The Three-letter Word That I Will Never Forget

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Years ago, after an unexpected surgery, I became manic. At the peak of mania I experienced life like a child living it for the first time.  Back then, I frequently felt goosebumps, chills and wonder despite the fact that I was confined in a high-security psych ward.

Eventually, court-ordered medication “cured” me by thrusting me into an emotionally flat state I referred to as “the verge of tears.” Under the drug’s influence, my world lost its former vibrancy. Adrift and dispirited, I longed to feel goosebumps, chills and wonder once more.

Desperate to escape my passionless prison, I sought passage back to those manic pleasures. I read books, watched videos and browsed the internet to find a pathway. Was it the touch of God? A spiritual awakening? What contemplative sages had sought for millennia? Months passed without an answer and I eventually accepted my numb life—until my heart began to fail.

Without warning, I found myself in an ambulance with sirens wailing and lights flashing rushing toward an emergency room. Upon arrival, the medical staff whisked me away as if I were at death’s door. Tests revealed that my heart rate was a mere thirty beats per minute—when it beat at all. In no time, a doctor delivered the diagnosis: the atrium of my heart had ceased functioning.

With defibrillator pads affixed to my chest and side and a plethora of electrodes tethered to the lifesaving equipment surrounding me, I gravely awaited the root cause. When the answer came, I was not surprised: the medication I had grown to hate was killing me. A cardiologist abruptly discontinued it and admitted me to a telemetry ward where nurses monitored me for three days while my body detoxified.

Once freed of the medication, my mind soared once more and I relived the feelings I had so obsessively sought. I told no one for fear of being committed again or forced to endure yet another poison. When I finally stabilized, I described my temporary ecstasy to my wife as “a state of grace.”

No longer numbed by drugs, I subsequently felt the feelings regularly. As I basked in their glory, I wondered: could meditation take me increasingly heavenward? Or would I, like countless addicts, wind up chasing an unsustainable high? Reluctantly, I eschewed temptation.

Over time, I noticed what triggered them: seeing a beautiful photograph; reading a moving story; watching an inspiring movie; riding a motorcycle through snow-capped mountains; standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon; witnessing the splendor of the Taj Mahal.

Recently, I read an article in which people described similar feelings: being unaware of day-to-day worries; a deepening of the senses; a feeling of oneness with life; goosebumps; chills; tears of joy… The word that they universally used to describe their experiences jumped from the page and I knew that my search was over. I could not believe that three simple letters could embody what I felt: awe.

Are Indian Drivers Crazy?

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Recently, my family and I had the opportunity to experience many modes of transportation on the crowded streets of northern India. Our two-week journey took us through six cities and five states. As our travels began in Delhi, one question immediately came to mind: are Indian drivers crazy?

Nothing can prepare you for the sensory overload of driving in India. In addition to drivers’ wanton disregard for such universally accepted standards as stop lights, lane lines, and direction of travel, you never know what you will encounter. Sleeping cattle, trees in the middle of traffic lanes, herds of water buffalo or sheep, human, horse, or oxen powered carts, monkeys, elephants, goats, dogs, pedestrians, and inanimate objects are commonplace. Adding to the mayhem, a cacophony of horns blares non-stop.

“You need three things to drive in India,” a driver, Hari, informed us, “a good horn, good brakes, and good luck!” Another driver, Vickie, cheerfully shouted “India, India,” each time he narrowly avoided disaster, sometimes adding “I love my India,” after an especially close call.

I longed for the calm, order, and safety of roads back home in Arizona where pedestrians cross the street only at stop lights that display a white hand when it is safe to do so and large, orange numbers count down how much time is left to cross; where Animal Control picks up strays, and fences hundreds of miles long prevent wildlife from entering freeways on which one can easily exceed eighty miles per hour (130 kmh); where car horns are seldom heard.

Nevertheless, after observing Indian drivers for days, a different picture began to emerge.  When one driver, Ashok, wished to overtake lumbering trucks that sported “HONK PLEASE,” or “USE DIPPER AT NIGHT” on their tail ends, I noticed that he would honk or flash his high-beams. If the road ahead was clear, the truck driver either flashed his right turn signal or waved a hand out of his window indicating that it was safe to pass.

More and more I noticed that honking, waving, and high-beam flashing were not signs of anger, but communication. They were a courtesy extended not only to other drivers but to animals and pedestrians as well.

As I adjusted to Indian driving, I grew to deeply appreciate the communication, compassion, and skill of drivers. Never once did I witness anyone angry or uncooperative. Vehicles missing each other by mere inches highlighted not carelessness, but a keen awareness of the vehicle’s dimensions and how it fit into the limited road space available. More importantly, in almost two weeks of congested driving, I never once saw an accident or a dead or injured animal.

I learned that when people respect life and each other, when they share space instead of trying to own it, and when they are engaged and focused instead of distracted, there is little need for rules.

Then, I considered the differing reality of my homeland. A plethora of enforced rules has made drivers complacent, bored. They plod along like cattle, distracted by technology and entertainment when they should be dedicated to driving responsibly. If an animal or person steps into the road anywhere but at a stop light, they will almost certainly be gravely injured or killed. Instead of being used to communicate, horns seem reserved for expressing outrage.

In the U.S., I’ve witnessed as many as six accidents an hour while driving on a perfectly sunny day on a straight, eight-lane freeway with moderate traffic. We’ve become lazy, irresponsible, uncaring, and selfish drivers. If we offend someone (by taking a bit of their space), instead of honking at us, they may harass us for miles or threaten our lives with a handgun.

Rules can never replace common sense. Increased regulation robs us of skill. A lack of compassion and commitment kills countless thousands of people and animals every year.  We could all learn something from Indian drivers who somehow make unimaginable situations work seamlessly.

I am thankful that we made the decision to skip the tour bus in favor of cars and rickshaws and experience Indian driving intimately. The drivers who shuttled us everywhere showed infinite patience for my ceaseless questions about India and Indian driving while they skillfully avoided disaster from moment to moment.

Despite my shock over situations we routinely encountered, I felt safer in a tiny rickshaw crammed with six passengers and having no safety equipment whatsoever than I ever felt surrounded by airbags and restrained by a seatbelt in the U.S.

Kudos to Indian drivers who, as it turns out, are not crazy after all. In my opinion, they rank among the best drivers in the world.

 

Image courtesy of Hugo Cardosa, Flikr Commons

In Search of a Priceless Gem

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I received a two star review a few days ago, so I thought it would be a perfect opportunity to talk about writing. I could give you my opinion of that reviewer, and why she gave me that review, but the fact is you cannot please everyone.

You also cannot shrug those reviews off. Readers are your customer. You must instead ask, “How can I do a better job?” If 20% of your readers give negative feedback, explore how you might improve customer satisfaction to lower that number to 10%. That bad review could be the best thing that ever happened to you.

Basketball players sometimes fret about missed shots. I disregard the missed shots and focus on making a swisher—a shot that passes through the hoop without touching the rim or backboard. Swishers have a pleasing sound that screams bulls-eye! Even with closed eyes, you can appreciate a swisher. On your writing journey, do not sweat the missed shots, and treasure the swishers.

Being a writer demands risk taking and dedication. Open doors you wouldn’t normally open. Ask questions you’re afraid to ask. Say yes to challenges you’re terrified of. Write at work. Write in the restroom. When your muse is on fire, never say no to it even if it is 3AM. Write every chance you get and always strive to improve.

Do not be afraid to discard a paragraph, chapter, or entire manuscript, and start over. Accept that most of what you write is garbage, but hidden in that garbage is a priceless gem. You may have to go through a truckload of garbage to find it, but when you do, you will be glad that you never gave up.

Whether it is a blog post or a novel, do not be in a rush to publish. A typical novel goes through four rounds of editing. Blog posts deserve equal scrutiny. Slow down and enjoy the ride. The finished product will reflect it. I found a university creative writing instructor, who for a very reasonable fee reviews every important piece that I write. Her assistance is priceless, and she welcomes the extra income and a chance to help a fellow writer.

After reading that two star review and making note of anything I could improve, I reread a few of my five star reviews and reminded myself why I chose to write in the first place.

 

Image courtesy of Toshio