Anne Lamott Gives Us a Reason for Hope

As I often tell people, the writings of Anne Lamott were introduced to me at a time in my life when I was struggling badly. My oldest son was in the throes of addiction. I was battling depression. And I felt like my whole world was falling apart. I was, in a word, hopeless. But my wife was a big fan of Anne Lamott and suggested I take a look at a few of her books. Figuring I had absolutely nothing to lose, I took my wife up on her suggestion. And it literally changed my life.

For someone who was pretty much out of hope, reading Lamott's thoughtful and spiritual musings was the best thing I could've done for myself. It didn't take long to figure out that Anne's words were a beacon that could help guide me out of one of the darkest periods of my life.

"Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up." That passage from Lamott's Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life made me stand up and take notice. Maybe there was still hope for me. Maybe I could navigate the storm I was in the midst of and find some peace in my world. Another passage about hope, this one from Anne's Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, also resonated with me: "Hope is not about proving anything. It's about choosing to believe this one thing, that love is bigger than any grim, bleak shit anyone can throw at us."

Anne Lamott gave me back some hope. Now she’s given us an entire book about hope. And it's wonderful.

Lamott tells us in the Prelude to Almost Everything: Notes on Hope that the book began as a list for her grandson and niece, "who are both exuberant and worried, as I was at their age and still am some days." "Dearest," she writes. "Here is everything I know about almost everything, that I think applies to almost everyone, that might help you someday."

Yes, we're living in tumultuous times. But that doesn't mean we can't be grateful for the good things in our world, too. Lamott makes that perfectly clear in the first sentence of this book: "I am stockpiling antibiotics for the apocalypse, even as I await the blossoming of paperwhites on the windowsill in the kitchen." Those paperwhites? They represent hope. We just have to see and recognize it.

"Hope springs from that which is right in front of us, which surprises us, and seems to work."

Amen, Annie.

In Almost Everything, Anne Lamott explores life, death, love, hate, families (aka, "famblies"), food, writing, and more, and she does it with her usual candidness and (sometimes dark) wit. "I have just always found it extremely hard to be here, on this side of eternity, because of, well, other people; and death." She's also not afraid to throw a little self-deprecation into the mix: "Scientists say we are made of stars, and I believe them, although my upper arms look like hell."

Lamott is so adept at reminding us that things are never as bad as they may seem. If we practice gratitude ("Gratitude is seeing how someone changed your heart and quality of life, helped you become the good parts of the person you are") and see the good in everything--and everyONE ("Empathy begins when we realize how much alike we all are")--our lives will be much more satisfying and fulfilling. We have to do the next right thing and "live in the light, not the dark of the sad past." Is that always easy? Of course not. But having Anne remind us through her wise observations and meaningful stories makes it easier; and it is incredibly comforting, too.

I adore everything Anne Lamott writes, because I can relate to her on so many different levels. She thinks so many of the same things I think, which helps make me feel like I'm not alone. And, best of all, she's a master at pointing out the silver linings--no matter how small--that I may not be able to see. 

This book will make you realize that there is always a reason for hope. "If you arrive at a place in life that is miserable, it will change," Lamott promises. "Some days there seems to be little reason for hope, in our families, cities, and world. Well, except for almost everything."

Anne Lamott Gives Us Hope with "Hallelujah Anyway"

If I wanted to sound hipper than I actually am, I'd tell you that Anne Lamott is my "spirit animal." But at my age, I'm probably not cool enough to use terms like that. So instead, I'll just say that Anne Lamott makes my world a better place, because her books are like elixirs for my soul. I've been hooked on her writings since my wife introduced me to them several years ago during a difficult period in our lives.

When I read Annie's books, I feel like I’m being hugged by her words, and Hallelujah Anyway: Rediscovering Mercy is no exception. In fact, the words on the pages of this book are the best kind of hugs, full of love and hope and spirituality. And even though I don't consider myself to be a very religious person, I am a big believer in love, hope, spirituality, and the comfort they bring to our lives.

In Hallelujah Anyway, Anne Lamott explores the complicated concept of mercy. The dictionary may define mercy as "compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one's power to punish or harm," but Annie's got a better definition: "Mercy is radical kindness," she writes. "Mercy means offering or being offered aid in desperate straits. Mercy is not deserved. It involves absolving the unabsolvable, forgiving the unforgivable."

Yes, mercy is complicated, but Hallelujah Anyway does a fabulous job of breaking it down so it’s easier to understand. And Annie even paints visual pictures of mercy that help you feel what mercy is. "Mercy is a cloak that will wrap around you and protect you," she says. "It can block the terror, the dark and most terrifying aspects of your own true self. It is soft, has lots of folds, and enfolds you. It can help you rest and breathe again for the time being, which is all we ever have." Can’t you just feel those words giving you a hug?

Showing mercy isn't an easy thing to do in this day and age, but it's something that's so very necessary. So many of us are struggling and hurting, and we need to be embraced and connect with each other. Because, as Annie states, "the last word will not be our bad thoughts and behavior, but mercy, love, and forgiveness."

Sure, people come in all different shapes, sizes, colors, religions, and ethnicities. But the bottom line is, despite all our differences, we are all human beings. And we all deserve mercy. And the way we start making that possible is to accept one another for what we are. In what I found to be the most powerful line in all of Hallelujah Anyway, Lamott tells us:

"Polite inclusion is the gateway drug to mercy."

On the first page of Chapter One, Annie writes about "scary, unsettling times--times "when we know that we need help or answers but we're not sure what kind…. We look and look, tearing apart our lives like we're searching for car keys in our couch, and we come up empty-handed. Then when we're doing something stupid, like staring at the dog's mismatched paws, we stumble across what we needed to find. Or even better, it finds us."

At this point in my life, when I’m going through still more trying times, I truly needed Hallelujah Anyway: Rediscovering Mercy. I’m so grateful that Anne Lamott put it out there for me to find. You should go find it, too. I guarantee it will make you feel better and give you a little bit of hope for the world we live in today.

Death Terrifies Me

(Note: This blog post also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site as "Death Terrifies Me: Too Many Questions, and Not Enough Answers.")


Death terrifies me.

I'm sure it's because I'm getting older, but recently I've started thinking more and more about death. I'm 54 years old as I type this, which is, I'm reasonably sure, several years beyond the halfway point of my life. (I think it's a pretty safe bet that I'm not going to live to be 108.) And while death has never been a comfortable subject for me, lately that discomfort has intensified.

There are so many triggers in my world these days that make me stop and think about just how damn old I am. Business executives look like they're teenagers. Star athletes are younger than my kids. Records I used to listen to as a high school student are turning 40. Etc.

Over the summer, my wife and I had to buy a new washer and dryer. Not to sound morbid or anything, but I started wondering: Is this the last washer and dryer I'll ever buy? The same thing went through my head when we bought a new mattress, too. All of a sudden I'm doing a lot of math in my head, and all of the story problems contain the number 54.

"Dean bought a new washing machine when he was 54. If the average lifespan of a washing machine is 14 years, will Dean ever have to buy another washing machine? Show your work."

I can't help it. That’s how I think. I know that age is just a number, and 54 isn't really that old (is it??). I mean, in my head I still feel like I’m 18, and I feel pretty damn good physically, too. So why worry?

I worry because death is the ultimate unknown for me. Nobody knows what happens when we die, and that uncertainty scares me. When you die, do you stop feeling everything? Or does your soul live on, allowing you to observe and feel stuff going on in the mortal world? Do you really go off to heaven or hell, depending on what kind of life you lived? Or do you reincarnate and come back to earth as a cat or some kid who's just being born?

Too many questions. Not enough answers.

I also worry about how my two boys will fare when their aging parents are dead and gone. I know that since my own father passed away almost three years ago, I find myself missing him more than I ever thought I would. My dad and I didn't even get along for most of my life, and I still miss him. I oftentimes wish I could call him and ask him questions when I have to fix something with the tools he left me. And when some crazy play happens in a football game I'm watching on TV, I still kind of expect the phone to ring and my dad to be on the other end asking me, “Did you see that?!” Because that's what he did.

Last month, I had to be put under general anesthesia when I went into the hospital for a procedure on my heart. Twenty years ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. But now? I have to admit, there was a voice in my head telling me, "Hey, some people go under and never come out of it. Good luck." (On the other hand, maybe that wonderful feeling you have while being put to sleep by the anesthesiologist is exactly what death feels like. How awesome would that be?)

So I've decided I’m going to start reading some books about death. I'm going to start with Elisabeth Kübler-Ross's seminal book, On Death and Dying, and move on from there. I hope to read scientific books, spiritual books, and even books by or about people who saw the white light and maybe had a talk with God before returning to life.

What I hope to accomplish is simple: I want to become more comfortable with the idea of death. I want to get to a point where I'm (reasonably) okay with dying. Obviously, I don't want to rush things, but as I get closer and closer to that day, I don't want to be terrified. I want to be able to accept it.

I've wanted to write about my fear of death for quite some time. I wasn't planning on doing it today, but this morning I woke up and saw a post my oldest son--who has been struggling lately--made on Facebook last night. It was a video for John Mayer's song "Stop This Train," and it included the lyrics. One of the verses goes:

"Don’t know how else to say it
I don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own."

When I read those words, I knew I had to write this blog post today.

My father was the first person I ever watched die. I was at his bedside when he took his last breath at age 86. My mother may be one of the healthiest people on this planet, but she’s almost 85 now. And my wife's parents are in their "sunset years," too. Yes, death is inevitable, which makes it hard not to think about it. I just don’t want to be scared when I do.

"Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome." --Isaac Asimov 
 
(Note: “Stop This Train” lyrics © 2006 by John Mayer/SONY/ATV Music Publishing LLC)

Easter 2015

It's Easter Sunday and I have a gigantic standing rib roast slow cooking in the oven. The whole house smells like mouthwatering meat, and that's a good thing.

In a few hours, we will sit down to Easter dinner. Me, my wife, and my two boys, along with my mom and a friend of my wife's who is alone this Easter. Unfortunately, both my brother and youngest sister aren't feeling well today, so they have to forego coming to dinner. But we will deliver meals to them so that they don't miss out on the good food. (My oldest sister lives out of state and we don't get to see her very often for holidays. She is here in spirit, though.)

I think I've mentioned before that my wife and I are not very religious. However, we are incredibly spiritual. So even though we don't go to church or study scripture, we do pray and believe that there is a higher power who is in charge of all things.

I know this because of the simple fact that today is a stress-free, worry-free holiday full of nothing but gratitude and love. The four people who mean the most to me--my wife, my boys, and my mom--will be together. And the beast of addiction will be nowhere in sight.

Holidays were pretty horrible for us for a number of years. Case in point: Easter, 2009. Looking back at the blog post from that day, I'm reminded of how things were:

This morning I was awakened by noise in my son's room at 5:15am. When I got up to investigate, I discovered that the noise was him going to bed. Going to bed at 5:15am. What is wrong with this picture? I can only imagine what time he'll be getting up today. I'm guessing it's probably a pretty safe bet that he won't be at the table for Easter dinner. Oh, well...

But you know what? Things changed. Sure, it took more than three years from that date before my son finally got clean and sober and started to turn his life around. But we never gave up, it happened, and things are better today.

My son is 2 years, 9 months, and 3 days clean today. And my wife and I are grateful beyond words for all 1,007 of those days. We hope they turn into 2,007, then 3,007, then 10,007, etc.

If you celebrate Easter, I hope you have a wonderful holiday with people you love. Hug them, tell them you love them, and enjoy being in the moment with them. I know that's the plan in this house.

Like my spiritual advisor, Anne Lamott, says (and I know I've gushed about this quote before):

"Right this minute, we understand that this is all there is, so let's really be together."

I can't say it any better than that.

Peace.

I mixed up some salad dressing, left the kitchen for a minute, and returned
to find one of my cats enjoying the remnants of the olive oil. Happy Easter!