So. I asked.
“Dr. Papaderos, what is the meaning of life?”
Uneasy laughter followed, and people stirred to go. Papaderos held up his hand and stilled the room. He looked at me for a long time, asking with his eyes if I was serious, and seeing, from my eyes that, yes, I was.
“I will answer your question.”
Taking his wallet out of his hip pocket, he fished into a leather billfold and brought out a very small round mirror, about the size of a quarter. He turned the mirror over in his fingers, and began talking in a quiet, reflective voice.
“When I was a small child, during the war, we were very poor and we lived in a remote mountain village. One day, on the road, I found the broken pieces of a mirror. A German motorcycle had been wrecked in that place.
“I tried to find all the pieces of the mirror and put them together, but it was not possible, so I kept only the largest piece. This one. And by scratching it on a stone I made it round. I began to play with it as a toy and became fascinated by the fact that I could reflect light into dark placès where the sun would never shine—in deep holes and crevices and dark closets and behind walls. It became a game for me to get light into the most inaccessible places I could find.
“I kept the little mirror, and as I went about my growing up, I would take it out in idle moments and continue the challenge of the game. As I became a man, I grew to understand that this was not just child’s play but a metaphor for what I might do with my life. I came to understand that I am not the light or the source of light. But light—the light of truth, understanding, and knowledge—is there, and that light will only shine in many dark places if I reflect it.
“I am a fragment of a mirror whose whole design and shape I do not know. Nevertheless, with what I have I can reflect light into the dark places of this world—into the dreary places in the hearts of men—and change some things in some people. Perhaps others may see and do likewise. This is what I am about. This is the meaning of my life.”
And then he took his small mirror and, holding it carefully, caught the bright rays of daylight streaming through the window and reflected them onto my face and onto my hands folded on the desk.
Much of what I experienced in the way of information about Greek culture and history that summer is gone from memory. But in the wallet of my mind I carry a small round mirror still.
I know what I can do with it.
And what I can do with me.
Are there any questions?
You might like to know that this story has a life of its own now, traveling around the world, passed on as a treasure by those who read it. I wish to keep it moving by this retelling. A part of the story is close by me as I write this. One Christmas, Dr. Papaderos gave me a small velvet pouch. “Keep this for me,” he said. Inside was the mirror.
82
The Way of Water
From its inception, the purpose of the Orthodox Academy of Crete was postwar reconciliation between people and cultures and ideas. Simple: Bring intelligent people together—something good might happen. But progress was often hard and slow and frustrating against the headwinds of lasting antagonism. Still, surprising breakthroughs were often made. And the accomplishments of the Academy were not always achieved in solemn convocations.
There are other ways.
Cretan humor and cleverness played their part.
I will tell you a story—of three minor miracles.
One of the earliest conferences held at the OAC involved fairly high-level politicians from France, Germany, and Greece. They and their spouses arrived with serious attitudes—wearing serious clothes—as if prepared for a serious court hearing instead of dialogue. Unresolved feelings of mistrust hung like curtains between them at the reception and the first meeting. The national groups did not even mix and mingle informally at the first dinner.
A tense affair.
The Executive Director of the Academy, Dr. Papaderos, was vexed by the unproductive atmosphere. What to do?
And then a strange thing happened. During the night, somehow, the water system failed. Strange, because the Academy’s facilities were new—all the utilities functioned well.
At breakfast Dr. Papaderos declared the problem and said the only solution was to organize a bucket brigade from the spring at the nearby monastery to bring water to the Academy’s storage tank so that all might drink, and flush toilets, and wash. The participants would have to do the work until the problem was fixed. Were they willing?
Well . . . well . . . OK.
Thus in the hot Cretan summer sun, the French and Germans and Greeks, in shorts and bathing suits, began hauling water. As they became tired and sweaty, the inevitable happened. The French began splashing water on each other. The Germans and Greeks joined in. Suddenly whole buckets of water were being thrown, and it was not long before an all-out water war was going on in the road between the Academy and the monastery. Nobody was exempt—not even the monks or the Academy staff or Dr. Papaderos. Nationality was forgotten in the good-humored melee. Playful chaos prevailed. And, best of all, there was laughter.
A minor miracle.
A supply of cold beer appeared. The second minor miracle.
And sopping wet, tipsy on beer, and united in the great fun of a water war, the conference was at last ready for serious business. It went on to fine accomplishments in a spirit of lasting reconciliation.
The third miracle: Water at the Academy was restored that night.
Though Dr. Papaderos only smiles to this day when asked about the miracles, everybody guessed who turned the water off and who turned it on and why.
This story reminds me of lines from the Tao te Ching:
Nothing in the world
Is as soft and yielding as water.
Yet for dissolving the hard and the inflexible,
Nothing can surpass it.
The soft overcomes the hard;
The gentle overcomes the rigid.
Everyone knows this is true,
But few can put it into practice.
I know at least one man who knows how to put this wisdom into practice. I pass him every day in the halls of the Academy.
He knows why I sometimes smile at him. He is a clever man.
It makes me a little nervous sometimes when he smiles at me.
When I arrived in Crete this year, the plumbing in my house was backed up. Cleaning out the drains was a dirty, humbling task, but I did it. My accomplishment gave me a new relationship with the maintenance staff of the Academy. Dr. Papaderos seemed pleased. He smiled at me when I told him what I’d done.
I do wonder how the drains got stopped up in the first place.
He wouldn’t . . . ?
83
Intersection:
Writing the Life
A Greek journalist asked me, “Do you follow a set of principles about your writing?” Well . . . yes and no.
I tend to dodge and weave when asked to explain about the writing process. I don’t think I have any wisdom to add to the abundance of books and courses about writing. But the truth is that I do puzzle over why and how I write. And I have addressed three memos to myself about what I do. The memos are posted prominently on the wall of the studio where I work—in the space where I sort ideas at the beginning of a writing project.
Over time, the memos have been reconsidered, expanded, and revised, because I actively consult them. They are included here at the suggestion of friends who browse the scrapbook accumulated on my walls.
“Might be useful,” they say.
The memos are at the least windows opening into the workshop of my mind when I am Writing the Life.
Have a look.
84
Unfinished Manifesto
Creative writing is an art.
Being an artist is a way of life, not a job.
Do not write to make a living; write to make living worthwhile.
Write to make sense of my life and then pass that along.
W
rite from having lived as wide, as deep, and as varied a life as possible. Specialization is for insects.
Use both solitude and company. And remember that it is just as easy to fail at solitude as it is to fail at being a companion.
Creative writing is a moral, social act. Don’t lose sight of that.
Justice, mercy, love, and freedom are not the work of the gods or politicians, but the work of those who willingly risk seeing the world with open eyes—who do not turn away, but address what they see.
Good ought to be—evil ought not to be—and you can’t be an artist if you don’t know which is which and on what side you must come down.
An artist should strive to be useful.
85
Voluntary Exile
A second sheet of paper is posted alongside the Unfinished Manifesto. In order to concentrate on writing I usually shut myself away in Utah or in Crete, or take long solitary journeys where I can be reached only with difficulty. My self-admonitions for such times are these:
Go on. Escape over the walls of your asylum.
Go slowly. On the side of your cart, write ONWARD!
Pull the cart yourself.
Collect kindling for your fire as you go,
But expect spontaneous combustion.
Live in the tent of the invisible traveler.
Abandon irony; cage ennui; shrug off the pale clothes of the mundane.
Nail angst to the floor and stomp it flat.
Set aside the dead brick of certainty.
Eat the bread of uncertainty for lunch.
Carry the wine of carelessness and drink deep.
Sing. Dance. You are the only audience who cares how well.
Look through the lens of passion and joy.
Be a-mused—the muse that laughs.
Always ask the next question.
Always take the long way around.
Always turn back two blocks short of the abyss.
Go on. You may.
Be as many people as need be.
Never go back the way you came.
Go on. Do it yourself.
Go on. Never quit.
Go on. Never finish.
Go on. Flourish.
86
Instructions for Wayfarers
This last memo is a permission slip—from me for me:
They will tell you: All the trips have been taken.
You will say: I have not been to see for myself.
They will insist: Everything has already been said.
You will insist: I have not had my say.
They will tell you: It’s all been done.
You will reply: My way is not finished.
But be warned: Any way is long—and any way is hard.
Fear not.
You are the gate.
You are the gatekeeper.
You may go through and on and on.
And fare you well.
87
Meanwhile
Some sense of being successful in life may lie in knowing which league to play in. If you are and have always been short, chubby, and slow, and your sense of success means playing striker on a World Cup soccer team, failure will be your lot in life.
Wrong league.
However, if you are pleased to play goalie on a local playground team with other short, chubby, and slow people—and you have a wonderful time doing it, then you are a successful soccer player.
Right league.
And the same is true for any sport—tennis, baseball, volleyball, poker or whatever—pick a league worthy of your abilities and flourish there.
Or, as Epictetus said in the first century BC: “If you can fish, fish. If you can sing, sing. If you can fight, fight. Determine what you can do. And do that.”
Likewise, some sense of being successful in life may lie in knowing on which scale you work best. For example, an astronomer is one whose mind can work on a cosmic scale. A physicist is one whose mind can handle the quantum scale. A theologian—the metaphysical scale. A historian deals with the long picture. A psychiatrist works with the deep picture. A cook or taxi driver attends the immediate situation. Poets and artists operate on a very personal scale.
Many people die confused and unfulfilled, because they spend a life trying to perform above or even below their abilities and perspective—usually a matter of working on the wrong scale.
Epictetus said, “Why worry about being a nobody when what matters is being a somebody in those areas of your life over which you have control, and in which you can make a difference?”
Why am I telling you this?
When I arrived in Crete this year I found on my desk a letter addressed to me from a German scholar who had lived in my house for a time while I was away. She has read my books and reads my Web site journal postings.
After expressing appreciation for my writing and the use of the house, she asked some hard questions:
Why did I not address the political issues of our time, especially the actions of the present American government administration? Why did I not address the humanitarian issues of our day? Why was I not outraged as an American with the evil done on my behalf? Did I agree that might makes right, that the end justifies the means, and that God is on our side? How can I support the fundamental position of Zionist Israel? Did I really believe the American Way was the only Way? Did I have any real understanding of how America is perceived in the world now? How much hatred and contempt is felt? Why was I silent on these burning issues? Why did I not run for office and do something?
Answer: It is a matter of league and scale.
My mind works on the scale of the local, the daily, and the ordinary.
Writing about that is the league in which I am competent.
I tend to be simple-minded, plain-spoken, and optimistic.
I attend to my corner of the world as best I can with the tools I have.
Of course evil and ugliness exists, as much now as ever.
These get all the headlines. We all know about the bad news.
Plenty reasons for pessimism. The wrongs of the world are clear.
I’m as outraged and frustrated as most of us are.
And I send money and vote and sometimes march in protest.
Still, we shall all die. The climate will change. The seas will rise.
The glaciers will be back. Life will evolve in unimagined forms.
And, finally, the Earth will fall into the sun.
That’s the truth.
But for the time being, there’s what I call The Meanwhile Factor.
Meanwhile, I remain astonished at the good and lovely that exists.
And most of it is free and readily available if I’ll look for it.
Meanwhile . . . is the league and scale of the amateurs like me.
I do not have the skill to play professional sports.
Wrong league.
I do not have the competence to be an astrologer, physicist, theologian, chef, historian, politician, psychiatrist, cook, or taxi driver.
Wrong scale.
Neither the talent to be a poet, musician, or artist. Nor writer of great literature or even thrillers or detective stories or political commentary.
Wrong ambition.
I am a storyteller at heart. I am a man who goes about trying to be awake to the news of the immediate ordinary world; to make sense of what I see; to pass my thoughts along. I try to answer the Great Mother Questions. I ask, out of amused confusion, “What is going on?” and “Have you noticed?”
And I say, in one way or another, “Meanwhile, don’t miss the good stuff. Pass it on.” If I have a message, that’s pretty much it.
There. Not a self-defense or an apology.
Just a statement of position.
The world and the universe go their inevitable way.
Meanwhile . . . I know what I can do.
Meanwhile . . . I do it.
The Essays
1. Mother Questions
2. Solitude
3. Intersection I
4. View Property
5. The Longer View
6. Moon View
7. The Way It Has to Be
8. Otters
9. The Chair Men
10. Watch Out for Trucks
11. Summer’s End
12. Cursed
13. Back and Forth and Back . . .
14. Used Feet
15. Cheese Head Rules
16. First Grade and a Trilobite
17. Hopelessly Confused Sometimes
18. Just a Moment
19. Rockman
20. Freaky
21. Square
22. Halloween Hangover
23. Flashlight Advice
24. Fools and Fat Butts
25. Thanksgiving Spring for Babycakes
26. What Remains
27. Sunday Morning
28. Players
29. Sidewalk News
30. Taking Chances
31. My Fault
32. Neighborly Solutions
33. Amateur Joy
34. Intersection II
35. Half a Conversation
36. Cowboys
37. About Water
38. The Train to Birmingham
39. Meditation on the Death of a Fly
40. Night Thoughts
41. Bling!
42. Guest Towel
43. Charley-Up-a-Tree
44. A New Year, New Broom
45. Intersection III
46. Asbestos Gelos 150
47. Being There
48. Olympics on a Smaller Scale
49. Irrational Actions
50. Not Even Chickens
51. Liturgical Laughter
52. Epictetus and Plumbing
53. In the Flow of the Mud and the Light
54. Solstice with Nose Music
55. Winter Count
56. The Story of the Leopard in the Village
57. Megalo Paskha 201
58. The Invincible Ioannoulla
59. Two Weeks Later
What On Earth Have I Done? Page 17
