A Quiet Radical

One of the most meaningful lessons I ever learned in college came out of a required class that had nothing to do with my major and everything, as it turned out, to do with the way I have lived my life.

As a freshman at Chapman in the fall of 1970, I took an entry-level class in philosophy that probably would have curled my mother’s toes if she’d realized what a radical there was teaching it. My parents were both conservative – my mother falling on the “ultra” part of the spectrum. In our family, she was the final arbiter of what was acceptable and what wasn’t insofar as education, behavior, and ideas went. That’s not to say that my dad didn’t have opinions. He did. He just didn’t express them as often and was more easy-going about things than my mom. And if he didn’t have a strong opinion one way or the other, then my mom’s word became law. I was happy enough most of the time to float along, as most children do, accepting the world as presented through my mother’s eyes.

So there I was in a class that was required, facing a professor who was old enough to be my grandfather, and learning that this rather benign, gentle soul had been a conscientious objector in WWII. Oh, no! My first reaction was horror. He must be a Communist – and those of us raised in the 60s who had participated in the duck-and-cover drills through our years in grade school knew what that meant – well at least I knew it was something evil and to be avoided. And by the standards in my house, by everything I had had drilled into me, there was no question but that I should be standing up, marching smartly out of the classroom, and immediately calling my mother so that she could demand my reassignment. (And yes, she would have expected to be the one to handle this – not me.)

But a strange thing happened – and it became my first act of rebellion as a college student. I sat still and I listened.

And as Dr. Paul Delp spoke and explained why he’d made the decisions he did, I found my horror turning to fascination. He wasn’t evil. He wasn’t a Communist. He didn’t hate his country – he just refused to carry a gun and shoot someone. He was, quite simply and sincerely, a pacifist. And he had made that stand in an age where such a declaration was not popular. So after facing the onslaught of disapproval and public ridicule, he had submitted to the necessary inquiries, including a formal meeting with a representative of the President of the United States when his initial request was denied, and ultimately was granted formal CO status.

I returned home that evening to my own inquisition as to the professors I had and what they would be teaching, instinctively protecting my right to take this class by glossing over the first day’s lecture and simply saying that the professor seemed nice enough and that we would be reading about a lot of the different philosophers to get a brief idea of what they had each said. My mother seemed pleased that no one particular philosophy was going to be taught to the exclusion of others (i.e., I wouldn’t be taught anything inappropriate that didn’t match with our belief systems), and that was the end of the discussion. Thereafter, I never really mentioned the class.

I must stop at this point and defend my mother. She was a good mother who loved her family ferociously. But as I stand on the other side of some years of experience and perspective, I can see that her own demons and flaws shaped her view of life – just as it does for us all. But the bottom line in all of this was that my mother loved me and she sincerely believed that her actions were always in my best interests. That said, I do not believe that she would have been happy with this class.

To be honest, I don’t really remember much if any of what I learned in that semester insofar as the philosophers go – and that is no reflection on Professor Delp’s teaching. At this stage in life, the best I can claim is to recognize some names that I might not otherwise have known. But what I do remember, and use to this day, is an exercise he gave us every week—the “thought paper.”

We were required to explore, in writing, something each week. Something we believed or had questions about, something that was troubling us. The only rule was that it was not to be a rehash of what we were reading – unless there was a point that was niggling away at us. He liked the exercise of writing it down because it forced us to face the issue and bring it to some conclusion. There wasn’t an assigned topic, and I have to admit that at first that was a bit disconcerting to the structured individual in me. But being the good and faithful student I was, I went ahead and tackled the assignment with my usual determination to do exactly what we were being told to do. I jumped in with both feet and confronted the question of the war. Vietnam was raging at the time and my parents were fervent hawks. And in my house, disagreement with their views was enough to cause near apoplectic fits.

A funny thing happened during that paper – it became less about the war and more about my inability to raise these questions at home. For the first time, I admitted that I might not always agree with my parents and that revelation in turn raised a lot of questions about how that made me feel. There was no question as to how writing that paper made me feel – it felt like treason, and I prayed my parents never saw it. But I turned it in.

The paper came back and, frankly, I don’t remember if there was a grade or not. What I do remember is that he wrote that it took courage to question what we’d been taught and that for a belief to be our own, we had to think it through and find our own answers. Sometimes we would end up agreeing and sometimes we wouldn’t—and either way was fine—just so long as whatever we were clinging to was truly our own and that we were prepared to defend our views based on actual belief.

I have used this approach to problem-solving ever since. The big issues, the issues that are painful and/or difficult – those aren’t fun to tackle. They’re uncomfortable and often if we simply try to “think” about them, our minds become co-conspirators in avoidance, skittering away to other topics that are either more fun or at least less difficult. That’s normal. But the very process of committing them to paper allows me to take control of my thoughts. By forcing myself to write my questions down, I discover that the real question or reason for concern is often not what I thought it was at first blush. It helps me dig deeper to see what it is that’s actually bothering me. And once I’ve gotten to that point, once I have faced and actually articulated whatever it is that needs to be dealt with, I have a starting point because I finally know what the real issue is. And if the answer is that there is no answer, then it’s easier to let it go because I know that I’ve honestly thought it through.

I think, somehow, that Professor Delp would not mind my inability to discuss the philosophical differences between Kant and Nietzsche. I believe he would be delighted to know that more than any other one thing I learned in college, I have used the thought paper in my life. I have taught my son to use this technique and have shared it over the years with friends and co-workers facing dilemmas. I feel like I owe such a debt of gratitude to this quiet radical – this lovely, gentle, brilliant man who passed through my life for a few brief months so many years ago leaving an indelible impression and invaluable tool for me to carry forward.

A Splat on the Windshield

The recent rains have been coming and going at shortly spaced intervals, so it wasn’t worth washing the car until it was going to remain clear for a while—or at least that’s the excuse I used to justify my unwashed vehicle. But finally, the sun came out and the dirt got washed off, and I rediscovered that pleasant satisfaction that comes from seeing things looking clean and nice. So it was with some frustration that, as I was driving along the freeway a day or so later, something splatted onto my window and marred my otherwise clear view.

It was, of course, directly in my line of vision. An entire windshield to hit, and this offending splat—which had to be all of an eighth of an inch across—landed at exactly eye-level in the middle of my view at that one point that was making my eyes cross slightly as my brain fought to focus on the spot rather than the road ahead. Besides that, and more importantly, it was ruining my otherwise perfectly clean window. Well, that obviously wouldn’t do, so I gave it a quick blast of wiper fluid and flipped on the windshield wipers—and instead of washing off neatly, it smeared into an inch-wide swoosh that followed the entire arc of the blades. I applied more water—the smear grew wider. What was it that hit my windshield? I held the button down, determined to rid my once clean window of what was quickly becoming a gigantic, smeary mess.

Finally, the area cleared, but not before I’d nearly emptied the fluid reservoir to make sure that every last trace was gone. By now my windshield had water streaming down from the top where the blades can’t reach, and the windows on the doors were rapidly gathering water trails as the excess blew back. I arrived at my destination, parked the car and took care of a quick errand. When I returned, I noted that the water was no longer running down my windshield because it had dried and made hundreds of spots all over the glass. For just an instant I contemplated rewashing the windows to make them pristine once again. Then sanity reasserted itself and I accepted the fact that worrying about it was just plain silly. And that brought to mind a conversation I’d had just a few days before.

I’ve recently returned to the local community college for a painting class. One of the unexpected pleasures has been the opportunity to chat with the other students (who are all young enough to be my children). During one of those exchanges, one young woman was bemoaning the fact that she didn’t think her painting was good enough. Please understand that this painting we’d all just completed was a study in black and white containing a sphere, a cube, a cylinder, a cone, and a gray-scale along the side of the picture that changed gradually in ten percent increments from pure white to pure black. Not exactly the kind of thing that you hope to hang on a wall. While I found it fascinating that all the paintings looked so different and unique—she was making herself miserable over what she had produced. She ended her comments with the startling pronouncement, “I just can’t compete with you.”

“It’s not a competition,” I said, “it’s an art class.”

“Well, I know, but I’m a perfectionist,” she responded.

I explained that being a perfectionist is fine, but maybe not in all things. That it’s good to strive for excellence, but that maybe she needed to pick her battles and relax and enjoy it since art is supposed to be fun. She looked dubious. Maybe that’s easier for me to say since I’m not worrying about grades and transferring to another college. But still, it’s art and it should be fun. I pointed out that it’s important to give it our best shot, but reminded her that what we were doing was not going to solve world hunger, nor was it going to bring peace in the Middle East. It probably wasn’t even going to bring a speedier end to the recession.

She smiled and nodded and agreed. Then she added that she was really upset that it didn’t look exactly like the items in the setup—emphasis on “exactly.” I smiled and nodded back at her and told her to take a photography class next time if that’s what she wants. She looked surprised and then started to laugh. Our conversations continue, but she seems less harsh with herself and her current painting.

So here I was with a windshield full of water spots, and I realized this is another one of those little life-lesson reminders. We can do what we’re able to do to make things just the way we want them, and we can fool ourselves into thinking that we’re in control, but we have to expect that sooner or later something may come along and splat all over it. And often, as we try to fix it up and make it better because it isn’t part of our “perfect plan,” the little splat becomes a smeary blob and gets bigger and uglier and messier. All in the name of being in control.

So we really have a choice. We can make ourselves crazy over every little thing that doesn’t go exactly according to plan (and risk making a bigger mess), or we can take a deep breath and decide whether or not it’s truly important. And if it isn’t, then we can relax and let it go.

My windshield still has water spots and some other unidentified substance that appeared mysteriously. It’s out of reach of the wipers.

I’m hoping for rain.

Not Okay—Needs Overhauling

We’ve all heard the “BOGO” ads—“buy one, get one.” Such a deal!

But what you may or may not realize is that you’re also being subjected to a constant barrage of what I call “NO-NO” advertising. It’s out there all around you. The message is simple—you’re “not okay” as you are and you “need overhauling.”

Strangely enough this revelation struck me one day at a department store. I had gone upstairs to the lingerie department which happened to be situated in a corner. Along one wall of the corner were signs proclaiming that the bras hanging there would make the wearer look bigger and sexier. Along the other wall of the corner were signs proclaiming that those bras would make the wearer look smaller and sexier. The two walls converged. I stepped back and looked at the advertising again and it hit me. Not one person who came in to shop was okay. Every person shopping in there was either too small or too large—and no one looked sexy. Curious, I actually went over to see if there was a collection in that corner for people who were “just right.” Nope. Nada. Didn’t exist.

Apparently we live in an imperfect world. Thank heavens there are people out there who can fix us.

I started looking at other ads in print, on the internet, on television—and the message is all too often the same. We’re lacking, we’re sagging, we’re aging (which, by the way, beats the alternative!). We’re not cool enough, hot enough, thin enough, sexy enough. (Sexy enough seems to be a popular theme for just about anything being sold.) In what has to be one of the more bizarre societal moves, men and women are knowingly injecting a strain of botulism under their skin to paralyze their faces and avoid getting wrinkles. I always grew up thinking that botulism was something to be avoided—and people are paying to have it stuck under the skin on their faces? I’m sorry—somehow that one just really baffles me.

I went to a meeting recently and one of the women sitting at our table confessed that she was still suffering the effects of some “shots” she’d gotten several days earlier. She laughed (or at least attempted to) and made some comment about the price of beauty that we all have to pay. Uh-huh. Her face was frozen in various places, making simple expressions like smiling impossible, and her lips looked like she’d gone a couple of rounds in a prize fight and lost. This is an attractive woman—but at that moment she looked grotesque. And as she sipped water through a straw from the corner of her mouth, I wondered why she would want to go through such an experience. Did she question her own worth to the point where it was all about the outer appearance rather than what’s on the inside? Are we so age-obsessed that we dare not have a line on our faces?

I’ll admit that I’m as vain as the next woman (well, on second thought, maybe not), but I have my pride. Yet somehow it’s never been that important to me to look like I’m still 23 years old. Who do I think I’m fooling? My son is older than that. And frankly, I wouldn’t be 23 again if you paid me. I like who I’ve become over the years, and I like even more that I’m still a work in progress. I don’t want to be the same age forever—how incredibly boring!

So thank you very much, but I think just I'll pass on buying from the "NO-NO" ads.

The Poem In Our Soul

There is within each one of us
a piece of poetry.
For some it's words, for others song,
but look for it—you'll see.

For each of us there is a rhythm
gently keeping time,
that bends and shapes our views of life
and touches us with rhyme.

The poems are unique and new
and ageless in their forms—
a searching, haunting melody,
a flood of words like storms.

Within the jangled, jumbled lives
we lead from day to day,
we lose our simple poet selves,
and stumble on our way.

We must learn to take the time
to listen and to know—
the one truth we must follow is
the poem in our soul.

Unfinished Pieces

This is a poem to my mother who died too soon
and left too many unfinished pieces
in her life and mine.
Guided by passion, driven by obsession,
you touched upon perfection with your music
and quit.
I don't know why.
Your passions exploded in hot temper,
quick and violent, impatient with me
and others who did not seek perfection.
Driving and driven ... guide and obstruction.
Sentimental, forceful, intelligent,
supporting and shattering fragile dreams.
Fierce lioness protecting her pride,
frightening predator devouring confidence.
But you were always there,
sometimes more than I wanted,
other times as my refuge.
But now you're gone,...
and I'll never know why you quit.

Shells in a Bottle

When I was at one of the darkest periods of my life—I used to go to the beach to sit and think. I’d sift through the sand while I was sitting there and end up with a handful of those little, tiny shells that are so common. Somehow they became important to keep...reminders...

...that little things of beauty exist all around us even when we don’t see them at first;

...that even when buffeted by something as huge and powerful as the ocean, they could still survive—intact;

...that even when we feel like we’re drowning, all of life is a journey and sometimes we just have to go with the flow and trust we’ll end up on dry land eventually;

...that I really loved the ocean because it is an eternal creation that is renewed constantly—and I could always go again.


I started keeping the shells in a little bottle on my desk at work—it sat there for years. I could pick it up and roll the shells around—rediscovering colors and shapes and remembering the taste of the salt in the air … and things would find a better perspective.

Now the bottle sits at home because I don’t need to see it every day. But I still take it off the shelf every now and then, and it makes me smile.