I took my mother to Barnes & Noble this afternoon. She's 84, very healthy, and a constant reader. This is a relatively rural area. The opening of a B&N 25 miles from our homes was a pretty big deal. (After B&N opened, Amazon started sending me get-well cards.) In any event, it's always a treat to go there, scout out the books, buy a new magazine I've never tried before (today it was Wild West, I told you I have plebian tastes), and suck up some decent coffee while my mom shops. The parking lot was crowded, and so was the store, including a few leftover people in peculiar clothing which I assume is connected to celebrating the release of the new Harry Potter book. These revelers were a good-natured bunch, and so I'm inclined to doubt the extreme fundamentalist Christian view that J. K. Rowling is an incarnation of Old Scratch himself. I could be wrong, Old Scratch is a devious fellow.
I'm at No. 3 Equity Court, because I didn't have a working computer for the past couple of days, while "Rob" fixed it. No, I don't know what was wrong. It was broken. He fixed it. Point of the spear, that's what counts.
I got a compliment I honestly appreciated yesterday. I was in Federal District Court for a status conference on a criminal case. In that case, my client asked months ago for a new lawyer, and that motion was heard last week, and denied by the Magistrate Judge. After the hearing today, the District Judge (who I had cases against when she was a practicing lawyer) popped back into the Courtroom for something or other, and asked how I was getting along with my client. I told her that I'm getting along with the client great, that her motion was made at a frustrating time when she was going into drug rehab and was in need of extra TLC by me, but I was going quickly out of service on medical leave at the time, and I wasn't there as much as she needed me. The Judge commented that she figured it was something like that, because she'd never known me not to get along with my clients. Hey, I'll take the reputation of being a workmanlike decent human being over being known as a brilliant asshole any day of the week. I don't know how the Courts work in the bigger cities, but it's all very clubby in the small towns of West Virginia.
The rough and ineffectual insults which have percolated on the community blog lately are not distressing, they are merely pointless. The physical world has plenty of distress in it, why honor it here?
Three new books I've been anxiously waiting for are being released over the next six weeks.
Tomorrow - No. 3 Equity Court will be buzzing. Or, at least, I'll be here and busy.
Mizpah.
R
Friday, July 20, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
Oh, what a dandy f.ing fellow I am, and by the way this so-called Justice System is seriously broke.
I blogged in February about a domestic case that I’m doing “pro bono,” i.e., without charging a fee. I met my client when I was the volunteer domestic violence shelter lawyer at a domestic violence docket day in Family Court. Not a big deal, I get stuck doing that 3 or 4 times a year. This young mother had a domestic violence petition against a former boyfriend, and she told me a very sordid story based on having a pending Family Court case where he was seeking “joint parenting time” of her 9 year old son even though this guy is not the boy’s biological father. (Oh, but he is a convicted felon.) When she began hesitatingly to catalog a little of the history of abuse and her essentially disabling terror of the Courts, my purely self-aggrandizing so-called “noble instincts” kicked in, and I told her I’d do the Family Court petition case for her, too. What a wonderful human being I am. Great Caesar's Ghost, I'm a sanctimonious bastard, and it’s enough to make you sick.
I talked to this woman several times over the following few weeks. She didn’t trust me a hell of a lot, because nobody in a position of authority had ever really listened to her, and nobody had ever stood still while she dribbled out her story in a parade of non sequiturs. I think I know how to get clients relaxed and talking, and get the facts out of them, and it just takes time. Her story included a ton of sexual abuse, she was embarassed, and let’s face it, I’m not what you would call urbane and tactful, and she was just very uncomfortable telling this stuff to a guy. (I always had a woman representative of the local domestic violence shelter there when I talked with this client. That helped her comfort, my comfort, and gave me another brain to express ideas. I’m not proud, I’ll take suggestions wherever I can get them.) It was her fourth visit to me when she remembered to tell me about 3 nighttime break-in’s plus rapes that this guy had committed against her. And that was the milder stuff. This boyfriend was (is?) one sick puppy.
Doing this case was not a big damn deal. Now, if I stepped into an operating room and took out someone’s appendix, knowing only what I know now, I’d be worthy of some heavy-duty back-slapping. But doing a case? It’s just what I do. I planned it out before and during the first hearing (on Valentine’s Day, I love Family Court hearings on Valentine’s Day), and just followed the plan. Boring. Mind you, I did let the toxins flow during the hearing today, and the abuser left really smoking after the Judge ruled that he was an abuser, and would never have any contact, direct or indirect, with the boy or my client. I think I can safely count him among those who are less than friendly to me. But it’s still just a case. Besides, I piss people off one at a time, while the Judge pisses them off in droves, so he’s more liable to get ambushed than I am.
This woman was in a lot of danger without a lawyer. She hadn’t a clue what evidence was or how to present it. Common wisdom says that Judges collect every important fact, and then make wise rulings. That’s not what happens. They hear disjointed bits of evidence which tell darn little about the life stories of the people involved. They try to make sense of the evidence, get frustrated as hell, do the best they can with limited information and the good ones (this is a good one) then lose sleep and get ulcers. My client is on Social Security Disability, has zip for money, and without someone helping her gratis, she may have lost this case. The Judge couldn’t talk to her privately and find out the facts and determine what helped her case. He does 750 hearings a year, and can’t act as the advocate for 1500 people and, besides, he's not allowed to talk privately with "litigants." (Oh, the abuser was represented by a friend of mine who is a pretty good trial lawyer, and who thrives on aggression.)
What good things can you say about a system where the rich get good lawyers and the poor get dumped into a totally unfamiliar setting? What good things can you say about a system in which money is often the only thing that talks? This woman’s case was an exception, when access to the Courts should be the fucking rule. The monied interests are lying, cheating and stealing to convince the people to emasculate their advocates, to give more and more power to the judges (who are selected in one manner or another by monied interests - the exceptions are few) who by and large are conservative, money-protecting umpires, to convince the people to give away their rights to seek justice. Hell, we are afraid of the word, and I want to stand out on the front steps of the Courthouse and sermonize like a street evangelist that the building should be a place of Justice, where the right thing is always done. But too often the only fucking thing that matters is money. And in most cases (sometimes even in Family Court cases), the only justice I can get for people is money. I can’t fix their back injuries or erase any sorts of scars, I can’t make their spouses faithful, I can’t put love or light or acceptance back into their lives. Money. That’s how I spend most of my days, moving money around and piously taking my cut.
I had a fellow come in the office last week with a MAJOR criminal problem. I quoted him a “retainer” of “eighty-seven-fifty.” He thought that $87.50 was very reasonable for the services. He was the recipient of serious sticker-shock when I told him he misunderstood what I meant by the figure. I don’t have a clue where he went, or what has happened or will happen to him. I feel terrible about not helping him – but the landlord of No. 3 Equity Court doesn’t give me a break for being a dandy fellow. I’m downsizing the workers’ compensation practice because my ability to do those cases and make fees commensurate with the effort has gone down the tubes. I’m turning away several comp cases every week. I temporize with these people about how I “just can’t help you now-a-days like I used to be able to, blame the Legislature, not me” but I’m as much a slave of money as the lowest, meanest whore on the streets.
Like the old Don himself, I’m finding that the windmills are just beating Hell out of me. It’s not fun, and God’s going to have to punch my ticket before I’m off duty.
So, how was your day?
Mizpah.
R
I talked to this woman several times over the following few weeks. She didn’t trust me a hell of a lot, because nobody in a position of authority had ever really listened to her, and nobody had ever stood still while she dribbled out her story in a parade of non sequiturs. I think I know how to get clients relaxed and talking, and get the facts out of them, and it just takes time. Her story included a ton of sexual abuse, she was embarassed, and let’s face it, I’m not what you would call urbane and tactful, and she was just very uncomfortable telling this stuff to a guy. (I always had a woman representative of the local domestic violence shelter there when I talked with this client. That helped her comfort, my comfort, and gave me another brain to express ideas. I’m not proud, I’ll take suggestions wherever I can get them.) It was her fourth visit to me when she remembered to tell me about 3 nighttime break-in’s plus rapes that this guy had committed against her. And that was the milder stuff. This boyfriend was (is?) one sick puppy.
Doing this case was not a big damn deal. Now, if I stepped into an operating room and took out someone’s appendix, knowing only what I know now, I’d be worthy of some heavy-duty back-slapping. But doing a case? It’s just what I do. I planned it out before and during the first hearing (on Valentine’s Day, I love Family Court hearings on Valentine’s Day), and just followed the plan. Boring. Mind you, I did let the toxins flow during the hearing today, and the abuser left really smoking after the Judge ruled that he was an abuser, and would never have any contact, direct or indirect, with the boy or my client. I think I can safely count him among those who are less than friendly to me. But it’s still just a case. Besides, I piss people off one at a time, while the Judge pisses them off in droves, so he’s more liable to get ambushed than I am.
This woman was in a lot of danger without a lawyer. She hadn’t a clue what evidence was or how to present it. Common wisdom says that Judges collect every important fact, and then make wise rulings. That’s not what happens. They hear disjointed bits of evidence which tell darn little about the life stories of the people involved. They try to make sense of the evidence, get frustrated as hell, do the best they can with limited information and the good ones (this is a good one) then lose sleep and get ulcers. My client is on Social Security Disability, has zip for money, and without someone helping her gratis, she may have lost this case. The Judge couldn’t talk to her privately and find out the facts and determine what helped her case. He does 750 hearings a year, and can’t act as the advocate for 1500 people and, besides, he's not allowed to talk privately with "litigants." (Oh, the abuser was represented by a friend of mine who is a pretty good trial lawyer, and who thrives on aggression.)
What good things can you say about a system where the rich get good lawyers and the poor get dumped into a totally unfamiliar setting? What good things can you say about a system in which money is often the only thing that talks? This woman’s case was an exception, when access to the Courts should be the fucking rule. The monied interests are lying, cheating and stealing to convince the people to emasculate their advocates, to give more and more power to the judges (who are selected in one manner or another by monied interests - the exceptions are few) who by and large are conservative, money-protecting umpires, to convince the people to give away their rights to seek justice. Hell, we are afraid of the word, and I want to stand out on the front steps of the Courthouse and sermonize like a street evangelist that the building should be a place of Justice, where the right thing is always done. But too often the only fucking thing that matters is money. And in most cases (sometimes even in Family Court cases), the only justice I can get for people is money. I can’t fix their back injuries or erase any sorts of scars, I can’t make their spouses faithful, I can’t put love or light or acceptance back into their lives. Money. That’s how I spend most of my days, moving money around and piously taking my cut.
I had a fellow come in the office last week with a MAJOR criminal problem. I quoted him a “retainer” of “eighty-seven-fifty.” He thought that $87.50 was very reasonable for the services. He was the recipient of serious sticker-shock when I told him he misunderstood what I meant by the figure. I don’t have a clue where he went, or what has happened or will happen to him. I feel terrible about not helping him – but the landlord of No. 3 Equity Court doesn’t give me a break for being a dandy fellow. I’m downsizing the workers’ compensation practice because my ability to do those cases and make fees commensurate with the effort has gone down the tubes. I’m turning away several comp cases every week. I temporize with these people about how I “just can’t help you now-a-days like I used to be able to, blame the Legislature, not me” but I’m as much a slave of money as the lowest, meanest whore on the streets.
Like the old Don himself, I’m finding that the windmills are just beating Hell out of me. It’s not fun, and God’s going to have to punch my ticket before I’m off duty.
So, how was your day?
Mizpah.
R
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
I'm tired, I'm grumpy and Amazon parrots should be in the Amazon
Today was a couple of weeks long.
Among other things, I went to a home to do a mortgage signing for DiTech. They are killing local banks on interest rates, and are offering fixed rates. Great Caesar's Ghost, in reading those words, I see that I've been taking money from the corporate King for his enslavement of people. Shit. I'm a hypocrite. Dammit, how could I have missed this?
Anyway, this was the home of a mine fire boss. That's a very responsible management position in charge of safety. He works 6 days a week, 12 hours a day. In the home, there is a large-ish bird cage, and in that cage is an Amazon parrot. That disturbs me a lot. The bird shouldn't be in a cage in West Virginia, he should be in his natural habitat. Again, perhaps I'm a hypocrite, what with having two indoor cats (one of whom was with me when I lived alone, also an indoor cat then.)
My son had a minor injury in an ambulance incident a couple of days ago. He's black and blue all over. (Basically, an idiot cut off the ambulance which was hauling ass with a patient, and the driver dropped the hooks.) Welcome to what was my world, Tim. He's sanguine about it, and we've discussed why I told him to favor sitting in the backward facing seat. Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.
Yours in flaming hypocrisy,
R
Among other things, I went to a home to do a mortgage signing for DiTech. They are killing local banks on interest rates, and are offering fixed rates. Great Caesar's Ghost, in reading those words, I see that I've been taking money from the corporate King for his enslavement of people. Shit. I'm a hypocrite. Dammit, how could I have missed this?
Anyway, this was the home of a mine fire boss. That's a very responsible management position in charge of safety. He works 6 days a week, 12 hours a day. In the home, there is a large-ish bird cage, and in that cage is an Amazon parrot. That disturbs me a lot. The bird shouldn't be in a cage in West Virginia, he should be in his natural habitat. Again, perhaps I'm a hypocrite, what with having two indoor cats (one of whom was with me when I lived alone, also an indoor cat then.)
My son had a minor injury in an ambulance incident a couple of days ago. He's black and blue all over. (Basically, an idiot cut off the ambulance which was hauling ass with a patient, and the driver dropped the hooks.) Welcome to what was my world, Tim. He's sanguine about it, and we've discussed why I told him to favor sitting in the backward facing seat. Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.
Yours in flaming hypocrisy,
R
Friday, July 6, 2007
God, Me & Jesus; or, If I Should Die Before I Wake, I Pray the Lord My Soul to Take - But Don’t Be in a Hurry About It, God, OK?
A random discussion in the Community Blog set off alarms in my mind, ringing out danger, danger, fear, fire, foes, we’re getting too darn close to mortification of the mind about the mortification of the flesh, and it’s scary and I don’t want to be here. God. God? GOD? Are you there, God? Give me a sign, OK? A lightning bolt. A lightning bug. It doesn’t take much. I gotta know. Please, God.
“My God!” God is there, always present, always on our minds. To some, S/He’s in our hearts. That’s untrue, of course, the heart is a bundle of muscles that moves blood around, it’s not the seat of any thought or emotion or faith or hope. But that alludes to a deeper commitment in the mind, I suppose, and who am I to criticize how deep another’s commitment may be? Oh, I won’t use a bastardized masculine-feminine pronoun from here on out. God’s a Him. It says so right on the label, right beside “Made in Malaysia.” Or is it the Union Label? I get them confused.
Do I have the nerve to know God, or should I just reach for the Bombay Sapphire, pour one, and take the edge off? Do I have the integrity to talk about my faith (or lack thereof, or confusion thereof, or peculiarity thereof) and my fear and then talk of those times at night when I sit bolt upright in sudden terror because maybe there’s nothing out there but an End and Darkness? Do I have anything vaguely resembling the brain capacity to understand one “jot or tittle” of the truth which doubtless exists?
Human communication about God, positive or negative, loving, threatening, scared, all of it is usually strident and even confident if you can believe that. “I know THE way, [thump, thump goes the Book, thump, thump] and it’s beyond question, logic, critical thought or argument!” Or, how about, “You poor deluded fools, life is short, then you die, die, die, and it’s forever, buh-wa-ha-ha-haaaaa!” Even when we “deny God,” most of us capitalize the word God (as opposed to The Word of God), as if to use lowercase is an insult to Him, or maybe means we might be referring to some other “God.” Remember in the “Judeo-Christian tradition,” “Thou shalt have no other gods before me,” (italics mine) but notice that’s not an outright ban on other gods, just a requirement that we get the pecking order correct. This passage may be garbled. We’re reading it in English and it was written in . . . in . . . Hell, I don’t even know what language it was written in. God wrote it – what language was he using? Did he use a fountain pen? Funny how so many of our conversation fillers (“Oh, God”, “helluva thing”, “I swear to High Heaven”) refer to God.
We humans are so reluctant to talk about God. Even though God, or more precisely Death and What Happens Next, are on our minds a good bit. And it’s not comfortable for anyone to discuss God with less than the certainty of logic and authority. Anything less rings those alarms. I well remember a 1966 Time Magazine cover which caused an enormous commotion, because it said in huge red letters on a black background, “IS GOD DEAD?” How could they say that? Is that a question allowed by the Rules? I hope Hoyle or maybe Roberts has something to say about this.
Let's face it - some people believe that God IS. Some people believe that God IS NOT. We are scared out of our wits and it is sooooo uncomfortable to talk about God. Fess up – as we get older, we see God less and less as the Creator and Founder of Life and Source of Morals and more as the hopefully-present Bringer of Eternal Life, the guy who will help us beat the odds. We don't read the obituaries when we are 20, we’re too busy sinning, and we know that we are sinning, and that’s OK because we have LOTS of time to repent. We read the obituaries rather desultorily when we are 30, because maybe someone’s grandmother will have died. When we turn 40, the first wisps of the grave start to call to us, and we start really reading the obits. We are occasionally shocked at the sudden cardiac death or cancer death of someone younger than ourselves. At 50, we’ve given up pretense, and we just plain flat out read the obits, are glad that nearly all of the departed are older than us and, at least in my small town, often see that people we know who have died. That’ll put you back on your ear. My dear friend and brother Fred Griffith stopped in my office on a Wednesday and it was early April. His birthday was April 29, and I would always sing to him a little ditty wishing him and Hitler a Happy Birthday, “Happy BIRTHday Fred and HITler . . .” I didn’t sing it then, because it was early April, and he’d be back, and it would be a whole lot funnier on his birthday. When he came into my room, he expressed fear about my obvious bad health, and told me that "if the Good Lord lets me be here around for the next 10 years, I sure hope you're still here, too.” Those were his exact words, I’ll never forget them. Two days later, on Friday, his wife called me. Fred had collapsed and died at home. The paramedics did what they could, but the only effective thing that they could do was wave, so long, be seeing you, wherever you’re going, you’re blazing the trail for the rest of us. Fred donated his body to medical research. There is a gift inspired by love of God. I don’t know if I’d have the guts to do that. At age 60, the obits are the second thing we turn to (after looking up the Oriole’s scores), because we feel the “chill wind of Death” approaching us. We think that maybe we should "get right with God," or Jesus, or the Prophet (Peace Be Unto Him), or the Eternal Whoever. At 70, we make little jokes about how glad we are to wake up on the correct side of the grass, but we’re really not joking. And at 80? If we make it that far, we have numbed ourselves because Death is coming, and we’ve seen it soooo many times for most of our friends. Funny, we remember the shriveled specter in the casket not as an old person, but as the girl or boy we went to high school with, and they were so handsome or pretty and athletic and alive.
Most organized religions are very detailed, and you can’t tell the players without the program. For instance, St. John the Divine (aka St. John the Evangelist) wrote down his Revelation. Someone else numbered it, I hope - he shouldn’t have been bothered with that detail. In Revelations 19:11, et seq., he relates, “And I saw heaven opened and beheld a white horse, and he that sat upon his was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself. [I don’t know how St. John knew about the secret name if it was such a secret and all. But, I digress.] And he was clothed in a vesture dipped in blood; and his name is called “The Word of God.” And the armies which were in heaven followed him upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean. And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations:” Well, you get the drift. If St. John the Divine (Evangelist) is right, we’re in for quite an exhibition, come the Apocalypse.
Do you know that there are 70 sextillion stars in the Universe, that according to a recent sky survey by probably atheistic scientists? That number is incomprehensible. It is incomparably more than all of the grains of sand on all of the beaches and deserts of this Earth. Just imagine counting out the grains of sand in your toddler’s sand box. Even that’s a lot of sand. Even that’s a lot of stars. It is, to me at least, most improbable that God made all of those stars just for us. After all, the vast majority of those stars were totally invisible and unknown to us until very powerful telescopes were developed in the latter 20th Century.
Where is truth? I’m sorry, I mean Truth. There is truth in Jesus. What a ballsy guy, no wimp was he. He didn’t care a rap for "authority," and threw the money-changers and merchants and fakirs and jugglers and ad-men out of the Temple, saying that it was his FATHER'S house, not a den of theives. And he also had the nerve to announce that “as you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to me.” St. Matthew quoted him there. So much for Enron and Tyco and the S&L's and Ann Coulter. I think. But maybe Jesus isn’t as big as Ann Coulter in a true American’s living room.
Some religious leaders are pretty evil. Pat Robertson asked his buddy God to smite the left-wing liberals on the Supreme Court to make room for God-fearing men (did I say men?) whose hearts are pure and who know that God, Guns and Guts made America great. (Pat Robertson is also silly. He took credit for turning a hurricane away from North Carolina through what must have been a really, really good prayer.) I suspect that he doesn’t much appreciate the downright majesty of the heat exchanging process which creates a hurricane. Pastor John Hagee is real keen on corporal punishment for errant children. His Bible tells him so. Let’s not forget the Ayatollahs with their fatwas (essentially, they take out a contract on someone who has offended the faith in even a teensy little way), and with their promises of Paradise complete with 72 virgins (Who checks? Who counts?) for those who kill infidels and die themselves.
Some religious leaders are good and loving. Billy Graham is pretty doctrinaire, but he’s a nice fellow and doesn’t seem to meddle in God’s affairs concerning hurricanes. Another pastor, “Bishop” T.D. Jakes, always says positive and helpful things, and somehow I really do feel the love coming from my television set.
The acid test, though, is the believers in the trenches. Many religious people are good and kind and loving. I’m a Freemason. I’m glad of that, and it’s one of the best things I ever did. When I petitioned to join a lodge, I had to swear that I believe in a supreme being. Just who wasn’t important. One of my senior brothers, Billy Reid, who is a kind and decent and loving person, believes that “if you don't have Christ, you're lost.” Maybe the reverse of that puts it better, if you DO have Christ, you are NOT lost. Billy lets his faith and love show, neither under a bushel nor perched on his head like the headdress of a Las Vegas showgirl. Let’s see, Reverend Jeff Gill, a simple pastor, has benevolence and love in his heart. (There I go about the bundle of muscles again.) He spent the last night of my Dad's life at his bedside. Dad was already in a coma, and the family was numb with exhaustion and went home. Jeff did it not for a contribution or even to provide spiritually comforting words, but from pure, unadulterated Love. I remember tonight my dear friend Marleen, a very conventional Christian. (Before I met her, I had represented a fellow who had very cold-bloodedly killed a co-worker of hers. Is he a candidate for the literal Hell? I don’t think she would have thought so, but I may be wrong.) She put faith into action, through her “Women’s Ministry” at her church, through her family life, her comfortable moral example, and through her courage when she was diagnosed with bad ovarian cancer. I saw her in my office while she was doing chemotherapy. Her hair was gone, so she had a sort of “do-rag” scarf, and she had the biggest, most sincere smile, and talked about trying to learn the lesson that God and Jesus were teaching her. God, I hope she’s right there with Jesus now, just as she knew she would be.
Wrongs in the name of religion - How can I count that high? There are the Crusades, including the infamous “Children’s Crusade.” In the late Middle Ages, the Malleus Malificarum was written (literally, the “Witch’s Hammer,”) where the just and godly were taught how to torture, burn alive and thereby save the souls of witches. Much of applied Islam is violent. (I know, I know, an extremely small group of radicals has hijacked a kind and gentle religion, blah, blah, blah, now let’s see the kind and gentle people quit electing jihadists to lead them. The Afghani and Iraqi American-approved Constitutions adopt Islamic law, the Sharia. Hang on, ladies, I’ll pass around the chadors. Any color you want, as long as it’s black.) Did you know that 139 people were killed in riots over the publication in DENMARK of a CARTOON showing Muhammad with a bomb in his bonnet? Back to the Christians, there’s the IRA and the Orangemen, the Inquisition, Salem, a few dud popes, and more than a touch of hypocrisy.
Oh, another “wrong” is to condemn the unrepentent sinners (meaning those who don’t follow your particular dogma) to a literal Hell. Hell is an interesting place, by all accounts. First and foremost, it’s hotter ‘n . . . well, you know. There are Lakes of Fire, and for some reason lots and lots of sulphur. Some people say that there are several rings or levels, and that you get assigned a spot based on your sins, sort of like getting bad seats for your season tickets for the Orioles. I can’t help but wonder - Is this literal Hell the probable end for the people created by an allegedly loving God?
Now there are some outfits that do not subscribe to the “loving God” concept and thereby at least aren’t hypocritical in their dispatch of the ungodly to that literal Hell. For instance, there is the infamous Westboro Baptist Church of Kansas, that’s the outfit which does anti-gay protests at military funerals (without ever explaining the connection between their “cause” and the departed or the mourners). Their website (godhatesfags.com) does not pretend that God loves anyone. It’s at least refreshing that this group has no qualms about boldly flying the Jolly Roger. They’re just one of a parade of folks whose God is a pretty touchy individual.
We misuse religion and God even in small ways. In the movie "Patton," there is a scene where General Patton orders a chaplain to write a "weather prayer," so that the snow will subside and the army can go "from victory to victory to establish thy justice." At the beginning of football games, the teams often pray for success on the field. Obviously, one of their prayers won't be answered affirmatively. I prefer the prayers offered up at the beginning of NASCAR races, where the pastor commonly thanks God for the day (a pretty safe thing to be thankful for) and the people (ditto), and then prays for safety for all there. Even so, too often those prayers are not "successful" with respect to the drivers and crews. And they are almost NEVER totally successful for the fans attending the race. Let's face it, if you have a group of 200,000 people attending an exciting event, someone is going to die suddenly. Well, for that matter, ALL of us are going to die suddenly. Oh, we may know in advance the most probable cause and sequence of our death, but the instant where corporeal life ends and death begins is abrupt. One minute you’re there, then you’re . . . somewhere. Life is change. The secret of life, if there is one, is to make that critical exit on cue every time.
Where does my religious faith come from? Frankly, I'm not sure. I remember going to Bible school in the summers at a church in the little town of Buckhannon. We would draw pictures for our Moms, and play Red Rover, and sing "Jesus loves me, this I know, ‘cause the Bible tells me so." Did my faith start there? But I also have a clear memory of my mother reading me the story of Pegasus, a mythological creature, to help me go to sleep on Christmas Eve when I was 8. Did I know then that Pegasus was a myth? Did I think that Jesus was real? Which is more real, a Bible story or song, or a mother's love? Parent, God, I’m confused -“I’ll never ever know where God and Daddy went, ‘cause there was nothin’ those two couldn’t do . . .” I have been present at (not enough) births. I have been present at (too many) deaths. Of course, being a denizen of this place, I have read some about a lot of subjects. I’m a Jack of all Books, but a Master of None. How do I, Roger, KNOW that God is there, that the Universe is not some cosmic "thing" that just happens to exist? I only know of one way. It's not reading the Bible or listening to a sermon or reading accounts of evolution. (Evolution is not a theory, it is a fact, by the way. Ignorance is a fact, too.) It doesn’t offend me that in His creation, God uses DNA. His speed of light is 300,000 kilometers per second, and you don’t have to keep timing it with your stopwatch, and that’s fine with me. He doesn’t need to stop the Sun, blow down the walls of Jericho with horns, burn bushes in front of me, or bother Himself with pillars of salt. I know that God is there because when I open my mind, open my heart (and I know that I've criticized that phrase elsewhere), and I can FEEL and PERCEIVE GOD. When I am at the farm, and see a pileated woodpecker on the wing, GOD IS THERE WITH ME. When I look at my mountains, God is there. When I read a poem or (more rarely) write a poem, God is there with me. Oh, that's one reason that I think that the Boy Scouts' policy of not accepting atheists is moronic. Positively some of the most spiritual experiences I have ever had came in Boy Scout activities out in GOD'S COUNTRY. He’s there, I know it, and I’m not fooling.
Events in my life have shown me God’s presence. The friends I have, the women I have loved, my son - they come from God. There was an event in my life which has always represented the workings of God to me. On 18 December 1976, I was at a rescue company station for a "GI party," that is, painting and scrubbing the walls. An extraordinary series of nine events HAD to occur IN ORDER to place me and two of my lifetime friends at a specific location within 5 minutes of a specific event, and being there at any earlier or later time would have resulted in the death of a 20 year old mother and 6 month old child. What we did was not terribly remarkable - we simply applied our training. But to get us there on cue was an honest miracle. I’ve talked about babies. Heck with multiplying loaves, show me a baby, and you have proved a pure-dee miracle.
I have loved and oh my God, I have had pain. Why did you let me have pain, God? You’re not the Westboro Baptist guy, at least I hope you’re not. If you are, I’m in deep shit, that’s for sure. But at least I’ll have company in the Lake of Fire, and all of that nasty stuff.
So let me tell you exactly what I think of God. I don’t really know if He's a "he," a "she," both, neither, and that's not terribly important. I doubt that He is an old man with a beard, dressed in a toga, reaching out to touch His human creation with the Spark of Life, but I could be wrong. I know that he is there, and I believe that some of what are probably his minor works are the incomparably complex system of physics and chemistry and biochemistry and mathematics that makes this Earth operate as it does. I go to him when I am troubled, and often feel guilty that I don't acknowledge him as often when I'm sailing along happily. It is convenient and comfortable to ignore God passively, for to contemplate God is to contemplate Death (and I’m sure as that literal Hell going to capitalize that), and what if I'm wrong and there is no God and Death is final, and how long is forever, and what will become of my body or even will there be name or remembrance or memory of me when the sun burns out and will there be another cycle of creation, and how did this Universe come to be and has it been here already for an infinite time and how long is infinity, and my God I am scared and I am so small. God, are you there? Are you there in the pleasures of the flesh that you have given me, but some say are sinful? I love nuzzling in a woman’s breasts – but will I go to Hell? Or is God in my friends and in my ability to have friends and to communicate and love and dance and once again, the Universe is so big and so forever, and my God I am so small and insignificant. Or is the Real Immutable Truth in "Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are," although I can only see about 10,000 stars in the sky. And God you are so great and I am so small.
In the end, in the quiet hours when we are exhausted from our feeble attempts to embrace God and Infinity and have a drink with ol’ Thanatos, all we can do is rise up, brush the dirt off our blue jeans, and walk on and hope that we are going to be OK. God, I hope I’m going to be OK. Give me a sign. Give me a hint. I’m really scared.
“My God!” God is there, always present, always on our minds. To some, S/He’s in our hearts. That’s untrue, of course, the heart is a bundle of muscles that moves blood around, it’s not the seat of any thought or emotion or faith or hope. But that alludes to a deeper commitment in the mind, I suppose, and who am I to criticize how deep another’s commitment may be? Oh, I won’t use a bastardized masculine-feminine pronoun from here on out. God’s a Him. It says so right on the label, right beside “Made in Malaysia.” Or is it the Union Label? I get them confused.
Do I have the nerve to know God, or should I just reach for the Bombay Sapphire, pour one, and take the edge off? Do I have the integrity to talk about my faith (or lack thereof, or confusion thereof, or peculiarity thereof) and my fear and then talk of those times at night when I sit bolt upright in sudden terror because maybe there’s nothing out there but an End and Darkness? Do I have anything vaguely resembling the brain capacity to understand one “jot or tittle” of the truth which doubtless exists?
Human communication about God, positive or negative, loving, threatening, scared, all of it is usually strident and even confident if you can believe that. “I know THE way, [thump, thump goes the Book, thump, thump] and it’s beyond question, logic, critical thought or argument!” Or, how about, “You poor deluded fools, life is short, then you die, die, die, and it’s forever, buh-wa-ha-ha-haaaaa!” Even when we “deny God,” most of us capitalize the word God (as opposed to The Word of God), as if to use lowercase is an insult to Him, or maybe means we might be referring to some other “God.” Remember in the “Judeo-Christian tradition,” “Thou shalt have no other gods before me,” (italics mine) but notice that’s not an outright ban on other gods, just a requirement that we get the pecking order correct. This passage may be garbled. We’re reading it in English and it was written in . . . in . . . Hell, I don’t even know what language it was written in. God wrote it – what language was he using? Did he use a fountain pen? Funny how so many of our conversation fillers (“Oh, God”, “helluva thing”, “I swear to High Heaven”) refer to God.
We humans are so reluctant to talk about God. Even though God, or more precisely Death and What Happens Next, are on our minds a good bit. And it’s not comfortable for anyone to discuss God with less than the certainty of logic and authority. Anything less rings those alarms. I well remember a 1966 Time Magazine cover which caused an enormous commotion, because it said in huge red letters on a black background, “IS GOD DEAD?” How could they say that? Is that a question allowed by the Rules? I hope Hoyle or maybe Roberts has something to say about this.
Let's face it - some people believe that God IS. Some people believe that God IS NOT. We are scared out of our wits and it is sooooo uncomfortable to talk about God. Fess up – as we get older, we see God less and less as the Creator and Founder of Life and Source of Morals and more as the hopefully-present Bringer of Eternal Life, the guy who will help us beat the odds. We don't read the obituaries when we are 20, we’re too busy sinning, and we know that we are sinning, and that’s OK because we have LOTS of time to repent. We read the obituaries rather desultorily when we are 30, because maybe someone’s grandmother will have died. When we turn 40, the first wisps of the grave start to call to us, and we start really reading the obits. We are occasionally shocked at the sudden cardiac death or cancer death of someone younger than ourselves. At 50, we’ve given up pretense, and we just plain flat out read the obits, are glad that nearly all of the departed are older than us and, at least in my small town, often see that people we know who have died. That’ll put you back on your ear. My dear friend and brother Fred Griffith stopped in my office on a Wednesday and it was early April. His birthday was April 29, and I would always sing to him a little ditty wishing him and Hitler a Happy Birthday, “Happy BIRTHday Fred and HITler . . .” I didn’t sing it then, because it was early April, and he’d be back, and it would be a whole lot funnier on his birthday. When he came into my room, he expressed fear about my obvious bad health, and told me that "if the Good Lord lets me be here around for the next 10 years, I sure hope you're still here, too.” Those were his exact words, I’ll never forget them. Two days later, on Friday, his wife called me. Fred had collapsed and died at home. The paramedics did what they could, but the only effective thing that they could do was wave, so long, be seeing you, wherever you’re going, you’re blazing the trail for the rest of us. Fred donated his body to medical research. There is a gift inspired by love of God. I don’t know if I’d have the guts to do that. At age 60, the obits are the second thing we turn to (after looking up the Oriole’s scores), because we feel the “chill wind of Death” approaching us. We think that maybe we should "get right with God," or Jesus, or the Prophet (Peace Be Unto Him), or the Eternal Whoever. At 70, we make little jokes about how glad we are to wake up on the correct side of the grass, but we’re really not joking. And at 80? If we make it that far, we have numbed ourselves because Death is coming, and we’ve seen it soooo many times for most of our friends. Funny, we remember the shriveled specter in the casket not as an old person, but as the girl or boy we went to high school with, and they were so handsome or pretty and athletic and alive.
Most organized religions are very detailed, and you can’t tell the players without the program. For instance, St. John the Divine (aka St. John the Evangelist) wrote down his Revelation. Someone else numbered it, I hope - he shouldn’t have been bothered with that detail. In Revelations 19:11, et seq., he relates, “And I saw heaven opened and beheld a white horse, and he that sat upon his was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself. [I don’t know how St. John knew about the secret name if it was such a secret and all. But, I digress.] And he was clothed in a vesture dipped in blood; and his name is called “The Word of God.” And the armies which were in heaven followed him upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean. And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations:” Well, you get the drift. If St. John the Divine (Evangelist) is right, we’re in for quite an exhibition, come the Apocalypse.
Do you know that there are 70 sextillion stars in the Universe, that according to a recent sky survey by probably atheistic scientists? That number is incomprehensible. It is incomparably more than all of the grains of sand on all of the beaches and deserts of this Earth. Just imagine counting out the grains of sand in your toddler’s sand box. Even that’s a lot of sand. Even that’s a lot of stars. It is, to me at least, most improbable that God made all of those stars just for us. After all, the vast majority of those stars were totally invisible and unknown to us until very powerful telescopes were developed in the latter 20th Century.
Where is truth? I’m sorry, I mean Truth. There is truth in Jesus. What a ballsy guy, no wimp was he. He didn’t care a rap for "authority," and threw the money-changers and merchants and fakirs and jugglers and ad-men out of the Temple, saying that it was his FATHER'S house, not a den of theives. And he also had the nerve to announce that “as you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to me.” St. Matthew quoted him there. So much for Enron and Tyco and the S&L's and Ann Coulter. I think. But maybe Jesus isn’t as big as Ann Coulter in a true American’s living room.
Some religious leaders are pretty evil. Pat Robertson asked his buddy God to smite the left-wing liberals on the Supreme Court to make room for God-fearing men (did I say men?) whose hearts are pure and who know that God, Guns and Guts made America great. (Pat Robertson is also silly. He took credit for turning a hurricane away from North Carolina through what must have been a really, really good prayer.) I suspect that he doesn’t much appreciate the downright majesty of the heat exchanging process which creates a hurricane. Pastor John Hagee is real keen on corporal punishment for errant children. His Bible tells him so. Let’s not forget the Ayatollahs with their fatwas (essentially, they take out a contract on someone who has offended the faith in even a teensy little way), and with their promises of Paradise complete with 72 virgins (Who checks? Who counts?) for those who kill infidels and die themselves.
Some religious leaders are good and loving. Billy Graham is pretty doctrinaire, but he’s a nice fellow and doesn’t seem to meddle in God’s affairs concerning hurricanes. Another pastor, “Bishop” T.D. Jakes, always says positive and helpful things, and somehow I really do feel the love coming from my television set.
The acid test, though, is the believers in the trenches. Many religious people are good and kind and loving. I’m a Freemason. I’m glad of that, and it’s one of the best things I ever did. When I petitioned to join a lodge, I had to swear that I believe in a supreme being. Just who wasn’t important. One of my senior brothers, Billy Reid, who is a kind and decent and loving person, believes that “if you don't have Christ, you're lost.” Maybe the reverse of that puts it better, if you DO have Christ, you are NOT lost. Billy lets his faith and love show, neither under a bushel nor perched on his head like the headdress of a Las Vegas showgirl. Let’s see, Reverend Jeff Gill, a simple pastor, has benevolence and love in his heart. (There I go about the bundle of muscles again.) He spent the last night of my Dad's life at his bedside. Dad was already in a coma, and the family was numb with exhaustion and went home. Jeff did it not for a contribution or even to provide spiritually comforting words, but from pure, unadulterated Love. I remember tonight my dear friend Marleen, a very conventional Christian. (Before I met her, I had represented a fellow who had very cold-bloodedly killed a co-worker of hers. Is he a candidate for the literal Hell? I don’t think she would have thought so, but I may be wrong.) She put faith into action, through her “Women’s Ministry” at her church, through her family life, her comfortable moral example, and through her courage when she was diagnosed with bad ovarian cancer. I saw her in my office while she was doing chemotherapy. Her hair was gone, so she had a sort of “do-rag” scarf, and she had the biggest, most sincere smile, and talked about trying to learn the lesson that God and Jesus were teaching her. God, I hope she’s right there with Jesus now, just as she knew she would be.
Wrongs in the name of religion - How can I count that high? There are the Crusades, including the infamous “Children’s Crusade.” In the late Middle Ages, the Malleus Malificarum was written (literally, the “Witch’s Hammer,”) where the just and godly were taught how to torture, burn alive and thereby save the souls of witches. Much of applied Islam is violent. (I know, I know, an extremely small group of radicals has hijacked a kind and gentle religion, blah, blah, blah, now let’s see the kind and gentle people quit electing jihadists to lead them. The Afghani and Iraqi American-approved Constitutions adopt Islamic law, the Sharia. Hang on, ladies, I’ll pass around the chadors. Any color you want, as long as it’s black.) Did you know that 139 people were killed in riots over the publication in DENMARK of a CARTOON showing Muhammad with a bomb in his bonnet? Back to the Christians, there’s the IRA and the Orangemen, the Inquisition, Salem, a few dud popes, and more than a touch of hypocrisy.
Oh, another “wrong” is to condemn the unrepentent sinners (meaning those who don’t follow your particular dogma) to a literal Hell. Hell is an interesting place, by all accounts. First and foremost, it’s hotter ‘n . . . well, you know. There are Lakes of Fire, and for some reason lots and lots of sulphur. Some people say that there are several rings or levels, and that you get assigned a spot based on your sins, sort of like getting bad seats for your season tickets for the Orioles. I can’t help but wonder - Is this literal Hell the probable end for the people created by an allegedly loving God?
Now there are some outfits that do not subscribe to the “loving God” concept and thereby at least aren’t hypocritical in their dispatch of the ungodly to that literal Hell. For instance, there is the infamous Westboro Baptist Church of Kansas, that’s the outfit which does anti-gay protests at military funerals (without ever explaining the connection between their “cause” and the departed or the mourners). Their website (godhatesfags.com) does not pretend that God loves anyone. It’s at least refreshing that this group has no qualms about boldly flying the Jolly Roger. They’re just one of a parade of folks whose God is a pretty touchy individual.
We misuse religion and God even in small ways. In the movie "Patton," there is a scene where General Patton orders a chaplain to write a "weather prayer," so that the snow will subside and the army can go "from victory to victory to establish thy justice." At the beginning of football games, the teams often pray for success on the field. Obviously, one of their prayers won't be answered affirmatively. I prefer the prayers offered up at the beginning of NASCAR races, where the pastor commonly thanks God for the day (a pretty safe thing to be thankful for) and the people (ditto), and then prays for safety for all there. Even so, too often those prayers are not "successful" with respect to the drivers and crews. And they are almost NEVER totally successful for the fans attending the race. Let's face it, if you have a group of 200,000 people attending an exciting event, someone is going to die suddenly. Well, for that matter, ALL of us are going to die suddenly. Oh, we may know in advance the most probable cause and sequence of our death, but the instant where corporeal life ends and death begins is abrupt. One minute you’re there, then you’re . . . somewhere. Life is change. The secret of life, if there is one, is to make that critical exit on cue every time.
Where does my religious faith come from? Frankly, I'm not sure. I remember going to Bible school in the summers at a church in the little town of Buckhannon. We would draw pictures for our Moms, and play Red Rover, and sing "Jesus loves me, this I know, ‘cause the Bible tells me so." Did my faith start there? But I also have a clear memory of my mother reading me the story of Pegasus, a mythological creature, to help me go to sleep on Christmas Eve when I was 8. Did I know then that Pegasus was a myth? Did I think that Jesus was real? Which is more real, a Bible story or song, or a mother's love? Parent, God, I’m confused -“I’ll never ever know where God and Daddy went, ‘cause there was nothin’ those two couldn’t do . . .” I have been present at (not enough) births. I have been present at (too many) deaths. Of course, being a denizen of this place, I have read some about a lot of subjects. I’m a Jack of all Books, but a Master of None. How do I, Roger, KNOW that God is there, that the Universe is not some cosmic "thing" that just happens to exist? I only know of one way. It's not reading the Bible or listening to a sermon or reading accounts of evolution. (Evolution is not a theory, it is a fact, by the way. Ignorance is a fact, too.) It doesn’t offend me that in His creation, God uses DNA. His speed of light is 300,000 kilometers per second, and you don’t have to keep timing it with your stopwatch, and that’s fine with me. He doesn’t need to stop the Sun, blow down the walls of Jericho with horns, burn bushes in front of me, or bother Himself with pillars of salt. I know that God is there because when I open my mind, open my heart (and I know that I've criticized that phrase elsewhere), and I can FEEL and PERCEIVE GOD. When I am at the farm, and see a pileated woodpecker on the wing, GOD IS THERE WITH ME. When I look at my mountains, God is there. When I read a poem or (more rarely) write a poem, God is there with me. Oh, that's one reason that I think that the Boy Scouts' policy of not accepting atheists is moronic. Positively some of the most spiritual experiences I have ever had came in Boy Scout activities out in GOD'S COUNTRY. He’s there, I know it, and I’m not fooling.
Events in my life have shown me God’s presence. The friends I have, the women I have loved, my son - they come from God. There was an event in my life which has always represented the workings of God to me. On 18 December 1976, I was at a rescue company station for a "GI party," that is, painting and scrubbing the walls. An extraordinary series of nine events HAD to occur IN ORDER to place me and two of my lifetime friends at a specific location within 5 minutes of a specific event, and being there at any earlier or later time would have resulted in the death of a 20 year old mother and 6 month old child. What we did was not terribly remarkable - we simply applied our training. But to get us there on cue was an honest miracle. I’ve talked about babies. Heck with multiplying loaves, show me a baby, and you have proved a pure-dee miracle.
I have loved and oh my God, I have had pain. Why did you let me have pain, God? You’re not the Westboro Baptist guy, at least I hope you’re not. If you are, I’m in deep shit, that’s for sure. But at least I’ll have company in the Lake of Fire, and all of that nasty stuff.
So let me tell you exactly what I think of God. I don’t really know if He's a "he," a "she," both, neither, and that's not terribly important. I doubt that He is an old man with a beard, dressed in a toga, reaching out to touch His human creation with the Spark of Life, but I could be wrong. I know that he is there, and I believe that some of what are probably his minor works are the incomparably complex system of physics and chemistry and biochemistry and mathematics that makes this Earth operate as it does. I go to him when I am troubled, and often feel guilty that I don't acknowledge him as often when I'm sailing along happily. It is convenient and comfortable to ignore God passively, for to contemplate God is to contemplate Death (and I’m sure as that literal Hell going to capitalize that), and what if I'm wrong and there is no God and Death is final, and how long is forever, and what will become of my body or even will there be name or remembrance or memory of me when the sun burns out and will there be another cycle of creation, and how did this Universe come to be and has it been here already for an infinite time and how long is infinity, and my God I am scared and I am so small. God, are you there? Are you there in the pleasures of the flesh that you have given me, but some say are sinful? I love nuzzling in a woman’s breasts – but will I go to Hell? Or is God in my friends and in my ability to have friends and to communicate and love and dance and once again, the Universe is so big and so forever, and my God I am so small and insignificant. Or is the Real Immutable Truth in "Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are," although I can only see about 10,000 stars in the sky. And God you are so great and I am so small.
In the end, in the quiet hours when we are exhausted from our feeble attempts to embrace God and Infinity and have a drink with ol’ Thanatos, all we can do is rise up, brush the dirt off our blue jeans, and walk on and hope that we are going to be OK. God, I hope I’m going to be OK. Give me a sign. Give me a hint. I’m really scared.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Local politics, a heck of a problem, and life at No. 3 Equity Court
Dear Friends -
I hope this finds everyone in good health and good spirits.
I've "revealed" that I'm a pretty political person. All politics, it is said, are local, and I've been involved in county politics since around 1972. I tried the be-a-candidate thing in 1980 when I was still a Republican (when it was still sort-of the party of TR, and before it took a right turn and marched into the Wilderness), and I will NEVER run for office again. However, I've done a lot of politicking for politically like-minded friends, and lots and lots of writing for them. My political mentor is my "second father," who is stunningly well connected in West Virginia politics. Several of "my" ads and brochures appear in print for those friends in every election. The week before the election, I always stop in the Circuit Court Clerk's office (in WV, the Clerk keeps the ballots) and mark up a sample ballot with my "official" predictions that is posted in her back room. At the risk of being immodest about my success, I do tend to call things pretty well.
My heck of a problem: My partner and best friend Amy has just filed to run for Family Court Judge. Her main opponent is the current Family Court Judge, my brother and best friend Dave. I had coffee with Dave Thursday afternoon, after Amy told me -- We go to coffee a couple of times a month. Dave told me that his case manager, a high school classmate of mine, exclaimed to Dave when she found out Thursday, "Holy shit, what's Roger going to do?" To which Dave replied, "It doesn't matter, we've shared a tent together." (Bro. Pete, I met Dave when we worked at Scout camp, and we went to Philmont together in 1974.) Well, I really appreciate Dave's attitude. A couple of months ago, I strongly advised Amy NOT to run for Judge, and thought that it was a dead issue. She told me Thursday that she's definitely running, and did catch me by surprise.
So what am I going to do? Well, whatever it is, it will be out in the open. Earlier today, I finished the first draft of Dave's brochure, which I've been working on for a couple of weeks. Next week, I'm rewriting another brochure for a sheriff candidate.
Tomorrow is a work day. I'll hit No. 3 Equity Court early, run a pot of coffee, read the Sunday papers, and get to work.
Pippa passes. Mizpah!
R
I hope this finds everyone in good health and good spirits.
I've "revealed" that I'm a pretty political person. All politics, it is said, are local, and I've been involved in county politics since around 1972. I tried the be-a-candidate thing in 1980 when I was still a Republican (when it was still sort-of the party of TR, and before it took a right turn and marched into the Wilderness), and I will NEVER run for office again. However, I've done a lot of politicking for politically like-minded friends, and lots and lots of writing for them. My political mentor is my "second father," who is stunningly well connected in West Virginia politics. Several of "my" ads and brochures appear in print for those friends in every election. The week before the election, I always stop in the Circuit Court Clerk's office (in WV, the Clerk keeps the ballots) and mark up a sample ballot with my "official" predictions that is posted in her back room. At the risk of being immodest about my success, I do tend to call things pretty well.
My heck of a problem: My partner and best friend Amy has just filed to run for Family Court Judge. Her main opponent is the current Family Court Judge, my brother and best friend Dave. I had coffee with Dave Thursday afternoon, after Amy told me -- We go to coffee a couple of times a month. Dave told me that his case manager, a high school classmate of mine, exclaimed to Dave when she found out Thursday, "Holy shit, what's Roger going to do?" To which Dave replied, "It doesn't matter, we've shared a tent together." (Bro. Pete, I met Dave when we worked at Scout camp, and we went to Philmont together in 1974.) Well, I really appreciate Dave's attitude. A couple of months ago, I strongly advised Amy NOT to run for Judge, and thought that it was a dead issue. She told me Thursday that she's definitely running, and did catch me by surprise.
So what am I going to do? Well, whatever it is, it will be out in the open. Earlier today, I finished the first draft of Dave's brochure, which I've been working on for a couple of weeks. Next week, I'm rewriting another brochure for a sheriff candidate.
Tomorrow is a work day. I'll hit No. 3 Equity Court early, run a pot of coffee, read the Sunday papers, and get to work.
Pippa passes. Mizpah!
R
Friday, June 29, 2007
Article on Depression
I said on the community blog that I'd try to find an article on depression that I wrote for the WV Bar Journal around 2002. I found it lurking on the server, so here it is:
Dear Tom -
Tom, I know that this letter comes sort of out of the blue – we have known each other for more than 20 years, and I’m presuming on that long friendship quite a bit today.
I need your help. I want to say things, speak some words that I really believe some of our fellow lawyers need to hear. But, just putting them into a dry article without some personal communication seems cold or imperious or inappropriate or something like that – sorta like talking to an empty jury box. So, this is a letter to you. If this were a typical article, the title would be something like --
Depression and the Lawyer, or
Like Hell it Can’t Happen to me.
[The multiple title thing is straight out Rocky and Bullwinkle. I like Rocky and Bullwinkle. and if (former Bar President) Jim Stealey can wax eloquently about the Three Stooges in an article, I certainly can cite Rocky and Bullwinkle to you.]
Tom, I’ve been depressed for years. I’ve mentioned that in some private conversations and rarely in Court or to a client who I think needs screened for depression. It’s really painful to disclose this. It’s quite a bit more painful to live with it.
You know, depression has WAY too good a reputation-Churchill was depressed, and look at all he did; Lincoln was REAL depressed (which you can see as he sleeplessly “Walks at Midnight” on our Capitol lawn); LBJ was episodically depressed; Sylvia Plath was depressed to the point of suicide, and on and on. But somehow the literati describe their disorder as something which makes them more “tragic” figures and somehow “grander” or “nobler” because they have suffered so and have overcome such an obstacle to achieve greatness, blah, blah, blah. Great writers are depressed, or talk about depression:
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
–from T. S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Man”
But the truth- the hard truth- is that depression is a truly horrible place to be, it alters your judgment, it haunts you, and experiencing it doesn’t have the least element of noble tragedy.
I have even worse news - One in 4 women, and one in 8 men, will experience at least one serious episode of depression in their lifetimes. Ane 17 million Americans, right now, today are experiencing severe depression.
WHAT DEPRESSION IS:
The DSM defines depression with neat “shopping lists” of symptoms, and those also can be found in many depression resources. These indicators include:
• A depressed mood (e.g., feeling sad or empty, crying, which may be the most personally uncomfortable problems of all)
• A diminished interest or pleasure in all, or almost all activities fun with the kids, outdoor activities, pleasurable reading, going to the movies, sex-YIKES
• Insomnia or hyper-insomnia (sleeping a lot), and other sleep problems
• Psychomotor agitation or reparation - Pacing, fidgeting, and so forth
• Fatigue or loss of energy
• Feeling of hopelessness - That one is SO bad for you
• Irritability - Ane that one is SO bad for the people around you
• Feelings of worthlessness or excessive or inappropriate guilt- Hoo, boy, that’s a biggie
• A diminished ability to think or concentrate, or indecisiveness
• Recurrent thoughts of death (not just fear of dying), recurrent suicidal ideation without a specific plan, or suicide attempt or a specific plan for committing suicide.
Depression can happen once (“single event”), now and then (“episodic”) or constantly (“bloody well terrifying.”) It can occur at any age, but the first episode usually is in the prime of our productive practice years, ages 25 to 44.
Now, all that being said, so far we’re not being much help to the individual, are we? How do you know whether you or your partners or people around you are depressed to some extent? It’s not my goal to have people “play doctor” with themselves here, but rather to help folks recognize when it may be time to have the doctor play doctor with them or with the people who matter to them.
YUP, IT’S REAL
First, let me talk about the “feel” of depression. Usually, depression doesn’t appear suddenly-it comes on “like a thief in the night.” We’ve been dipped in a John Wayne society which doesn’t recognize depression, or thinks it’s just a matter of a lack of self control, or even caused by fundamentally bad character. There now, everybody gets a little blue now and then. I’ve heard that one a lot. And it’s true. It’s also true that everybody has a little chest discomfort. When it’s severe chest pain, you ought to get your butt to the hospital. Oh, and there’s the “I just don’t know HOW someone could think like that,” usually in the context of talking about people “hurting themselves” or “doing something to themselves,” or some other cute little euphemism for suicide. How can someone in that dark place of depression explain it?
Listen, Tom - Everybody who has been seriously depressed has thought about suicide. Everybody. The worst of the place called depression is lonely and dark and pointless and futile and directionless and scary beyond words that can be printed on a page. Moreover, there is no perspective or logic or sense of self- To the person in the pit, he or she “knows” that everyone around them feels the same way, and so who are they to complain? In that pit, these feelings are the natural, crummy order of things. In telling you these things, my friend, I’m not “accurately” describing the worst of this place called Depression. All I can do is shine a little light behind it and cast two-dimensional shadows of the three dimensional technicolor nightmare.
But, as bad as this place is, for a REAL LONG TIME the people around you may not have a clue that you are depressed. It’s not their fault, either-part of the illness is creating “defenses” and masks to hide the pain and the shame. I will remember what was probably my very worst day-hours before my partner intervened in a big way - I was in the Courthouse and saw a Judge who I practiced before, walking along with a medical expert who was a wonderful and pleasant fellow I also saw frequently in hearings. I remember talking to them, joking with them, and from their perspective it was a “normal” or even “jovial” person with whom they were interacting. Inside, I was screaming turmoil, but neither of them could have had a clue.
There isn’t a single classic kind of depression, some “one-size-fits-all”diagnosis. It can include anxiety. It can include a post-trauma stress diagnosis. It can be mild; it can be bad. It can be purely biochemical; or mostly environmental. We know that there is a strong genetic component. But wherever it comes from, it’s real. But as deep as the pit is, there are ways out. And getting out and seeing the sunshine and people again is the greatest relief imaginable.
DO YOU RECOGNIZE YOURSELF IN THIS DISEASE
Ok - listen to me-are you listening? LISTEN TO ME - You cannot DEFINITIVELY diagnose depression in yourself. Depression alters perceptions of reality and clogs whatever mind mechanism we have which determines the true importance and prioritization of competing needs and issues. But you CAN see things wrong which are indicators of depression coming. If you do, remember that you are a LAWYER - you have an obligation to take care of the tools of your craft - in this case, your head. Fortunately, you have lots of contracts and resources so that you can talk to someone qualified who can ask the right questions.
First - LISTEN TO YOU.
How do you feel? Are you happy? Content? Is living just a chore? Do you wish it would all just go away? Or do you want to just get in bed and pull the covers up over you?
How active are you? Do you spend all your time on the couch? Or do you get your butt in gear and get out and be active?
Look at your ability to do things - Are you “blocking” on more cases than usual because you just can’t deal with them? Do you duck more phone calls? Do you make promises or predictions to clients that you really sort of know in your heart are unrealistic at the time you make them?
Look for unplanned significant weight change, either up or down. And emotional lability [that means "crying," for the uninitiated], that’s a BIG indicator. That seems inconsistent with another depression marker, irritability or anger but they can coexist quite nicely, thank you.
How about your work? Do you work in periods of slow motion punctuated by time of a frenetic pace? Sometimes, you may feel so bad while depressed, the idea of fanatical work is attractive - it focuses your mind, and gives you some markers of external value. Remember what Theodore Roosevelt said: Black care rarely sits behind the rider whose pace is fast enough. Of course, depressed people routinely ignore the self-value things anyway. In my own experience, focusing on work and a parent’s last illness kept things very nicely at bay for months and months. Then, those months came to an end. Dang.
Oh, another big indicator is boozing. People drink for all kinds of reasons, mostly stupid ones. One of these is to “self-medicate” for the depression or to dull the anxiety within the depressed person or brought on by interactions with others who just don’t have a clue. Changing your alcohol habits can be the beginning of bad news, in lots of ways. Oh, by the way, alcohol is a depressant, so any “positive” effects are pretty quickly canceled out by more weight on your mind.
Next, watch what’s going on around you and listen to what people are telling you. Depression comes on generally over long period of time, but it’s hard to maintain a complete pretense forever-and hopefully, sooner or later, the people who do care about you will talk to you. If your spouse or partner or friend raises the subject, ASK what they see. Remember your Robert Burns, Tom:
Oh, wad some Power the giftie gie us,
to see ourselves as other see us
It wad frae manie a blunder free us,.....
Interpersonal turmoil can hint at depression, particularly among those you’re close to. domestic turmoil is unfortunately so very common.
Sometimes, the depression becomes so bad that the sufferer cannot stand to get out of bed, brush their teeth, and walk out of the house. In a way, that can be a GOOD thing - it’s hard even for the densest of people around you to ignore that. Mostly, though, we see the “functionally depressed,” people who feel really lousy but who depend on habit and ability to continue functioning on some level. those are the hardest to spot and the ones most likely to have serious bar trouble.
You cannot diagnose yourself, but there are some very basic screening tools available. Psychologists use short written questionnaires (the “Beck Depression Inventory” comes to mind) to get a “quick and dirty” look at someone’s “morale” status. [Practice pointer: If you have a client who is too macho to ask if s/he is depressed, ask it as “How’s your morale?] ”The web is also full of resources- for years, I have used a Depression Inventory at Queendom.com, a site with a ton of fascinating personality and intelligence tests (as well as lots of other good stuff!). Their depression inventory consists of 85 questions covering the full range of symptoms, and takes about 10 or 15 minutes to do. It spits out a cautious opinion if the score is elevated, with is chock full of sound advice and good sense:
I would advise you to get help (preferably a psychiatrist). Depression is treatable and the success rate is very high. Please, see a doctor; you really do not need to suffer this way. Remember, depression is a medical problem and it is not “just in your head.” It is not something you did, you are not being punished, and it is not your fault. there is help, so please, go and get it.
WHEN YOU SUSPECT YOU’RE DEPRESSED:
It’s a lot harder to recognize problems and get to this point than to move on from here - that’s the good news.
You need to take care of the problem and its cause; and its effects. You CANNOT take care of the problem ALONE - you have to bite the bullet and see a doctor. (The flip side is, your doctor can’t do much without YOU on board and actively participating.)
What will your doctor do? Beats me, it HAS to be individualized treatment - one size does not fit all. The doctor will consider treatment options, which include counseling (“cognitive therapy”) or medications or both.
Counseling/therapy really sucks for some people; it’s really enjoyable for others. I think for most folks, though, there are elements of both the good and the bad in it. Sharing things and finding things and going places you have been avoiding and don’t want to go, even though they’ve been eating you up from the inside out, can be an intensely painful experience. Or, it can be intensely relieving. I found it to be both, and I’m glad that I went there. Counselors are about the nicest, most competent and most caring people you’ll meet. [Even so, sometimes you just won’t be on the same page as a counselor/therapist. Then, it’s time to find another one.] Counselors generally don’t have the answers. You do. You just don’t know how to access them. They do-With question like “What would it feel like to...” or “Whose rule is that, yours, or [pick one]?” A competent (and loving) therapist has been a guide to me out of many dark places.
The medication thing is scary-but it shouldn’t be so much so. The meds do not “put thoughts into your head,” they use different ways to let YOUR thoughts start flowing normally again. One cause (or effect?) of depression is that the chemicals which feed emotions (the neurotransmitters”) are transferred around in the brain too quickly or too slowly, or something scientific like that. Most medications for depression alter those chemical transmissions to let YOU show through, and most of these medications have no or minimal side effects.
AVOIDING THE “PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL” LETTER FROM THE OFFICE OF DISCIPLINARY COUNSEL
You CAN take care of most of the effects. First and foremost, TELL PEOPLE WHO NEED TO KNOW-your spouse; your partners; your judges. these are the people who will see the effects of depression first, and be most concerned. For me, there was a small wake up call from our circuit judge. Before I told him of my own difficulties, he came to me and my partner to ask “what’s going on?” That was an appropriate thing, and a supportive thing. It’s SO MUCH BETTER that the judges hear it from you, not on the street.
Also, at some point the Office of Disciplinary Counsel may need to be told. A bad alternative is that somebody else tells them. That’s not to say that ODC hearing about a lawyer being depressed is “bad.” Trust me, the people are ODC are good lawyers who care about the bar and its members. None of them has horns, red eyes, claws nor, from my rather limited study, Satanic tattoos or scales. Their first concern is to protect clients and the public, which means that they want to be part of the solution to encourage the impaired lawyer to get help.
The ODC is not limited to deciding to “hammer” someone or not- that isn’t their role. In some instances, they hear themselves of someone having problems and inquire-not formally, but to see IF there’s a problem. If the problem is being handled without danger to clients, ODC is a resource and a cheering section. If there are ethical dilemmas which arise they will help lawyers through them. If action is necessary, they will be just as cooperative as the affected lawyer. (The sowing what you reap thing) For instance, a quiet voluntary suspension/vacation is eminently “doable,” of course with the concurrence of the Court. The Office of Disciplinary Counsel and the Lawyer Disciplinary board want to be part of the solution- under former Chair David Romano of Clarksburg, the Board began taking an active role in ethics affairs in addition to its traditional reactive role, and current Chair Al Karlin of Morgantown has continued that philosophy.
CAST BREAD UPON THE WATERS
One last word-Lots of people are depressed, including those you meet in your practice. Our role is to help people, our profession is about helping people. Whether you recognize the possibility of someone being depressed because of your personal experiences or just from reading stuff like this, don’t simply ignore it. Some depressed people are living in a solitary hell-and are just waiting and hoping and praying for SOMEONE, for ANYONE to recognize that and take just a little initiative in directing the person to the help that she or he may know is needed. It tells them that they are not alone in the world. This is an opportunity to do a good thing that we cannot pass up.
We lawyers get a bit cocky, don’t we? This kind of thing should remind us that the blood which runs through us is the same as in any other human-and that, when it comes right down to it, we are all in this life together.
Ok, Tom-I’m done-Why have I written this? Maybe I’m just tired of feeling bad about feeling bad, and this is my goodbye to that. Bob, a wonderful therapist I know, always asks how you feel. And he requires that you first put your feeling into the “Six Words:” Happy, Sad, Mad, glad, Lonely, Scared. Well, I feel pretty glad to say this-and just a little bit scared. That will pass, though. This is just too important for us to ignore any longer.
Have a good day, Tom, and I’ll see you soon.
Your Friend,
Roger
Dear Tom -
Tom, I know that this letter comes sort of out of the blue – we have known each other for more than 20 years, and I’m presuming on that long friendship quite a bit today.
I need your help. I want to say things, speak some words that I really believe some of our fellow lawyers need to hear. But, just putting them into a dry article without some personal communication seems cold or imperious or inappropriate or something like that – sorta like talking to an empty jury box. So, this is a letter to you. If this were a typical article, the title would be something like --
Depression and the Lawyer, or
Like Hell it Can’t Happen to me.
[The multiple title thing is straight out Rocky and Bullwinkle. I like Rocky and Bullwinkle. and if (former Bar President) Jim Stealey can wax eloquently about the Three Stooges in an article, I certainly can cite Rocky and Bullwinkle to you.]
Tom, I’ve been depressed for years. I’ve mentioned that in some private conversations and rarely in Court or to a client who I think needs screened for depression. It’s really painful to disclose this. It’s quite a bit more painful to live with it.
You know, depression has WAY too good a reputation-Churchill was depressed, and look at all he did; Lincoln was REAL depressed (which you can see as he sleeplessly “Walks at Midnight” on our Capitol lawn); LBJ was episodically depressed; Sylvia Plath was depressed to the point of suicide, and on and on. But somehow the literati describe their disorder as something which makes them more “tragic” figures and somehow “grander” or “nobler” because they have suffered so and have overcome such an obstacle to achieve greatness, blah, blah, blah. Great writers are depressed, or talk about depression:
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
–from T. S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Man”
But the truth- the hard truth- is that depression is a truly horrible place to be, it alters your judgment, it haunts you, and experiencing it doesn’t have the least element of noble tragedy.
I have even worse news - One in 4 women, and one in 8 men, will experience at least one serious episode of depression in their lifetimes. Ane 17 million Americans, right now, today are experiencing severe depression.
WHAT DEPRESSION IS:
The DSM defines depression with neat “shopping lists” of symptoms, and those also can be found in many depression resources. These indicators include:
• A depressed mood (e.g., feeling sad or empty, crying, which may be the most personally uncomfortable problems of all)
• A diminished interest or pleasure in all, or almost all activities fun with the kids, outdoor activities, pleasurable reading, going to the movies, sex-YIKES
• Insomnia or hyper-insomnia (sleeping a lot), and other sleep problems
• Psychomotor agitation or reparation - Pacing, fidgeting, and so forth
• Fatigue or loss of energy
• Feeling of hopelessness - That one is SO bad for you
• Irritability - Ane that one is SO bad for the people around you
• Feelings of worthlessness or excessive or inappropriate guilt- Hoo, boy, that’s a biggie
• A diminished ability to think or concentrate, or indecisiveness
• Recurrent thoughts of death (not just fear of dying), recurrent suicidal ideation without a specific plan, or suicide attempt or a specific plan for committing suicide.
Depression can happen once (“single event”), now and then (“episodic”) or constantly (“bloody well terrifying.”) It can occur at any age, but the first episode usually is in the prime of our productive practice years, ages 25 to 44.
Now, all that being said, so far we’re not being much help to the individual, are we? How do you know whether you or your partners or people around you are depressed to some extent? It’s not my goal to have people “play doctor” with themselves here, but rather to help folks recognize when it may be time to have the doctor play doctor with them or with the people who matter to them.
YUP, IT’S REAL
First, let me talk about the “feel” of depression. Usually, depression doesn’t appear suddenly-it comes on “like a thief in the night.” We’ve been dipped in a John Wayne society which doesn’t recognize depression, or thinks it’s just a matter of a lack of self control, or even caused by fundamentally bad character. There now, everybody gets a little blue now and then. I’ve heard that one a lot. And it’s true. It’s also true that everybody has a little chest discomfort. When it’s severe chest pain, you ought to get your butt to the hospital. Oh, and there’s the “I just don’t know HOW someone could think like that,” usually in the context of talking about people “hurting themselves” or “doing something to themselves,” or some other cute little euphemism for suicide. How can someone in that dark place of depression explain it?
Listen, Tom - Everybody who has been seriously depressed has thought about suicide. Everybody. The worst of the place called depression is lonely and dark and pointless and futile and directionless and scary beyond words that can be printed on a page. Moreover, there is no perspective or logic or sense of self- To the person in the pit, he or she “knows” that everyone around them feels the same way, and so who are they to complain? In that pit, these feelings are the natural, crummy order of things. In telling you these things, my friend, I’m not “accurately” describing the worst of this place called Depression. All I can do is shine a little light behind it and cast two-dimensional shadows of the three dimensional technicolor nightmare.
But, as bad as this place is, for a REAL LONG TIME the people around you may not have a clue that you are depressed. It’s not their fault, either-part of the illness is creating “defenses” and masks to hide the pain and the shame. I will remember what was probably my very worst day-hours before my partner intervened in a big way - I was in the Courthouse and saw a Judge who I practiced before, walking along with a medical expert who was a wonderful and pleasant fellow I also saw frequently in hearings. I remember talking to them, joking with them, and from their perspective it was a “normal” or even “jovial” person with whom they were interacting. Inside, I was screaming turmoil, but neither of them could have had a clue.
There isn’t a single classic kind of depression, some “one-size-fits-all”diagnosis. It can include anxiety. It can include a post-trauma stress diagnosis. It can be mild; it can be bad. It can be purely biochemical; or mostly environmental. We know that there is a strong genetic component. But wherever it comes from, it’s real. But as deep as the pit is, there are ways out. And getting out and seeing the sunshine and people again is the greatest relief imaginable.
DO YOU RECOGNIZE YOURSELF IN THIS DISEASE
Ok - listen to me-are you listening? LISTEN TO ME - You cannot DEFINITIVELY diagnose depression in yourself. Depression alters perceptions of reality and clogs whatever mind mechanism we have which determines the true importance and prioritization of competing needs and issues. But you CAN see things wrong which are indicators of depression coming. If you do, remember that you are a LAWYER - you have an obligation to take care of the tools of your craft - in this case, your head. Fortunately, you have lots of contracts and resources so that you can talk to someone qualified who can ask the right questions.
First - LISTEN TO YOU.
How do you feel? Are you happy? Content? Is living just a chore? Do you wish it would all just go away? Or do you want to just get in bed and pull the covers up over you?
How active are you? Do you spend all your time on the couch? Or do you get your butt in gear and get out and be active?
Look at your ability to do things - Are you “blocking” on more cases than usual because you just can’t deal with them? Do you duck more phone calls? Do you make promises or predictions to clients that you really sort of know in your heart are unrealistic at the time you make them?
Look for unplanned significant weight change, either up or down. And emotional lability [that means "crying," for the uninitiated], that’s a BIG indicator. That seems inconsistent with another depression marker, irritability or anger but they can coexist quite nicely, thank you.
How about your work? Do you work in periods of slow motion punctuated by time of a frenetic pace? Sometimes, you may feel so bad while depressed, the idea of fanatical work is attractive - it focuses your mind, and gives you some markers of external value. Remember what Theodore Roosevelt said: Black care rarely sits behind the rider whose pace is fast enough. Of course, depressed people routinely ignore the self-value things anyway. In my own experience, focusing on work and a parent’s last illness kept things very nicely at bay for months and months. Then, those months came to an end. Dang.
Oh, another big indicator is boozing. People drink for all kinds of reasons, mostly stupid ones. One of these is to “self-medicate” for the depression or to dull the anxiety within the depressed person or brought on by interactions with others who just don’t have a clue. Changing your alcohol habits can be the beginning of bad news, in lots of ways. Oh, by the way, alcohol is a depressant, so any “positive” effects are pretty quickly canceled out by more weight on your mind.
Next, watch what’s going on around you and listen to what people are telling you. Depression comes on generally over long period of time, but it’s hard to maintain a complete pretense forever-and hopefully, sooner or later, the people who do care about you will talk to you. If your spouse or partner or friend raises the subject, ASK what they see. Remember your Robert Burns, Tom:
Oh, wad some Power the giftie gie us,
to see ourselves as other see us
It wad frae manie a blunder free us,.....
Interpersonal turmoil can hint at depression, particularly among those you’re close to. domestic turmoil is unfortunately so very common.
Sometimes, the depression becomes so bad that the sufferer cannot stand to get out of bed, brush their teeth, and walk out of the house. In a way, that can be a GOOD thing - it’s hard even for the densest of people around you to ignore that. Mostly, though, we see the “functionally depressed,” people who feel really lousy but who depend on habit and ability to continue functioning on some level. those are the hardest to spot and the ones most likely to have serious bar trouble.
You cannot diagnose yourself, but there are some very basic screening tools available. Psychologists use short written questionnaires (the “Beck Depression Inventory” comes to mind) to get a “quick and dirty” look at someone’s “morale” status. [Practice pointer: If you have a client who is too macho to ask if s/he is depressed, ask it as “How’s your morale?] ”The web is also full of resources- for years, I have used a Depression Inventory at Queendom.com, a site with a ton of fascinating personality and intelligence tests (as well as lots of other good stuff!). Their depression inventory consists of 85 questions covering the full range of symptoms, and takes about 10 or 15 minutes to do. It spits out a cautious opinion if the score is elevated, with is chock full of sound advice and good sense:
I would advise you to get help (preferably a psychiatrist). Depression is treatable and the success rate is very high. Please, see a doctor; you really do not need to suffer this way. Remember, depression is a medical problem and it is not “just in your head.” It is not something you did, you are not being punished, and it is not your fault. there is help, so please, go and get it.
WHEN YOU SUSPECT YOU’RE DEPRESSED:
It’s a lot harder to recognize problems and get to this point than to move on from here - that’s the good news.
You need to take care of the problem and its cause; and its effects. You CANNOT take care of the problem ALONE - you have to bite the bullet and see a doctor. (The flip side is, your doctor can’t do much without YOU on board and actively participating.)
What will your doctor do? Beats me, it HAS to be individualized treatment - one size does not fit all. The doctor will consider treatment options, which include counseling (“cognitive therapy”) or medications or both.
Counseling/therapy really sucks for some people; it’s really enjoyable for others. I think for most folks, though, there are elements of both the good and the bad in it. Sharing things and finding things and going places you have been avoiding and don’t want to go, even though they’ve been eating you up from the inside out, can be an intensely painful experience. Or, it can be intensely relieving. I found it to be both, and I’m glad that I went there. Counselors are about the nicest, most competent and most caring people you’ll meet. [Even so, sometimes you just won’t be on the same page as a counselor/therapist. Then, it’s time to find another one.] Counselors generally don’t have the answers. You do. You just don’t know how to access them. They do-With question like “What would it feel like to...” or “Whose rule is that, yours, or [pick one]?” A competent (and loving) therapist has been a guide to me out of many dark places.
The medication thing is scary-but it shouldn’t be so much so. The meds do not “put thoughts into your head,” they use different ways to let YOUR thoughts start flowing normally again. One cause (or effect?) of depression is that the chemicals which feed emotions (the neurotransmitters”) are transferred around in the brain too quickly or too slowly, or something scientific like that. Most medications for depression alter those chemical transmissions to let YOU show through, and most of these medications have no or minimal side effects.
AVOIDING THE “PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL” LETTER FROM THE OFFICE OF DISCIPLINARY COUNSEL
You CAN take care of most of the effects. First and foremost, TELL PEOPLE WHO NEED TO KNOW-your spouse; your partners; your judges. these are the people who will see the effects of depression first, and be most concerned. For me, there was a small wake up call from our circuit judge. Before I told him of my own difficulties, he came to me and my partner to ask “what’s going on?” That was an appropriate thing, and a supportive thing. It’s SO MUCH BETTER that the judges hear it from you, not on the street.
Also, at some point the Office of Disciplinary Counsel may need to be told. A bad alternative is that somebody else tells them. That’s not to say that ODC hearing about a lawyer being depressed is “bad.” Trust me, the people are ODC are good lawyers who care about the bar and its members. None of them has horns, red eyes, claws nor, from my rather limited study, Satanic tattoos or scales. Their first concern is to protect clients and the public, which means that they want to be part of the solution to encourage the impaired lawyer to get help.
The ODC is not limited to deciding to “hammer” someone or not- that isn’t their role. In some instances, they hear themselves of someone having problems and inquire-not formally, but to see IF there’s a problem. If the problem is being handled without danger to clients, ODC is a resource and a cheering section. If there are ethical dilemmas which arise they will help lawyers through them. If action is necessary, they will be just as cooperative as the affected lawyer. (The sowing what you reap thing) For instance, a quiet voluntary suspension/vacation is eminently “doable,” of course with the concurrence of the Court. The Office of Disciplinary Counsel and the Lawyer Disciplinary board want to be part of the solution- under former Chair David Romano of Clarksburg, the Board began taking an active role in ethics affairs in addition to its traditional reactive role, and current Chair Al Karlin of Morgantown has continued that philosophy.
CAST BREAD UPON THE WATERS
One last word-Lots of people are depressed, including those you meet in your practice. Our role is to help people, our profession is about helping people. Whether you recognize the possibility of someone being depressed because of your personal experiences or just from reading stuff like this, don’t simply ignore it. Some depressed people are living in a solitary hell-and are just waiting and hoping and praying for SOMEONE, for ANYONE to recognize that and take just a little initiative in directing the person to the help that she or he may know is needed. It tells them that they are not alone in the world. This is an opportunity to do a good thing that we cannot pass up.
We lawyers get a bit cocky, don’t we? This kind of thing should remind us that the blood which runs through us is the same as in any other human-and that, when it comes right down to it, we are all in this life together.
Ok, Tom-I’m done-Why have I written this? Maybe I’m just tired of feeling bad about feeling bad, and this is my goodbye to that. Bob, a wonderful therapist I know, always asks how you feel. And he requires that you first put your feeling into the “Six Words:” Happy, Sad, Mad, glad, Lonely, Scared. Well, I feel pretty glad to say this-and just a little bit scared. That will pass, though. This is just too important for us to ignore any longer.
Have a good day, Tom, and I’ll see you soon.
Your Friend,
Roger
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Self-improvement, Time Management, Entropy and Me + a couple of random thoughts
I keep a whole bunch of books going at the same time. I try to keep a variety of genres, so that I'll have something to fit my mood at any given time. I keep a modern fiction, a western, a philosophy, a space opera or other sci-fi, a bio, a political opinion book, and also something from the business or self-improvement genre. Well, this is the reason that my briefcase is so darn heavy. When I go through security at a courthouse, the officers (most of whom are friends of mine) always rag me about all of the books I carry. I don't tell them about the "ready shelf," where books I'm more or less slowly going through are kept.
The business/self-improvement books I consider to be very work-related, because they purport to improve my life and work, which really are about the same thing. I know that's not a healthy attitude, but it's mine. There are several types of the self-improvement books. There is the pure business related book - Time Management for Dummies is a good, basic example. As silly as the title is, it has a few good ideas. I'm reading now a book on law office management, which is extraordinarily dry. I consider it a victory when I get one or two good ideas from one of these books. There are the pure self-improvement books. Shut Up, Quit Whining and Get a Life, by Larry Winget is a good example. There are mixtures, business and attitude, including There's a Reason They Call it Work, also by Larry Winget. I think I've highly recommended his books elsewhere. I also count within these broad categories the pure modern philosophies. Conversations with God, by Neal Donald Walsch is a strange example of that. OK, a REAL strange example. Also, the works of Wayne Dyer have shown an evolution from 30 years ago when he wrote Your Erroneous Zone and Pulling Your Own Strings, down-to-earth take-care-of-number-one advice tomes, to The Power of Intention, which is to me an uncomfortable, silly, witch-doctor-ish read. (I also have a sister-in-law who has written a witch-doctor-ish book.) I put the works of Deepak Chopra and Anthony Robbins also here, Chopra on the more spiritual side and Robbins the high-energy full-speed-ahead type. (There is a wonderful parody of the whole self-improvement genre, God is My Broker: A Monk-Tycoon Reveals the 7-1/2 Laws of Spiritual and Financial Success, by Christopher Buckley. He lampoons the "Choprans" and the "Robbinites" at the monastery. It's worth the price.) And lots of political books have a philosophical bent, so I think of them in this area, too. Al Gore's The Assault on Reason, Joe Conason's It Can Happen Here, and Gerry Spence's Bloodthirsty Bitches and Pious Pimps are examples. In fact, pretty much everything Gerry Spence has written fits there, even his novel, Half-moon and Empty Stars.
From all of these, I look for ideas with which to approach work and life. (Here, by "work," I mean pretty much any useful or creative activity.) There is a duality among these books that's been percolating in my mind. One school of thought might be called the 80% approach. An Italian economist (I think he was an economist - maybe he was a con-man) by the name of Paredo announced the "Paredo Principle." Essentially, it says that every human activity is divided 80-20. For instance, 20 percent of the effort is supposed to be worth 80 percent of the value. If you want to get to 100 percent, then, you have to bust your ass for not much satisfaction or additional value. Therefore, this school reasons, you ought to work at about 80 percent of your capacity, and screw the other 20 percent. That has some attraction - leave work at a reasonable hour, don't worry about tomorrow, because today you did what you set out to do. I've seen suggestions that you put a tag reading "80%" on your computer monitor to remind you to keep your work flow steady and, like the tortoise, win the race. Well, I've done that. For whatever it's worth. The other approach is the 212 degree approach. That holds that if you have water at 211 degrees, you have some hot water, which is no big deal. But if you have water at 212 degrees (Fahrenheit, of course), it will make steam and steam has power in it. (They don't address the whole transition heat issue. Seldom does a scientific or mathematic analogy hold together perfectly.) Therefore, if you don't push to that last degree, you've failed. Vacations? Bad. Time at home? Bad. Heck, even time blogging would be frowned upon. Well, those folks suggest that you put a little tag on your monitor which reads "212 degrees." I've done that too. And I'm honestly torn. What is the "right" approach to life? Take it easy and enjoy life? Push like mad and do the absolute most that you can do? One of my heroes is Theodore Roosevelt, I've mentioned that before here. He came down FIRMLY on the running-flat-out approach. Of course, he also died of old age and exhaustion at age 61. (And an undiagnosed tropical disease may have contributed to that, too.) I really need to get one of those tags off the computer. I'm drawn more to the 212 degree school, but that is a difficult and lonely life. I guess what I need is a self-improvement book custom made for ME. Fat chance. This is rather self-revealing - maybe too much so - a taste of the demons who often drive me.
Let's see. What else is on my mind. Oh, you may recall that I've been on a careful Bible-quoting jag of late. Part of that is to irk the Great Right-Wing Conspiracy, where the folks wave the Bible, and thump the Bible, but don't appear to read very much of it. Well, on the theory that it contains lots of good stuff other than useful quotes, I splurged and spent $44 at Amazon for a new Bible. (A Masonic edition - no, we don't have some mystical separate Bible, it's regular KJV with a concordance of stuff out of the Masonic work.) I think I may found the "Church of the Red Letter." That is the church which uses Bibles where the words of Christ are in red. Our church would pay extra-close attention to the stuff in red, and not be so worried about myths, Daniel and the Revelation of St. John the Divine. I wish that people who call themselves Christian would give it a shot at being a touch more Christ-like, and a touch less judgmental.
Finally, a poem I've been studying on for weeks - darn hard to figure out, at least for me:
THE FOOL'S PRAYER
by: Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)
THE royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the Monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
"'T is not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
'T is by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.
"The ill-timed truth we might have kept--
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say--
Who knows how grandly it had rung!
"Our faults no tenderness should ask.
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders -- oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!"
The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
"Be merciful to me, a fool!"
Maybe that's what I need to be asking for, Be merciful to me, a fool.
Mizpah.
R
The business/self-improvement books I consider to be very work-related, because they purport to improve my life and work, which really are about the same thing. I know that's not a healthy attitude, but it's mine. There are several types of the self-improvement books. There is the pure business related book - Time Management for Dummies is a good, basic example. As silly as the title is, it has a few good ideas. I'm reading now a book on law office management, which is extraordinarily dry. I consider it a victory when I get one or two good ideas from one of these books. There are the pure self-improvement books. Shut Up, Quit Whining and Get a Life, by Larry Winget is a good example. There are mixtures, business and attitude, including There's a Reason They Call it Work, also by Larry Winget. I think I've highly recommended his books elsewhere. I also count within these broad categories the pure modern philosophies. Conversations with God, by Neal Donald Walsch is a strange example of that. OK, a REAL strange example. Also, the works of Wayne Dyer have shown an evolution from 30 years ago when he wrote Your Erroneous Zone and Pulling Your Own Strings, down-to-earth take-care-of-number-one advice tomes, to The Power of Intention, which is to me an uncomfortable, silly, witch-doctor-ish read. (I also have a sister-in-law who has written a witch-doctor-ish book.) I put the works of Deepak Chopra and Anthony Robbins also here, Chopra on the more spiritual side and Robbins the high-energy full-speed-ahead type. (There is a wonderful parody of the whole self-improvement genre, God is My Broker: A Monk-Tycoon Reveals the 7-1/2 Laws of Spiritual and Financial Success, by Christopher Buckley. He lampoons the "Choprans" and the "Robbinites" at the monastery. It's worth the price.) And lots of political books have a philosophical bent, so I think of them in this area, too. Al Gore's The Assault on Reason, Joe Conason's It Can Happen Here, and Gerry Spence's Bloodthirsty Bitches and Pious Pimps are examples. In fact, pretty much everything Gerry Spence has written fits there, even his novel, Half-moon and Empty Stars.
From all of these, I look for ideas with which to approach work and life. (Here, by "work," I mean pretty much any useful or creative activity.) There is a duality among these books that's been percolating in my mind. One school of thought might be called the 80% approach. An Italian economist (I think he was an economist - maybe he was a con-man) by the name of Paredo announced the "Paredo Principle." Essentially, it says that every human activity is divided 80-20. For instance, 20 percent of the effort is supposed to be worth 80 percent of the value. If you want to get to 100 percent, then, you have to bust your ass for not much satisfaction or additional value. Therefore, this school reasons, you ought to work at about 80 percent of your capacity, and screw the other 20 percent. That has some attraction - leave work at a reasonable hour, don't worry about tomorrow, because today you did what you set out to do. I've seen suggestions that you put a tag reading "80%" on your computer monitor to remind you to keep your work flow steady and, like the tortoise, win the race. Well, I've done that. For whatever it's worth. The other approach is the 212 degree approach. That holds that if you have water at 211 degrees, you have some hot water, which is no big deal. But if you have water at 212 degrees (Fahrenheit, of course), it will make steam and steam has power in it. (They don't address the whole transition heat issue. Seldom does a scientific or mathematic analogy hold together perfectly.) Therefore, if you don't push to that last degree, you've failed. Vacations? Bad. Time at home? Bad. Heck, even time blogging would be frowned upon. Well, those folks suggest that you put a little tag on your monitor which reads "212 degrees." I've done that too. And I'm honestly torn. What is the "right" approach to life? Take it easy and enjoy life? Push like mad and do the absolute most that you can do? One of my heroes is Theodore Roosevelt, I've mentioned that before here. He came down FIRMLY on the running-flat-out approach. Of course, he also died of old age and exhaustion at age 61. (And an undiagnosed tropical disease may have contributed to that, too.) I really need to get one of those tags off the computer. I'm drawn more to the 212 degree school, but that is a difficult and lonely life. I guess what I need is a self-improvement book custom made for ME. Fat chance. This is rather self-revealing - maybe too much so - a taste of the demons who often drive me.
Let's see. What else is on my mind. Oh, you may recall that I've been on a careful Bible-quoting jag of late. Part of that is to irk the Great Right-Wing Conspiracy, where the folks wave the Bible, and thump the Bible, but don't appear to read very much of it. Well, on the theory that it contains lots of good stuff other than useful quotes, I splurged and spent $44 at Amazon for a new Bible. (A Masonic edition - no, we don't have some mystical separate Bible, it's regular KJV with a concordance of stuff out of the Masonic work.) I think I may found the "Church of the Red Letter." That is the church which uses Bibles where the words of Christ are in red. Our church would pay extra-close attention to the stuff in red, and not be so worried about myths, Daniel and the Revelation of St. John the Divine. I wish that people who call themselves Christian would give it a shot at being a touch more Christ-like, and a touch less judgmental.
Finally, a poem I've been studying on for weeks - darn hard to figure out, at least for me:
THE FOOL'S PRAYER
by: Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)
THE royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the Monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
"'T is not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
'T is by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.
"The ill-timed truth we might have kept--
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say--
Who knows how grandly it had rung!
"Our faults no tenderness should ask.
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders -- oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!"
The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
"Be merciful to me, a fool!"
Maybe that's what I need to be asking for, Be merciful to me, a fool.
Mizpah.
R
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