, nurses, friends, Maria, my daughter.

I would not even list the things that I cannot do for many months – drive, lift, open, push, pull, run, bend, close or slide. I can walk, thank God, and am. Five miles yesterday, 3.5 today, up and down hills, back and forth on roads, I feel like one of the prophets, I have my walking stick, all I need is my robe. I am already a familiar and disheveled figure around my town.

Angels appear, one of them is young Tyler, a neighbor who has appeared out of the mist to stack firewood and take over the mowing of the lawn, which my friend Jack Macmillan has done for the past three weeks. Tyler loves to work and I don’t wish to take advantage of Jack, he is over here several times a week bailing me out of one dumb thing or another. I have no trouble asking Jack for help, I do it almost every day. He does not offer advice.

Help is different from advice, as Socrates pointed out, and I have different feelings about unwanted advice, as my readers know. We have been tangling over this issue for years. People tell me all the time that if I post my blog to Facebook, then I am asking for it, and ought to accept it. If I don’t want people minding my business, second-guessing me, or offering dubious and amateur opinions,  then I can just stop writing or shut down my blog or take it off of Facebook. People seem to love giving advice on social media, they love giving it and seem to love receiving it. Perhaps because it is free. In my life, free advice is always bad advice, I have never cared for it.

I am odd in many ways, I do not give advice – fools don’t take it, smart people don’t need it – and I have little regard for most of the advice given by the many armchair experts on social media. Much of it it is foolish, irrelevant, a lot of it is dumb and dangerous.

I understand that this is an argument I will never win, and that will never end, it is, in fact, the price one pays for being public, for sharing a life. You have to see it as a toll.

I do not accept that by writing openly I am asking for it, any more than attractive women in nice dresses were asking for it when they go to fraternity parties. People have the right to define their own boundaries and identity, whether other people like it or not. If you don’t like it, go somewhere else or start your own blog. I often shake my head at messages on Facebook that begin this way: “I know you don’t like advice, but…” Those deserve a special place in the Social Media Oblivious Hall Of Fame. If you know I don’t want it, then here’s an idea: don’t give it. I insist on being respected for my beliefs, even if people don’t care for them. I will not surrender that to the likes on Facebook.

What is the problem that keeps recurring in this eternal debate that will never be resolved? For me, it is one of identity. First of all, I don’t need to be told that there are fly masks for donkeys or that lambs can eat poison weeds and die, or that dogs need to be fed each day. Secondly, I like to figure things out for myself, solve my own problems. I don’t believe Henry David Thoreau would have appreciated Facebook, sitting in his cabin and being bombarded by messages suggesting what weeds to eat, how to fish or how to build a fire and stay warm, or warning him about eating squirrels and wood stove fires.The idea was sort of for him to figure this all out. Me too.

My latest advice tiff came when I wrote that the donkeys are having trouble with flies. I said I did not need advice, I had been dealing with the issue for years – masks, ointments, balms, fans. People gave me advice, of course, and also expressed annoyance that I didn’t want any. Even if I didn’t want any, maybe they did, suggesting I was being selfish.

I am a big fan of Thoreau. He has always inspired me. I moved to upstate New York and my farms to achieve some level of self-reliance, to learn what I needed to know, to gain the confidence to live on my own on a farm with animals, learn what I needed to know, life a life of independence and purpose. This is not a group activity. I love sharing my life, it was one of the best decisions I ever made. But my life is a monologue, not a dialogue. I welcome comments and ideas, disagreements and observations. I get lots and appreciate them.  I do not care for advice.

When Thomas Merton retreated to his hermitage in the abbey of Gethsemani,  he did not seek advice in how to pray, meditate or be alone. He learned how to do it. He did it, and thrilled to the joy of self-discovery. He is another inspiration for me.  I do not believe he would have accepted advice on Facebook, it is not the ethos of the Trappist Monk. When he was stuck, he prayed or went to the abbot, or maybe God.

Sharing one’s life is not giving it away. I believe social media is boundary-killer, and an identity thief. We are not all one thing, we are not all friends. I offer my life to you in the hopes it will be entertaining, useful and hopefully uplifting. I do not offer my life to you so that you can take it from me, tell me how to live it, take over my problems,  or share it with me. The vast majority of people get that and accept it, a substantial minority do not get it and will never accept it.

I will not, of course, drop the issue. It’s not really in my nature to surrender my identity, it is hard fought and much valued.

Tyler reminds me again that there is a difference between help and advice, and Socrates got it right.  People who offer unwanted advice are intruding, people who offer bounded help are helping.

A wise person knows what he can do and cannot do. A foolish man takes responsibility for his life and gives it to others, he loses his own identity and sense of self in the stories and unsolicited experiences of others. I see so many people lost and caught in this hoary Facebook idea of one great and intimate conversation. I appreciate that Facebook sells a ton of books. I think the key to advice is knowing where to get help when you need it. Facebook will never be the place for me to seek help or get advice.

I have come to value this disagreement, it is important. It affirms my identity, strengthens my sense of boundaries in the new world of social media and, like Thoreau, helps me to experience the precious experience of self-reliance. I am responsible for me, and of the hundreds of crises I have had, I am so proud today that I have figured out each one for myself. And grateful also that I learned to ask for help when I need it.

I wished to hide this week, I had good reason.

Rest your bleeding heart, they said,

do not listen to the cries and pleas of the children and their mothers, do not

look upon their bodies in the fields, and on the sands,

and in the camps of sorrow,

all over the earth. It is not your business. Turn off your machines.

Jut look away.

I have a right to hide now, I told myself, feeling pity for me,

my heart is frail and wounded, it has already been stopped.

My farm a good hiding place,  a sweet ostrich hole,

filled with lambs

and  sweet dogs and playful barn cats,

who dance in the moonbeams of the barn loft,

and wise donkeys, whose big brown eyes

speak of love and soulfulness, and a lover

whose smile can light the morning sky.

My bleeding heart is tired, and fragile,

can I not look away and say

this is not my news, my world, my story?

My heart scolds me.

It challenges me to face the truth of the world.

What, it whispers, does it mean to have a heart?

The children reach out to me, as their spirits seek a better world,

they haunt me, pull me out of myself,

and my tell-tale heart,

this world having failed them so profoundly.

How dare you hide?, they whisper,

Where were you all?

lifting their arms to say goodbye as they pass  by.

Remember us. Remember us. Remember us.

—

FEEL: The kiss of love soothe your aching heart.

The world has a heart of it’s own – so many, really, and sometimes,

there is no place to escape, no way, no right for me to turn my eyes,

from the dead children, crying mothers,

bleeding hearts that can never be healed,

war and suffering and hatred blot out the moon,

silence the lambs, fill the

eyes of the donkeys with tears.

So I have to look. And look again. And cry for my heart.

___

The world will always find me, it’s heart beats with mine.

Mother Earth is bleeding too, and her heart is mine,

we are one heart.

How selfish to ask for all this healing,

when there will be no more for so many.

LOOK: The sun’s sweet cheeks are blushing in the afternoon light.

How does one heal the bleeding earth,

it’s spirits crying out for sorrow and mercy,

and compassion, as the heartless politicians scramble to justify themselves,

and point their fingers,

and tell their lies.

I sat in my chair and stared out the window,

my bleeding heart spoke to me,

in the softest and most gentle whisper.

Take your photo, it said, write your poem,

seek out the color and light in the world,

that is your work and business.

Make sense of the light and images of the world.

The evil stories do not speak for all of the hearts in the world,

for the goodness

and beauty and sweetness and love in it. Trust the animals,

they will make you smile, do not hide behind them.

The light will heal your wounds,

the bright color soothe your tired spirits.

How, my heart asked me, did the daisy ever open it’s heart,

and give all the world it’s beauty?

The animals bear innocent witness to our shallow souls,

they call to us to bow our heads in prayer

for the broken souls and lives of the world,

and acknowledge them.

LISTEN: The bluebird, in her nest,  heralds  new life.

My heart calls upon me to feel the encouragement of light

against the being of sorry and hatred and suffering,

to spread the word.

Otherwise, we will all remain too discouraged and cynical,

too frightened and angry,

for our precious hearts to ever heal and lift us up.

WATCH: The sky pulls a mirror from it’s pocket and reflects the miracle  of life.

I will never fail you again, I promise my healing heart, every morning,

I will not let sadness and anger possess you.

I will never bend my knee to despair.

We just spent the last few minutes wiping down Simon’s eyes and rubbing some anti-fly salve around his eyes, this is the hard time for equines, when the big horse flies come out and bite and sting. We have used all the tools in this arsenal – fly masks, ointments, sprays, salves, home remedies. This is a bad year for flies, and the donkeys are catching it.

We have a lot of different things to try and will will try them (we don’t need any advice, thanks, we’ve been at this for years.). What has worked well for us is a combination of sprays and salves, and the donkeys own wisdom. We open up the interior barn stalls – flies don’t go in there so the donkeys can get away from them, and the donkeys like the sheep, graze at night, when the flies are gone.

Part of the life of the donkey, I feel for Simon, but we are handling it and so is he.

The first Dahlia in our garden made it into the windowsill gallery this week, along with one of Maria’s necklaces. I love the way this work wound itself all over the place in different shapes and sizes.