a questionable life

by Luke Lively

  “What’s wrong with having more?” I asked, feeling bruised and argumentative. “Having more makes you more secure. I still can’t see why trying to give your family more is not a good thing?”

  “What’s your intention, Jack? To give your family more than what’s necessary? Is that the right intention?”

  “Having more is better!” I nearly exclaimed, using the reserve energy my frustration supplied. “You can have some bad luck and lose everything. Someone can come along and take away what you’ve earned.” My frustration was turning into anger. I was mad at myself for not being able to defend my life better than this with an old man.

  “But if your family doesn’t need the added things you’re bringing them, how will they understand what it is truly essential in life? They’ll never be satisfied.”

  Before I responded I thought about my major grievances against Tina, Jessica, and Joshua. I had said to them repeatedly, “You don’t appreciate what you have, what I’ve given you.” I could see now it was my fault. I had tried to impart my lust for more onto them. I never talked to them about their needs or wants. “I’ve never thought about it that way,” I said, still thinking about how I had inflicted my world on theirs. My anger was squelched. I felt defeated.

  “It’s what we all face. We create our destiny. We’re the authors of our own book of life. We’re responsible, each of us, for what we do. It’s the only thing we really own in life—our thoughts, our actions, and what we’ve done.”

  Hearing “what we’ve done” reminded me of something Chad had said. “How do you deal with greed?” I asked, careful to not indict myself with any more comment.

  “I remember there are a lot worse poisons than a snake bite!” he said, poking his stick ahead on the path. “Greed is a vice best left to itself. It’s part of a circle of suffering. I try to be aware of its power so I won’t slip into it.”

  “What’s a circle of suffering?”

  “The worst mistakes we make in our lives are typically when we refuse to change course, even when we know we’re going in the wrong direction. We repeat the same mistakes, even though we know better. We’re going in circles. That’s where we create our own suffering. The worst pains in life are the ones we inflict on ourselves.”

  “How can you say that?” I asked. “You didn’t ask to be captured and held as a POW? I didn’t create most of the bad things in my life.”

  “When I was in Vietnam, I had the same thoughts. One day Chi Mai told me the story of his escape from China. He walked hundreds of miles through some of the highest mountains in the world with only his cloak and a pair of sandals. I asked how he could walk so far in such extreme conditions. He said, ‘One step at a time.’ It finally dawned on me: We create our own destiny. I owned my life and what I would do in that moment. My purpose wasn’t outside of me—it was inside of me. Looking outside of myself for answers had given me nothing but pain. But once I got home I forgot that. Until Ben died. I had tried to find answers in my career, possessions, lovers, or any other thing I could find that distracted me. I hated others for having more and myself for failing to get what they had. I know from experience, it’s a very real circle. Yet, I stayed in the same rut, fearing that my pain would intensify if I tried to change.”

  “How did you break out of the circle and change?” I asked.

  “I let go.”

  “How can I let go?” I asked. I was growing agitated by the idea of a life of less instead of my life of more. It’s easy for him being old and rich to tell me to be satisfied with less, I thought to myself. “Letting go goes against reason,” I said. “Everyone wants more.”

  “And that makes it reasonable?” he asked.

  “Maybe I haven’t got enough yet,” I said, tired of the climb and the turn of the conversation.

  “That, my friend, is the problem. Until you let go, you’re never going to be satisfied. Letting go of our attachments is the only way to find any real peace.” He stopped in his tracks and looked at me. “You can’t escape from life, no matter how hard you try, Jack.”

  “I’m not trying to escape,” I said angrily, hearing the personalization of his comments. Now I was tired and angry. I personalized my retort. “You don’t know everything about me.”

  “I wouldn’t assume I do. I’m sharing my experience. But you and I aren’t so different,” he said.

  “You and I are completely different,” I said assuredly, keeping my head down as I walked, not wanting him to see my expression. I was mad, and I knew I couldn’t disguise it very well.

  “In some ways we are different, but in more ways we’re similar,” he said in a reassuring tone. “I wouldn’t dare to try to impose my life on yours, but I’ll tell you what I’ve learned. The problems in my life sprang from wanting more of things I didn’t need. Nothing worked for me. This was even after spending years as a POW and losing my son. You would think those events would have been incredibly loud wake-up calls for me—they weren’t. I dug myself deeper and deeper into a rut, doing the same thing over and over again.”

  “How did you get out of the rut? Just letting go doesn’t sound reasonable to me,” I asked, trying to calm my obvious frustration.

  “I remembered,” he said. “I remembered the lessons I had learned from Chi Mai. He said, ‘If you fight life, you lose. Just be.’ Living is a miracle, not to be wasted, but to be lived. Even in a prison camp or after you lose a child. I had a choice—to be or not to be. I let go. I let go of the hate, anger, and self-pity. I chose to be.”

  “You aren’t me,” I said. “That’s for sure.”

  “Be yourself. If you aren’t being yourself, you aren’t being natural—life won’t seem to fit you. Your life will always have friction and a lack of balance, and that can destroy a person.”

  “You really believe that?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t believe it—I know it.”

  “Where do I want to be?”

  The path up the hill had now narrowed, and it was harder to talk, which gave me time to think. The exchanges between the two of us had helped to bring me back to a question I had not been able to answer. Where was always important to me; location was always part of my plans. If I was able to remove some of the attachments the question wasn’t as difficult.

  “We’re almost there,” Benny said as we moved to a much more open expanse of the mountainside that allowed the sun to slice down through the thick woods, splashing light on the trail. I was happy to hear those words. The tree cover that had blanketed our passage up the mountain was claustrophobic. The physical exertion was taking its toll on my thought processing. The more I thought about my attachments, the more I realized that they were not going to be that easy to disconnect. The attachments helped me, I rationalized. They kept me on course and made me feel secure. Walking further, I asked myself, What if he’s right? I looked up from the dirt path. As my mind mulled over my inner quarrel, the very real weight of my lifestyle was taking its toll. I was doing my best to keep up with this much older man and failing. He was like a machine. No heavy breathing—he appeared to be enjoying every step. The only time I was able to stay close to his pace was when he slowed, allowing me to catch up. His mind was equal to his physical condition. I knew I was smart—always a step ahead of others. But his thoughts appeared to always be a step ahead of mine, as though he knew what I was going to say before I could speak. This was not a job interview, I thought. We had passed that many words ago. Whether I got the job or not mattered less to me now as I struggled to walk the last sharp incline before entering the clearing ahead—this was about survival. Who would live to tell the tale—the old Jack or the new Jack? I was beginning to understand that I could not go much farther in my life with the baggage I was carrying. I had to let go.

  My life depended on it.

  The clearing in the trees allowed a cascade of light to shine onto a field of grass on the peak of the mountain. I made it, I thought, enjoying the victory over the mountain. The path had now leveled compl
etely. I noticed the difference in the appearance of the trees and the foliage. “How high up are we?” I asked.

  “We’re closing in on almost 4,000 feet above sea level. The temperature is much nicer here on top, don’t you think?”

  A breeze helped cool down the physical and emotional duress fanning my frustration. A tall wooden structure loomed ahead.

  “This is the old fire tower. They don’t use it anymore, but you can get a great view from the top. Let’s put our gear down and make a climb to the top of the tower while we have the energy,” Benny said.

  After placing our backpacks at the base of the structure, we started to climb up the steep, narrow stairs. The condition of the stairway didn’t help my fear of heights. The planks of wood on the steps were in poor condition. Hearing the creak of each step, I wondered if the next one would be my last. I visualized the local newspaper running a story on my death: FAT PHILLY BANKER DIES IN FALL FROM FIRE TOWER.

  I walked as lightly as I could and joined Benny, who was waiting on me at the top. The view was stunning. The sky was perfectly blue, resting on top of the rolling mountains. The tower had a walkway around all four sides, enclosed by a railing. Benny described the direction and points of interest from each side as we circled the deck. Stopping at each vantage point, I made sure I was standing back safely from the railing.

  “I’m sorry I was so harsh when we were talking earlier,” I said, after he had finished telling me about the surroundings. “It really is tough to teach old dogs new tricks. I’m living proof.”

  “No need to apologize, Jack. I appreciate you putting up with an old guy who talks too much.”

  “Please, keep talking. I’m learning a lot about myself,” I said. “I’m struggling with some of the ideas you’ve shared. Honestly, it hurts to look at myself from a different viewpoint. I’m not a happy person.”

  “You know who can change that, don’t you?” he asked, comfortably leaning over the rickety railing.

  Benny looked out in the distance. “Things are clearer, now that the fog has lifted.”

  “Yeah, they are. But I have a question,” I said, preparing to open a part of my past that I kept buried.

  It was a question I had never asked before.

  We can’t fake the life we are meant to live.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN PRICE

  34. Why Do I Hate Who I Am?

  “WHY DO I HATE WHO I AM?” I asked, remaining a safe distance from the rail. I was feeling the same nervous tension I had experienced earlier at the cliff. “I think we can both come to the same conclusion—I hate me.”

  “It’s what you’ve done that you hate,” he said. “It’s guilt. I was the same way.”

  “I really don’t believe that—you can’t imagine what I’ve done. You’re just saying that trying to make a fat boy from Philly feel better about himself. I feel like I can’t change.”

  “Jack, look around. You’re still seeing fog! From my vantage point the world looks big to me—full of opportunity,” he said looking out at the vista of green mountains and blue sky. “You can change,” he said, pausing and standing erect as if to gain an even better viewpoint. “But there’s really only one right path for you to choose—your path.”

  “I’m not the same as you. I could’ve never done the things you’ve done, been as strong as you’ve been.”

  “We all have a different life—a different path to walk. I could never have lived your life either. My guilt about things that I had done—or not done—smoldered inside for years, burning me alive from the inside out. I couldn’t sleep. I did reprehensible things. I wasn’t on the right path—and I knew it. But I was afraid to change.”

  “That sounds like me—but whatever mistakes you’ve made could never top mine,” I said.

  “Jack, let’s not compete to see who’s a bigger jerk,” he said, chuckling and patting me on the back. “Let’s go down and get some lunch. We still have quite a hike back down the mountain. We’re only halfway there!”

  We unpacked our food and sat at the bottom of the tower on an outcropping of rocks, looking westward. We ate in a comfortable quiet—something I couldn’t recall experiencing. I enjoyed the food, and following Benny’s lead, I took my time eating. Even though it was just sandwiches, chips, and water, it tasted better than anything I had recently tasted. It was even better than Ann’s peach cobbler. Meals had been obstacles for me. They took up valuable time, and I felt guilty piling more calories onto an already bloated body. To make up for the thousands of calories my drive-thru trips to McDonald’s cost me during the day, I changed my tactic after work. Instead of eating I focused on drinking—another poor choice in my unhealthy life.

  Benny reached in one of the pockets of his backpack and said, “Look what I found!” It was a small sandwich bag holding several cookies. “These are homemade—we have to eat them—or Ann will get upset.” He slid open the clear packet and held them in front of me.

  I shook my head and said, “No thanks,” but he smiled and kept the cookies in front of me.

  “You deserve a reward—you’ve done a lot of hiking,” he said.

  “Okay, you twisted my arm.” I pulled a cookie from the bag and took a small bite, instead of putting the entire cookie in my mouth, as usual.

  “How do you like it here?” he asked.

  “It’s really nice,” I said, looking up at the trees encircling the clear area near the tower. A breeze kept the leaves and limbs moving. “Is the climb down as difficult as the climb up?” I asked.

  “No, but we want to take our time. You can miss a lot letting your momentum carry you.”

  “I know what you’re saying,” I said, smiling, taking the last bite of my dessert. Everything Benny said seemed to have a purpose. Knowing this, I reminded myself to listen more intently and think about what he was saying. “Momentum” was a force in my life. Stopping was difficult once I was rolling.

  “We still have a few minutes before we need to head back down. I’ve been thinking about what you said.” He paused and turned toward me. “I learned the hard way that we can’t fake our way through life, pretending to be someone else. It was a tough lesson, but I finally understood the idea of being comfortable in my own skin.”

  Those words fit me perfectly. I never felt comfortable being me. I wanted to tell him but stopped myself. I could tell he had a more direct point for me to consider.

  “My father was very successful in business. He owned a lumber mill and was very wealthy. But he was never happy. I saw it from an early age. He was happiest when he stayed in his own element—by himself—hiding away from life. But he rarely allowed himself that privilege.”

  “My father was like that,” I said. I thought about how I lived. I was so confused I couldn’t remember who the real Jack Oliver was.

  Benny said, “My father wasn’t aggressive, but he felt the need to be tough in his business dealings. He was quiet, but he believed he had to be outspoken to demand respect. He was peaceful, but his inner conflict made him angry and frustrated. So he drank to try to find some peace within. Of course, that wasn’t an answer. It made his worst traits more evident. Some people get docile when they’re drunk. My father became violent, wanting to fight. We had several scuffles, especially once I grew tall enough to look him in the eye. I tried to avoid confronting him, but that was impossible. He wanted a fight, fueled it with alcohol, and went down the wrong path.”

  “My father was an alcoholic,” I said, remembering my own confrontations. I paused and continued, “You said your father had your life planned out and wanted you to be an attorney.”

  “Yes, he felt like it was his duty as a father. And when I rebelled, he wouldn’t speak to me anymore,” he said.

  “The same kind of thing happened with me,” I said. “My father was a plumber. He owned his own business and wanted me to be his apprentice and take over for him when he quit.”

  “I can’t see you as a plumber,” Benny said with a huge smile.

  “
And I can’t see you as a lawyer,” I said, now sharing a smile for the first time in several hours.

  “But he could,” Benny said, slowly repositioning his view toward the westward mountains. “He died while I was a POW. The North Vietnamese looked for those things to take advantage of. Tom enjoyed telling me the news. He said, ‘Your father’s dead. He shot himself. He was a coward—disgraced by you.’”

  “The bastard,” I said. It struck me that Benny’s father had committed suicide. How could someone rich and successful do something like that? He had it all.

  “At first, his death had the opposite effect on me. Instead of being mad at the North Vietnamese, I piled all of the blame on myself. I wanted to die. I thought it was my fault.”

  The memories of the pain I had endured trying to understand my own father’s death seeped back in. “My father committed suicide,” I said, breathing life into a past I had buried. “He jumped off the Ben Franklin Bridge. He was depressed. Nothing seemed to go right for him. He gave up on living.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” he said.

  “It made me change. I became more career oriented. It really fueled my career—it gave me motivation to be a success. I never wanted to be like him,” I said with a grim reverence for my past. A weight seemed to be lifted from my shoulders as I told Benny of my experience.

  “It’s usually those points in time that cause us to change—cause and effect,” he said. “But even if you change course, if you aim in the wrong direction, you’re on the wrong path, and everything starts repeating itself. That was me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At first, I was depressed, blaming myself for my father’s death. Then, I turned the anger outward. I started to feel better—I had a purpose. I wanted to find a way to kill every North Vietnamese I could, especially Tom. I valued my life very little. I plotted and planned. I looked for opportunities. Over time, without any prospect to make my fantasy a reality, I became depressed. Those were dark days as a prisoner. The anger turned inward. The hate began to destroy me.”