The Pros and Cons of Solitude

“All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you'll be quite a lot.”

-        Dr. Suess, from Oh, The Places You’ll Go

I just took an on-line quiz to determine once and for all if I’m an introvert, an extrovert or somewhere in between (what’s sometimes called an ambivert). For people who know me, I can appear to be an extrovert, but I recall taking the Myers-Briggs personality test in grad school as part of a broader class discussion, and my classmates responding with shock when my test results labeled me as an introvert. To them, I was an active and willing participant in the social life of our close-knit group: I even co-chaired our social committee that led to activities like baseball games, scavenger hunts, and other escapades. To them, that didn’t jibe with the label introvert at all.

But I knew better. I knew that while I indeed craved a social outlet every day – even today, I get anxious if my calendar is lacking pre-planned activities – I also needed alone time, and that without it I’d be one unhappy camper. This is why big gatherings for weekend getaways fill me with anxiety, even if I’m the one who planned the activity! By contrast, sometimes all the interaction I need in a day is a quick conversation with a neighbor and a hello from a cashier.

So, while I think of myself as an ambivert, the test I just took says quite unequivocally that I’m an introvert. Fair enough. I’ll embrace the label.

Which leads me to solitude, from which all my creativity flows.

I think back to being a child in the 70s with two older siblings who went to school while I was left to fill my day with my mother whose parenting style was fairly hands-off. Sure, I played with friends from time to time, but a good chunk of my day was spent as a solo act: I dug up ant hills in the back yard, copied maps, built houses with Lincoln Logs, created abstract pictures with a Spirograph, and collected shotgun shells in the field behind our house (I shit you not – my parents let me wander around a field by myself with a paper grocery bag, collecting yellow, red, orange and green shotgun shells. What could possibly go wrong?).

And I wrote songs. Even before my family inherited my maternal grandparents’ piano, I was composing songs in my head, sometimes sharing them with my classmates in the back of the bus – funny songs about smoking cigarettes (quite edgy for a 6 year-old!) and one about Ohio that sounded oddly like George Baker Selection’s “Paloma Blanca,” one of those AM radio hits that shaped my early ear.

The songwriting never stopped. Shortly after the spinet was delivered to our door and placed in our living room, I was composing tunes, including two that my father painstakingly wrote out on manuscript paper for me. I still have them. One really isn’t a tune at all, but just an organized discovery of triads, but the other is, I must say, kind of impressive. I was no Mozart, that’s for sure, but the song has a good melody and cleverly transitions from a major key to its relative minor – not bad for an 8-year-old.

But all of this was happening because I was alone. Because there was nothing good to watch on TV. Because my older siblings had better things to do than entertain their baby brother. Because my parents weren’t ones to fill up my time. Because my next-door neighbor traveled to Florida for weeks at a time and there was no one to hang with. And because there was no such thing as the internet, smart phones and home computers.

Solitude. I’ve often stated that the two ingredients required for creativity are boredom and silence. This isn’t entirely true – musicians, actors and writers can be extremely creative in group settings – but it rings true for me. As a teenager I worked in retail, and it drove me crazy when my inner songwriting jukebox was unusable because of the Muzak pumping through the speakers overhead. My Orwellian nightmare would undoubtedly include my being exposed to continuous streams of music. Even good music for long periods of time exhausts me the same way conversing at a party for three or four hours can.

I wrote about my need for solitude in my song, “Falling by Degrees.”

I need silence
I need space around me
And it’s okay
It’s got nothing in the world to do with you

And this lyric alludes to the downside of solitude. My need for solitude has probably been misconstrued by some as being standoffish, and I know it’s kept me from exploring fun activities at times because they seemed like too big of a hassle. I’ve said no to outings – especially ones for multiple nights – because I feared I wouldn’t have a way to escape and recharge my batteries. And saying no to activities can snowball; when invitations are rejected, they eventually stop coming. Over the years, I’ve learned to be more careful to say yes to the right things and no to the wrong things, but it’s a tricky balancing act.

These days, as an empty nester whose wife travels quite a lot for work, I am careful to try to plan something social every day. Not ALL day, but a lunch, a phone call or two, a hang with the neighbors…something, just enough to get me out of my head.

And that’s probably the biggest con of being an introvert – being unable to get out of one’s own head. I’ve been there, and it’s not always a pretty place.

A Christmas Carol and Embracing the Good We Do

Imagine attending a performance of the Dickens play, A Christmas Carol, except that this time it contained new information. Yes, Ebenezer Scrooge still finds his redemption toward the end of the play, but in a brief narrated postlude we learn that his kind and loving employee, Bob Cratchit, made a serious moral blunder just before dying at a young age. What moral blunder, you ask? Something short or child abuse, rape or murder, let’s say, but a detestable thing nonetheless, a very regrettable act. Which character – Scrooge or Cratchit – would we view in a better light? The one who brought misery to others for most of his existence except for a flash of philanthropy towards the finish line, or the one who lived a noble and loving life except for a flash of regrettable conduct toward his finish line?

Finish lines matter to us. When it comes to sports, it might be all that matters. I’ve often thought it’s a shame that as a fan you can experience jubilation for 8 ½ innings of baseball or 55 minutes of football, only to sour if the opposition scores six runs in the bottom of the ninth or two touchdowns in the final minutes of the fourth quarter, as if the previous joy you experienced never happened. It’s the ending that matters; the team that performed well for 90 percent of the game is a failure, and the team that performed poorly for 90 percent of the game is a success.

But what about human life? Is the finish line the be-all and end-all?

About twenty years ago I composed the following couplet:

Are we measured at the grave?
Or by the weight of equal days?

I had been contemplating the ability for humans to redeem themselves, to make up for past transgressions and finish life morally strong, perhaps with the hope that posterity will judge them for how they’ve completed the race rather than how they ran it. By contrast, if each of our days is weighed the same, then a poorly-lived life can never be overcome. If this is the case, then the legacy of a character like Ebenezer Scrooge would be far different than the one portrayed in the Dickens classic. Sure, we might applaud the miser’s late-life efforts, but we’d still condemn him for everything that preceded it.

I like to think that when it comes to the art of being human, we can view things less black and white than we do a sports game, granting ourselves and others a bit of latitude and allowing us to have it both ways.

Are we measured at the grave?

Yes. How horrible it would be to live life without believing in redemption, the ability to correct our errors, steer back on course, make up for past transgressions and strive to finish life with more wisdom and better conduct than preceded it. Without this, all of us at times would be unable to face another day.

Or are we measured by the weight of equal days?

Yes. How horrible it would be if we couldn’t take stock of the good we’ve done even after making a terribly regrettable act and happening to discover that our time has run out, that we’ll be unable to finish life the way we’d hoped.

As we begin the new year, let’s try to have it both ways: embrace all the good you’ve done and strive to do more good, and embrace all the good others have done, regardless of where they end up. After all, some never have a chance to redeem themselves. If Ebenezer Scrooge had died at the first site of Jacob Marley’s ghost, he never would have had a chance to rectify all the wrongs he’d committed.

Life can be tough. Let’s try to grant ourselves and others all the generosity we can muster.

Give More, and Give More Wisely

Recently listening to George Michael's 1990 release, Listen Without Prejudice, Vol. 1 (a fantastic album – if you don't know it, give it a chance), I was struck by the lyrics of the opening track, “Praying for Time,” a tune that intrigued me upon its initial video release on MTV back in the day, but one that I'd never properly absorbed lyrically. It's about the haves and the have-nots, or as Michael offers, the “beggars and the choosers.”

He sings:

The rich declare themselves poor
and most of us are not sure
If we have too much
but we'll take our chances
’Cause God's stopped keeping score

And something a bit more direct in verse two:

These are the days of the empty hand
You hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear twice a year

Strong stuff, and the call to action implicit in “Praying for Time” is something that I think needs to be wrestled with. Whether or not you believe in God, I think it's better to live as if what we do matters, and if believing – or merely considering – that there is an entity "keeping score" of our actions is what spurs you into doing more to help others, so be it. Unfortunately, for many of us – even those who do believe in God – charity is indeed nothing more than a few articles of clothing dropped off at Goodwill twice a year.

To which I say, do more. Give like it matters. Give like someone is tallying all of your actions, keeping score, whether or not you think it’s nonsense.

I find it fascinating and frustrating that many who consider themselves Christians don’t take Luke 18:25 to heart:

Indeed, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.

I’ve heard preachers attempt to wriggle their way out of that verse, claiming it’s taken out of context, blah blah blah, but to me it sounds pretty fricking straight forward. Give. Don’t amass obscene amounts of wealth. If you do, you have a lot to answer for when you meet your maker.

Similarly, I find it no less fascinating and no less frustrating that many who consider themselves Jewish don’t take seriously the laws of tithing found in Leviticus 27:30, Numbers 18:25–28, Deuteronomy 14:22–24, and 2 Chronicles 31:5–6. 

Whether or not these Bible verses speak to you, you may find some assistance on how much to give and where to give on philosopher and philanthropist Peter Singer’s terrific website, The Life You Can Save. I’ve recently reevaluated the charitable giving for my household because of it.

Singer believes that not only do we not give enough, we don’t give wisely. We support charities that offer very little bang for the buck, eschewing the good we can do to the most destitute overseas in favor of helping far fewer here at home. I’ve chosen to take a middle-ground approach. I still have my favorite local organizations that I feel strongly about, but I am going to set aside a significant percentage to improving the lives of those who need it most (as well as to environmental causes). Singer’s website offers simple ways to give directly to the causes that you feel most strongly about: tackling climate change, saving lives, helping woman and girls, education…there’s certainly no shortage of worthy causes for you to focus on.

What I found particularly helpful is determining how much to give. If you take tithing to the letter of the law (and I’m not saying you shouldn’t), you give 10% of your income. Period. My family has been giving less than that, but now that we’ve paid our last tuition bill, I wanted to get some guidance on what makes sense for us going forward. Peter Singer’s website actually has a calculator that suggests a target amount for charitable giving, and if you want to know more, they include the formula used to determine the amount. Using this, my family will now boost our giving by about 50% next year. It may not be a perfect calculus, but it’s a nice guideline when asking the question, “How much should I give?”

Perhaps you won’t find the answer that works for you on the above website. But if charity for you has been “a coat you wear twice a year,” I urge you to reconsider your role on Planet Earth and what you can do to alleviate as much suffering as possible. You may have the power to do more good than you think.

Life's Close Calls

As invariably happens while driving down the Eisenhower Highway in Chicago, a car turned into my lane unexpectedly last Saturday, causing me to swerve to my left, honk my horn and shout out a few obscenities. My daughter, her boyfriend and I could easily have become statistics. 

After our close call, I posed the question, “How is it that natural selection hasn’t already taken care of this guy?”

“That’s just it,” answered my daughter. “He would have survived but we would have died.”

Perhaps she’s right that the morons among us will end up living the longest, but if I’m honest with myself, I could easily be considered Exhibit A if we were to test this hypothesis. If I carefully consider the number of close calls I’ve survived in my life, I probably should have died a dozen times over by now. That I’m still standing is a miracle, and as I look around my fellow flawed humans, it’s a wonder that any of us survive to see middle-age, much less our 80s or 90s or beyond.

Even overlooking the shameful acts of my youth when stupidity reigned, I can count off loads of times when luck kept my heart beating. Just seven years ago, the brake fluid leaked out of my Honda Civic while I was approaching the busiest intersection in all of Illinois (or so I’m told – Highway 83 and North Avenue), and when I pumped the brakes to no avail, I accelerated through the intersection unscathed. That should not have happened. When I tumbled down a ski slope in Crested Butte in 1990, I broke a vertebra in my neck, but didn’t sever my spine. When I took a left turn last year despite my vision being significantly blocked by a parked bus, I avoided the car that suddenly appeared from behind the bus by inches.

Luck. All luck.

And two Saturdays ago, my wife stood on top of a chair in our first-floor bathroom, only to lose her footing, fall sideways onto the toilet and break six ribs. Painful and scary, for sure, but we consider the fall to be the best worst-case scenario, because just 12 inches to her left could have meant cracking her skull or breaking her neck on the pedestal sink. We’ll take the six broken ribs, thank you very much.

But how are any of us still standing? Paul Simon once sang, “The planet groans every time it registers another birth,” and I find it mind-boggling that humanity has managed to amass 8.1 billion specimens - that instead of groaning the Earth doesn’t chuckle, “Here comes another one, but no matter, he’ll be dead in short order.”

Perhaps the planet would be better off if the more moronic among us weren’t so lucky. But I’m not about to raise my hand to go first.

Is Your Family Brunch-Close?

At a bed and breakfast in Asheville a few weeks ago my wife and I met a couple from Maryland, and over breakfast one morning we exchanged a CliffsNotes version of our lives: place of birth, occupation, residence, family members and the like. After learning that the couple’s daughter lived in New York, I said, “That’s not too bad. Fairly close to Maryland.”

“Yes,” answered the mother. “But she’s not brunch-close. People tell me how lucky I am that she’s not in California or some other state far away, but it’s not like we can get together for brunch on Sundays.”

Brunch-close. Precisely. That’s what I want. Instead, I have a daughter who lives five hours away, a son who lives six hours away, and another daughter who lives…well, a four-hour plane ride away (I’ve never gotten the gumption to drive to Los Angeles). The mother from Maryland’s point is well-taken; even five hours away is four hours too far to get together for a Sunday brunch.

I’ve lamented before that I raised three kids only to have them move away. Perhaps if my wife and I had refused to pay for out-of-state universities we’d have had a fighting chance, but we did well enough financially that we basically gave our children a green light to drift away, an irony that isn’t lost on me; I’d gladly reduce our 401k balance by half if it meant having our three children live nearby. Guess we mucked that one up!

The geographical distance between family members has other ramifications: it means we vacation less. When my wife and I lived on the east coast, we’d travel to Milwaukee, Chicago and Dallas regularly to see family, and with only two weeks of vacation allowed per year by our employers, that’s pretty much all we could do aside from a weekend camping trip. Now that our children have grown and moved far away, most of our vacation time is spent visiting our children in their respective locations.

Last week a friend of mine suggested that we meet some friends in Portugal next summer – a lovely idea. But we’re planning on visiting family in January (New York), March (Arizona) and April (Ohio), watching our son graduate from college in May (Ohio) and attending my daughter’s wedding in October (California), undoubtedly interspersed with other trips to see our other daughter (Kentucky). So sure, we can go to Portugal next summer, but it probably means we see our children less, a lousy trade-off to have to make.

I know. Such are the problems of a healthy, married, middle-aged white guy with solid financials. In the words of Joe Walsh from his classic song, “Life’s Been Good”:

I can’t complain but sometimes I still do

Yep. Nothing’s going to stop me until my kids live close.