The Audacity of Hope

Despite the title, this post is not a meditation on Barack Obama, or his campaign for the presidency. While I thank Mr. Obama for coining such a catchy title for his book, it is also an appropriate title for this entry. So, in the hopes that I have his blessing for my harmless "borrowing", I will now examine Hope (with a capital H), and all the audacity therein.

I do think of Hope as an audacious thing. To be hopeful in our society is a bold, brazen act: a revolutionary response to a desperate, depressed world. There are inherent risks in Hope, the biggest one being that one may set one's Hopes so high, that any chance of meeting them is unrealistic. This can be a crushing letdown.

So it was with great trepidation that I hold in trembling hands a small glint of Hope. I admit, I am leery of it, doubtful even. The reason for my skepticism can best be explained by a scene in the Bette Midler movie "For the Boys". In it, Midler plays Dixie Leonard, a woman whose son is killed in Vietnam. Dixie is also a world-renowned entertainer, having triumphantly toured the world for 40 years with her show biz partner Eddie Sparks (James Caan). In a pivotal scene near the end of the film, Dixie and Eddie, now old and withered (thanks to some truly bad makeup), are reunited after a lengthy separation. Dixie explains to Eddie that she had a dream the previous night that she talked to God, and she was told before meeting the Big Kahuna that she could ask him only one question. So she asked him why he had to take her son. His response? That he had taken her son because it was the price: the price she had to pay for all her success, her career, her wealth, the good times.

I know this rationale is spiritually flawed, but I can't help but kinda believe it. Despite my best efforts, I do hold to this theory that bad things happen as a price for all the good things. A sort of cosmic balancing act, a great price-tagged leveling of all the positive and all the negative in the world. When something really terrific happens for me, I always have, in the back of my mind, the idea that at any moment, the cash register is going to cha-ching and demand payment. And they don't take American Express.

My Buddhist training has told me that this is a gift, this notion of impermanence, and I should appreciate the good that much more when it's happening. It will pass, enjoy it now. And then when the shoe drops, I should respect that as well, and once again take solace in the fact that this also will pass.

Now, my spiritual self gets this. My intellectual self does not. I could land a million-dollar book deal, be elated and dance a jig of glee, and still somewhere in the furthest climes of my brain believe that now something really, really bad is inevitable. Like I lose the rest of my hair, or "Golden Girls" reruns are yanked from the airwaves. I begrudgingly confess that I subscribe to the Dixie Leonard Theory.

This is why Hope makes me nervous. If I Hope for something wonderful, and it comes to be, what will I soon lose? Is it better to not Hope at all, in the name of self-protection and -preservation? It can safely be said that I am Hope-challenged.

Enter Edith. Edith is a longtime friend from back home, someone I love deeply and respect greatly. If I was the type to have a guru, she would be it. She is my friend, my mentor, and my teacher. Edith was visiting Massachusetts and stayed with John and I this weekend, before flying home on Monday. We met up with her at a Buddhist retreat center in central Mass, where we were all part of a beautiful dedication ceremony for the center's new library. It was great hearing some of my favorite and esteemed teachers give talks. There were also Buddhist monks in attendance who blessed the new construction and did some gorgeous, soul-shaking chanting. But the highlight was being with Edith, who, despite my adherence to the Dixie Leonard Theory, always brings along Hope in bucketfuls.

Edith suffered from a nearly-identical, equally-frustrating illness as the one in whose grip I currently find myself. Chronic exhaustion, fatigue, anxiety, depression, cloudiness, lack of energy, focus, and concentration. After seeing doctors and healers the world over, she finally found her cure at a clinic in Illinois. This clinic treats "the undiagnosable" by treating biochemical imbalances with nutrient therapy. Rigorous tests of all varieties are performed, a definitive diagnosis given, and a treatment plan is drawn up. The treatment involves massive amounts of vitamins, nutrients, and supplements, which seek to balance the imbalance. In a matter of days, Edith felt markedly better. Now, six months out, she is a new person, full of energy and vitality.

And this has given me Hope. Especially after my visit to the doctor last week, where I was told that if my current combo of medications doesn't help, I will be put on Ritalin. Ritalin will keep me awake and energized, and while being awake and energized is highly appealing, I'm just not willing to go on Ritalin. Ritalin fucks people up. I don't even think the people who need Ritalin should be on it. It's dangerous, and I refuse to take it.

So this option of nutrient therapy couldn't have come at a better time. Edith is a walking example of its success, and I desperately want to try it. I am hopeful...but.

But.

Can I hold fast to the promise of a cure, of feeling better? Can I believe in that? Can I look forward to it? Am I capable? Can it be that the whole "wherever you go there you are" idea is a bunch of caca? Can it be that just maybe I really have long ago put my "issues" to rest and this is something chemical, unreachable by antidepressants and all the free association in the world? Am I able to cradle this Hope in my quivering palms without worrying about The Price? Can I even remember and recognize what Hope has done in the past, for me, my loved ones, my world? Can I embrace this bird without crushing it?

Can I?