What Can I Do?

Every day we turn on the TV, we are bombarded by the ills of the world: crime, war, poverty, hunger, natural distasters, and the list goes on endlessly. It is truly overwhelming. And many times, after this onslaught of negativity, we’re left with the question of, What can I do? How can I make a difference?
 Here’s a thought: you don’t have to donate money or start a charity to help the world’s cause. You can simply begin to care. This sounds almost too simple, but the impact that it can have on an ailing world is tremendous. It can literally save the world.

A thought of inspired love is more powerful than any amount of money in the world. It’s just that very few of us equate a thought with true change. A loving thought, I repeat, is electrifying.

You may ask, Isn’t this convenient and cheap? Never. You see, the ancestor of every action is a thought. With enough thoughts and enough love, you will eventually be moved into action--significant action--and possibly not even know it. This blog, which helps many of my friends and strangers alike cope with real life-issues, began as just a caring, loving, nourishing thought. Believe it or not, this world is a little better for it.

And this is in no way meant to be presumptuous. I would’ve just as well done it anonymously, except that my unique voice and experience add credence to my message. When Bob Dylan first exploded onto the 60s counter-culture scene, he was very careful to deflect personal questions about himself. The place inside him from which his music emerged had nothing to do with Bob Dylan the man. It was something deeper and more mystical. So is my message. You can remove the name and face, and it’ll still remain wholly transcendent and universal.

Love moves mountains and knocks down walls. When we genuinely care for people around the world, when we can watch the news with love and not judgment, we strengthen the chains of God’s love and gradually begin to erode the hatred and madness that vie for our attention. This applies to anything and anyone. When I see a homeless or physically disabled person, I quietly send a prayer his or her way. When I see a grove half-cut to pave the way for an overpass, I send a powerful vibe of love in its direction. These examples demonstrate an interesting but true variation on the phrase, Charity begins at home.

I personally try to avoid the news because I don’t need to know about all the horror that’s going on. Or, as Dylan himself sang, “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.” Suffice it to say that a lot of messed-up stuff is going on. Watching the news can only blunt the buoyant optimism that is already your birthright. Stay positive at all costs. Don’t let the propaganda of fear victimize you. Be aware, but don’t be overwhelmed by the world’s ills. The best thing you can do from where you are is send your love and care.

Go With Your Heart

I was at Target earlier today. I actually go to Target just about every other day; it's like my personal Kwik-e-Mart, as a cashier once jokingly remarked to me. On this visit, I came to buy a pair of dress socks for work. Of the two pairs I ended up purchasing, one was $2.50 and the other was on clearance at a spectacular $1.75 (you know what they say, every penny counts!). The cashier commented on how nice they were, too bad the nicer pair wasn't on clearance. I appreciated her honest opinion, but expressed to her that in reality I thought that the pair on clearance was nicer. She smiled at my dissent. “You know,” she commented, “most everyone I’ve rung up has bought the other pair. You’re an anarchist. I like that!” I never knew that the purchase of a pair of socks would amount to my possible overthrow of government.

But she is right, I do go with my heart. Whether it’s a pair of socks or an important stance, I’ve never followed the crowd. For me, there’s no surer sign of demise than to follow the masses like, I hate to use this expression but it beckons me to use it, cattle to the slaughter. The life and health of our souls demand our individuality, so long as it doesn’t hurt or harm anyone.

One of my favorite bookmarks contains a quote from Confucius: “Whatever you do, do it with all your heart.” The heart, you see, is the only intrinsic barometer we have. The mind is only an impostor. The heart triumphs during the dark, rainy day.

Going with your heart doesn’t mean to shun the community, or close the door on your neighbor. In fact, the more you go with your heart, the wider your arms will open to those around you, and the deeper you will tap into your communal, tribal self. At heart, we’re all tribal creatures. We all seek one another’s approval, love and support.

This may seem like a paradox, but it’s not. When Martin Luther decided to renounce the monastery and nail the 95 Theses on the door of the All Saints’ Church, he was not only defying a corrupt papacy but also hoisting up millions of Christians around the world. And all it took was one man going with his heart.

Try it today. Choose something, no matter how little it is, and just go with your heart. Do it more and more. Make it automatic. Your heart may go with the crowd on most things, but inevitably something will come up for which your heart will run contrary to the masses. Hold still. Stay firm. Lift up your head. And go with your heart.

Outside In

Earlier this morning, I had one of the more fruitful conversations in quite some time. A middle-aged couple came into my store. It’s always a custom of mine to make conversation with my customers, especially early in the morning when hardly anyone comes in, in order to establish rapport, even if the conversation is not, let us say, product-related. This is simple Customer Service 101. As it turns out, they needed me more than I needed their conversation.

They spoke in broken English as they described to me what particular pair of shoes they were looking for. I immediately made it clear that we didn’t sell that particular model. Having worked at both a retail and an outlet, I immediately recognized that shoe as a retail-only product. I gave them the address of the nearest retail store and even took the trouble to look it up on my phone’s GPS to make sure they didn’t get lost, as I’d already established that they were Latin American tourists (they only spoke español among each other). Up to this point, I hadn’t spoken a word of Spanish. I like to surprise people like that.

Finally, I broke my Spanish silence. I told them my computer would actually tell me if that particular store had that shoe or not (I think I was so engrossed in giving them directions that I’d completely forgotten that I had this option, and could thus save them a long trek). They were delighted and a little surprised at the fact that I spoke Spanish, and excellent Spanish at that. They didn’t hesitate in asking me where I was from, and the husband guessed before I could even open my mouth. “Puerto Rico!” he yelped. He was actually half-right: I’m Puerto Rican and Dominican. But I simply acquiesced to being Puerto Rican--his boisterous guess was so full of energy that I just didn’t want to disappoint this man.

I then asked them where they were from. In fact, I’d been quietly wondering about this the whole time they were there. When they answered Venezuela, I did something almost reflexively that personal experience has taught me never to do (yet somehow I still inevitably do): I uttered the first thing that came to mind--in this case, President Hugo Chavez. They laughed a hearty laugh and said something, very half-assedly, to the effect of, “Oh yeah!” But ignorant as I sometimes can be, I continued (something I’m leaving out is that I’d just seen a movie touting the goodness of Chavez the night before). “Yeah, he’s such a good president. Finally, you guys have a leader that doesn’t bow down to the American empire, who nobly serves the interests of the population, and shares the petroleum wealth with those who most need it!” I was so impassioned that even my fellow associate stole a glance at me that seemed to say, What is up with this boy?

I could tell right away that this did not still well with them. A vacuum sucked all the life out of the room. The man spoke, not with anger but with a tenacity unlike any I’ve ever seen before. He told me of all the horrors that Chavez had wreaks on the population; of his exploitation of petroleum to aid his cronies, such as the Cubans and friends in Bolivia; he told me that Chavez's nationalized television network alone rules the airwaves. He spoke for about five minutes unabatedly while his wife nodded to literally every point he made. This was a man on a mission. Not only that, you could see that he’d been waiting to get this off his chest for a long time. And he didn’t hide it, either. He said that he wouldn’t be able to say what he was saying now back home. He’d be imprisoned.

But as I scrutinized his arguments I quickly realized that he was essentially indifferent to the plight of the poor masses that lived in the barrios and that would likely never see anything except Venezuela. I noticed, too, that he was dressed in more or less Western, trendy attire, as well as his wife. And, beyond all else, I noticed that they happened to be at my store!, which is considered more or less an upscale shoe boutique, even as an outlet. In short, I realized that I was preaching to the wrong crowd. They were not members of the voiceless, Venezuelan masses, these were products of the affluent middle class--those who hate Hugo Chavez for plundering their wealth in order to distribute it among the poor, a sort of presidential Robin Hood. I’m neither condemning nor condoning this. It’s too hard to take this kind of stance when one looks from the outside in. And I was wrong by being blindly misled by a documentary which almost certainly contains an ulterior agenda.

As I said, this man didn’t speak from anger. He was actually very cordial. He simply spoke from a deep sense of passion that obviously stirred him; he spoke from his heart. He spoke from the only thing he knew. He spoke to me as if I was his fellow brother. He simply wanted me to understand. I put myself in his shoes. If I were to live in Venezuela, knowing English and having a Bachelor’s degree, I’d likely be a member of the middle class as well. I’d likely have a white collar job. Can I blame this man?

But here’s perhaps the crucial distinction (and again, I don’t claim to be holier than anyone, as I can only speak for myself): I’d never ever let socioeconomic status get in the way of my charity and my equal love to all.

We said goodbye to each other with a firm, brotherly hug.

A Case of Beer

Just now, something quite remarkable happened. After my daily workout with my friend Jose, we stopped at the gas station real quickly to get my daily bag of Doritos (what can I say, old habits die hard). As I stepped out of my car, I saw one of my neighbors leaving the gas station. He had a look on his face of utter despair. He looked at me but didn’t seem to recognize me, as there was no emotion registered in his face and he simply looked away. “Don’t you recognize me?” I called out to him in Spanish. This time around, he did--but he didn’t smile. He came up to me and got very close, to the point that I felt his breath on my face like a gust of wind. He told me that his mother had just passed away that day and that he needed a case of beer, just for today, to get through the trauma--or at least cope with it what he could.

I was immediately on two separate guards. The first was that his mother’s death resonated deeply with me, as my dear brother Dave passed away just under a year ago. The second was that I didn’t want to help him by buying him a case of beer; after all, this isn’t help at all but simply an insult to the injury. And I explained that to him. But he insisted. And he was very tenacious. The tears rolled down his eyes as he explained to me how sick with grief he was. He told me he needed the money because he’d simply forgotten his wallet at home and didn’t want to make the long trek back only to have to return again. I knew it wasn’t a money issue; he is, after all, a homeowner (and an impressive one, at that) and owns two vehicles; more importantly, he is well-respected within the community. He pleaded with me from the deepest wells of his heart.

I was here, too. When Dave died, I found solace in the bottle. I drowned my grief in beer. But with the help of God, family, friends and mostly myself, I broke out of it and made a conscious decision to stop drinking--forever. I’ve now been clean for eight months (the longest in my life by far), and I’m glad to say that I don’t even crave alcohol anymore. Alcohol is simply no longer a part of my existence. The way I see it is, I don’t know about ten years from now, but I know that I won’t have a drink today. That’s how you conquer all demons: one day at a time. This affirmation has revolutionized my life.

Finally, I succumbed to his pleas. I bought him a case of beer. I don’t feel good about this, but I don’t feel bad either. The simplest way of describing how I feel is: I understand. But I also understand another thing: I didn’t help him at all. Alcohol will never help him. The best thing that can help him is him. He needs to harness that strength within and re-establish his divinity. I gave him my number and told him to call me. The help this time around won’t be alcohol, it’ll be words of love, sympathy and compassion.

I have kept his name anonymous because I do not want to tarnish this good man’s name; and because, after all, that wasn’t him. He is a beautiful soul in a time of hardship.

I hope he gets better. I know he will. And he can count on me for anything.

Except alcohol, of course.