What we think about when we think about hot dogs.

Adeline says to me just as innocently and sincerely—I'll say vulnerably for reasons I hope are clear by the time you're done reading—she says, "Dad, how do you think about hotdogs?"

think, think, think about hot dogs....Nothing, nada.  "Uh...not sure what you mean, honey.  They're okay, I guess.  How do YOU think about hot dogs?"

"I think the hot dog is the person and the bun is the bed and the ketchup is the blanket keeping her warm."

Looks at me, big, tender doe eyes, like her mother's "How do you?"

"I think THAT's the way I'm going to think about hot dogs from now on."

"Yeah.  It's a good way."

One idea is parents are charged with the care and education of their progeny, their creation.  Parents, not to be too blunt, can be more or less up to the task.  We all know people who we wish were better at their job, or at least worked harder at it.  What's more, we have all been in the situation when one of those people was ourselves.

Another idea is that children choose their parents.  They pick us out and in demanding our attention and effort turn us into the people we ought to become.  This could be construed as an airy-fairy, new age take on things.  There is plenty of confirmation in the animal kingdom for the first idea.  The second is highly subjective, incorporeal and unscientific.  But I find it useful anyway.  Science is an important tool for understanding lots of things, hematologic malignancies for instance.  But it is not so good at making you a better, parent, spouse, friend, hell, just better.  I like the second idea because it reminds me to stay open to what my kids have to teach me, what I have to learn.  Yeah, I've gotta teach them, but, honestly, I haven't found a better way to teach them than letting them see me struggle to learn things myself.  I went through a large portion of my adult life in an essentially defensive, adamant posture.  Zealous about and committed to my own beliefs, opinions and predilections.  When I was right everything was fine, though I was not a very gracious winner.  When I was wrong, I was very uncomfortable and not very gracious in defeat.  You may know other people like this and call them dicks or sob's or just simply hard to get along with.  You'd be right.

What grave illness and long meandering talks with a Buddhist monk on my deathbed taught me is the defensive posture, the adamant stance, isn't really brave, it's cowardly.  It hides the self from real connection and assumes we can avoid vulnerability and still be happy, or even right.  Quite the opposite, rigid stances, unyielding attitudes will frustrate you and frustration will lead to sadness.  About this, the Tao Te Ching:

A man is born gentle and flexible; at his death he is hard and stiff. All things, including the grass and trees, are soft and pliable in life; dry and brittle in death.

Stiffness is thus a companion of death; flexibility a companion of life.  An army that cannot yield will be defeated. A tree that cannot bend will crack in the wind.

The hard and the stiff will be broken; the soft and the supple will prevail.

this is a lesson that it took me 40 yrs and catastrophic illness to learn.  I'm ashamed at how slow a learner I am, but now that I've learned it, I'm not letting it go and I'm extra motivated to tell it again and again to the people closest to me.  We all want to be happy and healthy in our lives.  Duh.  I'm finding you have to have faith that there is a WAY to be happy and then you have to roll up your sleeves and build that WAY.    The way will probably involve you being honest about your deficits, loving yourself anyway, and then loving everyone around you despite their deficits too.  Maybe not, this is not certainty, it's experience.  Your experience may be different.  I had to be pretty frank about the things that shamed me in my life, the things that weren't my fault (getting sick) and things that were (failing as a writer)  And then I had to work on accepting things as they were/are.  The conceit of this post is: Accepting=living with vulnerability.  That monk told me the Tao is "the way things are."  And happy people are happy because they learn to accept, embrace even, the way things are.

Couple weeks ago I got an email from a dear friend I met in the hospital, same malady, slightly different circumstances.  He too had a bone marrow transplant, but he has relapsed after two years. Yeah.  I made two honest-to-goodness friends inside (a stat I now find alarming and evidence of how truculent I could (can) be all while believing I was just being trenchant) One of those friends died last year after two BMT's,  The other faces staggering odds.  I am vulnerable.  You are too.  We are vulnerable.  Pretending we are not is an exercise in fiction and keeps us from happiness.  About the time of the call, I was hit with a wicked flu bug.  (One of the reasons this post is so late)  I couldn't train, sleep, think clearly.  Fevers, for obvious reasons, just FREAK me out.  Had two or three days of walking fever.  I was pretty much convinced I was sick, REALLY sick, again.  Turns out it was the flu.  I have what the docs call a naive immune system.  I didn't used to get poison ivy.  Now I do.  Mosquitos?  Oh my god.  Over the course of your lifetime you build up a little immunity to the bugs in your region.  This year I had dozens.  ON EACH LEG.  I get the flu for two weeks.  Yeah, vulnerable.  I had a crash course the first half of October in cozying up to my vulnerability.

But it turns out that this vulnerability (physical) is the easy version.  Our mortality is always lurking, we can pretend not to know (especially in our twenties) but we KNOW.  The hard vulnerability, the kind I'm trying to cultivate and encourage you to, too, is the more quotidian, inter-personal, nagging and emotional kind.  Think of Adder's comment:  How do you think about hot dogs??  How open, honest, risky even.  The fact is that for a long long time, I insulated myself, avoided this kind of vulnerability.  I think I have always been able to show this side to my wife and it's very likely why I fell in love with her.  What I'm learning is there is much hay to be made putting yourself out there, being honest and genuine and, well, vulnerable with people not your spouse.  People you know a lot, a little, complete strangers.  Honestly, part of me hates the blog.  SO subjective.  SO me for godsakes.  But part of me believes it's good for me.  Be vulnerable.  Give of yourself.  People want connection, empathy, understanding, love.  I know I do.  I don't want to die alone.

One of the places I've been exercising my vulnerability, so to speak, is the market where I do most of our food shopping. It goes like this:  Smile.  A lot.  (this is a BIG step for me).  Talk to people.  Not small talk.  Find something meaningful to say.  Try not to be weird, but work at connection.  (god, just describing it is almost nauseating to a part of myself).  So the vegetable ladies are friendly, attractive, I always feel a little weird, but whatever, be vulnerable.  One day, one of them pretty much is laughing at me.  Openly.  Not sure why, but you know, fly is up, hat is on so my hair cant be THAT bad.  Next time she says, Hey I'm Amy.  Hi Amy.  I'm Chris.  She laughs at me.  I go with it.  Maybe I'm just a goof ball and people can't help themselves.  She says:  that's funny, that your name is Chris.  Is it?  Yeah, see we call you (other veg lady joins her) Superman and Superman's name was Chris.  Christopher Reeve.  So I'm about as red as a tomato and pretty much speechless.  They go almost in unison, No it's a good thing.  You know, superman.  Amy gives my arm the Charmin squeeze.  Last week we weren't laughing at you we were laughing at her: they point behind me to woman running the amish nick-nack stand.  Woman gives a toodle-oo.  I pretty much want to disappear.  I'm so embarrassed I just want to turn to vapor and blow away.

I go home.  Tell my wife, whose eyes roll out of her head.  And I have to say:  Um, I get that I'm supposed to be flattered.  But I'm not.  I'm kinda humiliated.  I mean, I just want to buy carrots.  Can I meet a buxom woman who tells me her name is Anna Nicole and laugh and say, hey that's funny, because you got big tits.  It's a good thing.  Honest. ? Heather was way too delighted by the whole scenario.  Promised me the whole thing was part of her next gender equity lecture.  Whatever.

Next time at the market:  Produce stand.  Amy says, hey how's it going?  Super, i say, You?  She smiles.  Super.  I always say super.  And I get WAY WAY embarrassed all over again.  Damn.  Maybe superman because I always say super.  I have NO idea.  I can convince myself of either conclusion.  Telling the whole story to you: Vulnerability.  It's hard.  Work at it.  You'll be glad you did.

The hotdog is the person, the bun is the bed, the ketchup is the blanket keeping her warm