In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.
Robert Frost
As much as some universities have valiantly tried to create safe spots to protect students from anything that might offend or disturb them, for those of us out here in the cheap seats of life, there are no such safe spots. We face a daily barrage of threats and doomsday calls. Cliches grow ominously and persistently larger than life: The end is near; Live today for tomorrow you may die. We are all going to hell in a handbasket.
In a handbasket? What does that really mean anyway? One theory on the expression’s origin is that it refers to the baskets used to catch the heads of those sentenced to death by guillotine. That conjures up some pretty frightening images, to be sure.
But the threats are not of a religious nature, in spite of the fact that “hell” is often waved frantically about, a wild flag of doom that hangs from a quivering pole of terror. No, the threats are largely political and social in nature, flooding the airwaves and computer screens with a force to be reckoned with.
We’ve had a shift in power, a change in administration, a new sheriff has come to town. The fact that this sheriff lacks the couth and posture of most former sheriffs is cause enough for many to simultaneously fear and rage, to wring their hands and cry, This is bad. This is very, very bad.
Here comes the disclaimer: I have cringed–and continue to cringe–at his unfiltered remarks and tweets, wondering why there can’t be a royal filterer. Someone, anyone, to monitor and curb the flow of communication that often has to be “walked back.” And I, too, pray for healthy restraint and heartfelt reflection.
And here is the second disclaimer: I do not deny nor diminish the genuine fear and anger that exists today. Change of this nature is traumatic for those whose sheriff is no longer in power. This has always been so, and will always be so. When we passionately believe in and support an idea, a person, a vision for the future, anything counter to or less than this is simply awful. And we grieve the loss of what could have–what should have–been.
Still, for a time, I am willing to suspend my judgment and to quell my fear. For I am old enough to have seen that when pendulums swing far to one side, they invariably swing far to the other. From the structured spelling books of the early-mid 1900s to the invented spelling of the 1980s, from memorizing spelling words, consonant and vowel blends to spelling-as-I-hear it. From house to haws. Before the pendulum of spelling and language instruction had decisively swung far to the left, there were teachers who grabbed their spelling manuals and closeted them away in hidden places, safely secured from administrators who would sweep in to clear their schools of outdated materials and pedagogies.
Although we pay serious lip service to compromise and moderation, in reality, the pendulum rarely rests in the middle of anything for any period of time. We may wish it motionless, but oh how it moves! And when it does, there will be winners and losers–and some who remain stodgily indifferent until something directly affects them.
Both the Beatles and Robert Frost claim that though the pendulum swings as it will, life goes on. Frost even writes that everything he has learned about life can be summed up in these three words. In the midst of such a season of angst and anger, these simple words often sound condescending and trite. A bandaid on a gaping wound, the gangrene beneath festering, spreading, and threatening to destroy the organism.
And when a loved one dies or a family home burns down or one’s world is upturned forever? Tragically, there will be fatalists or pragmatists (or unfeeling idiots) who deliver the words Life goes on as if this truth will minister to the grieving. These are not the folks to suffer with another, for they will busy themselves with their own lives, which do, indeed, percolate with rhythmic regularity. (Until, of course, their world is upturned forever, and they need more than words to set it back on its axis.)
And when the Beatles sing their bubblegum melody, ob la di, ob lad da, life goes on? As catchy as the tune and lyrics are–certainly a snappy marching song for the likes of the Seven Dwarves–it is all but impossible to sing them as if we believe them. As if they are the words of life.
And in a sense, these are the words of life. It does go on, with or without us. So perhaps the question should be how should life go on?
When a pendulum swings, this is the ten dollar question. I may not have a clear answer, but like most, I have answers that I believe are better than others. And I am well aware that my answers will contradict, trouble, and even outrage those who hold what they proclaim as better, truer, righter answers. So where does this leave us?
Pendulum swings bring out the best–and worst–of us. They illicit passions that bless and curse others. The excite and inspire some, while they stab others in the heart of all they hold dear.
I certainly don’t proclaim to have all the answers, but I do think that life goes on much better when we all step back and breathe. And while we’re breathing, we can remember how we felt when the pendulum had swung to the side that we didn’t endorse, that we most feared. As we remember our sense of loss and fear, we can sympathize with those who now feel much the same way. And for those who agonize over the current state of affairs? They, too, can remember that others once felt this way and suffered through this season.
It’s rare that universal sympathy of this sort would ever result in name-calling or threats or hell-in-a-handbasket cries. Sympathy more often paves the way for compassionate dialogue, a means of disagreeing humanely. Certainly, life goes on better when we disagree humanely.
We will disagree, and life will go on. It is my fervent prayer that it goes on with a larger dose of sympathy and compassion.
