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When I first heard this phrase I doubted that one could actually help themselves with little or no outside assistance or influence. That is, I doubted that people could improve their situation by their own efforts. Oh, I knew that the idea of “pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps” had early American origins when people who had fallen down would literally grab a hold of their bootstraps—when the laces were made of leather—and use them to sit upright. I was aware that you could get out of difficult situations by your own efforts, but my doubts extended to any feats much greater than that. I was truly a skeptic.
Exactly when the realization occurred to me that indeed each of us has far greater control—power—over our lives than what we believe or imagine is unclear, but it happened while I was in college.
Until I went to college I followed the programming dictated by my genes and by my environment. I was truly unaware of the control—power—I had. I was like an animal that was locked in a cycle of instinct. When animals are hungry, they eat. When they hear a loud noise, they run. When they are attacked, they fight. When they come into season, they mate. Animals live the way their genes and their environment have programmed them to live. They lack the control—power—that humans have.
But to recognize the control—power—we have requires both awareness and experience. For me, it happened when I realized that I had control—power—over my destiny. If I took the right courses, made the right choices, and performed at my best, I could take advantage of the control—power—I had over my life. What an incredible realization!
It was as if I had to transcend my programming. It wasn’t that my parents or my teachers were giving me bad advice or the wrong advice, it was as if—suddenly—I was in charge of my own programming. I realized that what I did and did not do had very significant results which would directly affect my life. I now—suddenly—had the control. It wasn’t that the power was given to me; it was there all the time. It was simply that I not only became aware of it, but I realized I could use it to make decisions, solve problems, and choose how I wanted to respond to the things in my world. Suddenly, I was programming myself.
This realization changed my life. This realization determined my fate. This realization directed the courses I was to take and the profession I was to choose. How did this happen?
Until college, I had allowed my life to serve the ends that had been handed down to me. >From kindergarten through two years of college, I was trying to make my parents happy. I knew that becoming a medical doctor would do it, and I had rationalized this lifetime outcome and accepted it as my own. But when I realized the control—power—I had (could wield), I realized at the same time that I could break the chain of events that had shaped who I was, and I could learn to shape myself. It was just the power I needed to participate in my own fate!
I wish I had written it down—when that moment occurred—because as I look back on it now, it was as if a lightning bolt had woken me up from a deep sleep. I needed that lightning bolt to wake me up to my own strength. I needed that lightning bolt to wake me up to the role I wanted to play in my own destiny. I needed that lightning bolt to shock me into the discovery that I had the control—the power—to choose what I thought, what I did, and what I said.
The difference between being asleep and being awake is the same difference between having a dream and making that dream come true.
The reason I wish I knew exactly when that moment occurred is because that was the very moment I understood that my life was going to be whatever I chose to make it. It was an astonishing new world for me. What is it that happens to you when you suddenly realize that you are in charge? What changes occur in your psyche when you realize that you are the master, leader, ruler, manager, supervisor, or commander, and the people in your charge must do exactly as you dictate? It’s a real “head-trip” isn’t it? It’s like a power surge with all the corresponding electrical sparks sending out shock waves in all directions.
Suddenly I became aware of the limitless possibilities that surrounded me. All at once I felt both a sense of humility and power. I felt humility because I realized that life is a gift—in humble, meek, and submissive honesty, I realized that I didn’t ask for life. It was simply given to me. But, too, I can’t deny it; thus, I accept the gift of human life with acknowledgment, appreciation, gratitude, and thanks. Animals weren’t so lucky; I was. And animals weren’t given the most potent gift of all—the power to choose. They don’t have the same control or power that I have.
That lightning bolt did not just wake me up, it thrust me out of bed and onto a life course of growth, development, and change like nothing I had previously experienced. As a child, I was, by nature, dependent. Often, for many people, that dependency continues into adulthood, and it could have for me as well—relying on others, or on circumstances, to give me what I wanted, instead of taking that responsibility upon myself.
When I woke up to the power of choice, I not only became aware of my own strength, I became forever independent. I realized that I could give myself what I wanted, and I was no longer content to rely on others to get it for me. I realized what I could give myself, and I was no longer willing to accept only what the world felt like giving me. In this way, I could now refuse to settle for less. What control—power—I had!
How important was this realization for me? It was like I had suddenly come to my senses. I now saw things more clearly than ever before. My limitations were no longer limitations. I saw them for what they really were—bad dreams. When viewed in this way, bad dreams quickly lost their power over me in the same way nightmares lose their edge the moment I wake up.
When the realization of my control, power, and choice over my life occurred, I felt a great sense of freedom and possibility. It was as if there was a freeing of the spirit, a release of my creative juices, a liberation of my inner being. I found myself free to imagine more useful thoughts, to dream more pleasant dreams, and to turn those dreams into reality—to pull myself up by my own bootstraps!
One of the most fascinating things I learned in a basic speech course I took as an undergraduate at the University of Michigan was information on the Johari (pronounced Joe-Harry) Window. It was named after its inventors, Joseph Luft and Harry Ingham, and the reason I liked it is because it was such a useful, practical model for describing the process of human interaction.
The Johari Window is simply a four-pane “window” which divides personal awareness into four different types, and these types are represented by the four quadrants of the window. The upper left pane is called the open window, and it represents all the information that is obvious and available to both individuals as they communicate with one another—information, that is, that both share such as dress, nonverbal cues (e.g., facial expression, eye contact, posture, gestures, and body movement), as well as the words and ideas actually exchanged.
The upper-right pane of the “window” is labeled the blind pane and represents an accidental disclosure area—things you do not know about yourself that others know. For example, what if others detect a reluctance to communicate, habits you are unaware of, or a pattern of communication (always avoiding looking others in the eye, for example) of which you are unaware.
In the lower left-hand corner the pane is labeled “hidden” because it represents self-knowledge that we deliberately hide from the other person. There are certain things all of us know that we do not want to share with others. For example, we may not want the other person to know how we really feel about them, really feel about the topic being discussed, or that we really don’t have the time to talk right now. Anything we want to keep hidden from the other person would fit in this window.
For me, however, it is the lower-right pane labeled “unknown” that has always captured my interest and attention for it truly represents the unopened doors of our lives—information that is unknown to yourself and unknown to others. This pane represents all the parts of you that are not yet revealed. That is—in other words— for us to grow, change, and develop in new ways, we need to move beyond our comfort zone and stretch. When I was introduced to this pane, one accompanying comment was: “A person’s mind stretched in a new direction, will never return to its original dimensions.”
What I have discovered through my teaching, speaking, and writing career—and it came as a shock—is that everyone doesn’t have the same motivation to grow, develop, and change. More likely, people fall along a continuum:
Blockers _ Content _ Apathetic _ Appreciaters _ Seekers
Just a brief word of explanation about this continuum may help. Moving from right to left, there are those I label “Seekers” who want desperately to find out all they can about themselves. You might even say they are on a mission of continual self-discovery. Then, there are “Appreciaters” who are not actually looking for information about themselves; however, if they discover it, that’s fine, and they appreciate and can deal with it. In the center of the continuum are the apathetic who just don’t care, or it doesn’t interest them in the least. Moving to the left of center are those I label “Content” because
they are satisfied with who they are and with what they know.
Finally, at the far left on the continuum are “Blockers” who will take strides to prevent obtaining new information about themselves. They may be represented by comments such as, “I know what I know, and don’t you try to change that,” and they will purposefully avoid people and situations where growth, change, and development has the potential of taking place: “I’m done with school,” they might be heard saying.
The point of the continuum is to demonstrate that people have different views regarding the unopened, mystery doors of their lives. It is a little like teachers who enter a class of students to find them open, accepting, and responsive to new ideas versus teachers who enter a class of students who have no interest whatever in learning and only want to play video games or talk with each other.
For adults who appear at the center or to the left on the continuum there is likely to be little hope. As a teacher, it is something I really hate to say. But when you are trying to reach/teach those who are truly apathetic, truly pleased with who they are and what they know, or, actually blocking the effect of any new information, there are few resources anyone has. Admittedly, teachers may have some luck with the apathetic; however, in our media-saturated world, the things that would result in growth, development, and change, probably wouldn’t compete well.
When you think about opportunities that will enhance us—open those mystery doors of our lives—if they don’t offer greater adventure, excitement, interest, or challenge than what can be found in media-related activities and pursuits, what is likely to be the outcome? It may not be a fair comparison, but I’m afraid it’s the kind of comparison that suits the lives of many people today no matter where they lie on the continuum.
One essential key to opening mystery doors has to do with connecting with others. The most productive path is one that fosters a deep level of caring about other people, encourages supportive relationships, improved communication, creative ideas, positive emotions, and pleasant physical sensations. It is the path, too, of resolving conflicts, collaborating with others, and solving problems mutually. The only way to discover such a path is by adopting or demonstrating empathy, acceptance, honesty, and mutual respect. The more connectivity we promote, the more likely increased awareness, compassion, integrity, and heartfelt communications will result.
The way to transformation, transcendence, wisdom, spirit, and heart is by making a commitment to stretching the boundaries of our mental, spiritual, and physical worlds. With such dedication, we can then break out from our present comfort zones and develop meaningful, openhearted relationships, deep learning situations, intimate communication, profound ideas, poignant emotions, and physical renewal. Only with this kind of growth, change, and development can we open the mystery doors of our lives.
That, of course, is the last line of Dylan Thomas’s most famous poem “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” [1952], and, to be certain, one of the greatest lines ever written. The poem is addressed to Thomas’s father as he approached blindness and death and, too, reflects Thomas’s profound respect for his father’s uncompromising independence of mind, now tamed by illness.
Thomas’s father had been a robust, militant man for most of his life. When in his eighties, he became blind and weak, and Dylan was disturbed seeing his father become “soft” or “gentle.” In the poem, Thomas is rousing his father to continue being the fierce man he had previously been:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The majority of us will succumb to natural causes late in life.
When the Reaper comes calling, how will you greet him? With defiance or serenity? With sorrow or laughter? With planning and preparation? Or, will you trust your inspiration of the moment?
For guidance, Benjamin Franklin’s comment in 1789, offers little solace: “In this world, nothing can be said to be certain except death and taxes.” Of course, there is some comfort in certainty. Because of such certainty, too, one may find great consolation in not thinking about it at all—in any way. Death becomes a natural part of life to be accepted.
Fear of the unknown. Think about how much of our lives is oriented around resolving, or at least assuaging, our fears of the unknown.
Fear of death may involve worry over being just corpses in graves when we die, the fear of decaying, leaving loved ones, bringing sadness to the family, being judged, or facing it by ourselves; it could be the lack of assurance of one’s salvation, or unknown answers to worrisome questions such as will it be painful, will it involve suffering, could I have prepared better, or could I have lived a better life? Fear of death could involve missing being alive, not seeing friends anymore, or not being able to move. Or, when looking back over one’s life, asking the question, is that all there is? There could be any number of concerns.
Considering the number of potential fears reminds me of Act II, Scene II of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, when Caesar remarks to Calpurnia, “Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once.” This is not to suggest that the various fears of the unknown are specious or unwarranted, it is simply a reminder of how compelling fear of the unknown can be as one’s psyche is wracked time and again by the impending doom.
Better to lock these fears away in the basement of our subconscious. When fears of death intrude into the course of daily life decades before old age arrives, it detracts from quality of life by fostering debilitating anxieties, neuroses, and depression.
My life is focused on avoiding dying before my time by minimizing risks. Perhaps I don’t possess the angry defiance of reality that Thomas’s poem represents, but when you contrast the rage with the phrase “Do Not Go Gentle,” then it better represents my view that death is a disvalue to be avoided up to the last breath. It is, indeed, an end I struggle against—without giving it an actual voice or existence—all my life.
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” however, provides a wonderful motivator that we must savor life while it lasts. It, too, has power as a memorable phrase.
If we consider our lives as narrative, then, when we were young, there wasn’t much of a story. Now, however, the story is further along. We are not only into the action and development of the narration, the strands of the plot now are weaving together in interesting ways. Ways, I might add, that are unpredictable, unexpected, and unanticipated. Life has become far more interesting, creative, and exceptional.
I hold similar beliefs to those expressed by Nathaniel Branden in his book Honoring the Self (1983). We needn’t dwell on the past, even though our memory of a meaningful past contributes more and more to the developing narrative, but the past affects our sense of current goals and actions. These goals and actions have significant value for our present and future, but they contribute, too, to a life of which we are the author. It is a story that we began years and years ago, but as we are beginning to see, has more coherence and significance than we could have imagined. Of course it will come to a close at some point.
It is important to understand that the ticking of the clock is not a tragedy. It is essential to the meaning and excitement of life and to the intensity of love and joy. “The glory of life,” writes Branden, “ is inseparable from the fact that it is finite.”
Our most important concern, regarding our impending death, is simply to live well and without regret. Focus on life. We have only the here and now. We need to make the most of the time we have left. Since death is inevitable, we must face it with rationality and dignity. That could be one of the most important impressions we leave for others.