This I Believe: Life Lessons (8 page)

The Power of Sleep

Anne Hoppus

I believe in the power of sleep. Pure, deep, easy sleep. Quiet, dark sleep, that removes you completely from the world. A good night's sleep.

Most mornings I drag myself out of bed, neither rested nor refreshed, starting the day already behind. I push my cat away, snap at my husband, and drive to work in a mildly angry daze. I'm not particularly a morning person, but it's not that. It's that most nights I stay up too late, stalked and driven by the to-do list that forever hovers before me. My eyes start to droop; my thoughts begin to wander. My body and the better parts of my brain signal me in every way possible that it is time to go to bed. But a nagging voice speaks up, pushes me ever onward, telling me that I have dishes and paperwork to do and miles to go before I sleep. And so I seldom go to bed when I should. I stay up too late, and my mornings (and my husband) suffer.

Oh, but those mornings when I have had enough sleep! Those mornings following nights in which I have successfully turned off my brain? Those mornings are gifts. I wake before the alarm and lie in bed, at peace with the light making its way through my window. My cat nuzzles against me, and I am happy to return her affection. I look at my husband, and my heart aches for a moment with love for him. I drive to work, waving other drivers ahead of me in traffic, preferring to have a couple more seconds of time out in the beautiful world.

On these days I am happier. I feel more love, more joy, more peace. I am better at my job. I think more clearly. I am a better wife, a better mother, a better pet owner. And, I get more done! On these days, the eternal to-do list is less daunting, more of a challenge than a judgment. With my newfound energy, I can clean house or wash clothes, I can write, I can grocery shop. Even better, on these days my well-rested mind and I can tell the to-do list to go to hell. We are smart enough to know that sometimes the best move is to lie completely still and just be. These are the days I live for.

I don't know how or when we stopped believing in sleep, when we relegated it to a status somewhere between “complete waste of time” and “something to do when dead,” but it's time to take back our nights. We need our sleep. The world would be a better place if we were all less cranky, less irritable, less exhausted. Even if the dishes aren't done.

I believe in the power of sleep. It's right at the top of my to-do list.

Where Wildflowers Grow

Maureen Crane Wartski

Rain, the pelting, driving, summer rain that falls on these Carolinas, forced us to take shelter under the overhang of a store. After the wringing and shaking out and the first relief of being out of the downpour came the question: Now what?

“Maybe they sell umbrellas in the store,” my husband said. He disappeared into the building and returned with a discovery. In the back of the store was a country-western nightclub. The band would be on in five minutes. Was I game?

It sure beat standing under the dripping eaves! We went inside and were seated, and in a few minutes the band began to play.

This was quite a band. The lead guitarist, blond and long-haired, hopped and gyrated among billows of multicolored smoke. The sounds were high decibel, but the beat was good to dance to.

There weren't too many of us on the floor. Most of the club patrons were seated at the bar, among them a hefty couple that looked as if they had walked off the set of a Hell's Angels movie. The young woman was dark-haired and dour; the man wore a muscle T-shirt and had multiple tattoos.

Suddenly, the lead guitarist quit his prancing to announce that he was dedicating the next number to a biker couple who'd just come from their wedding. The tattooed man led his bride to the dance floor, followed by their friends—and us. As we danced past them, my husband called out, “Congratulations!”

The bridal couple looked astonished. And then smiled so sweetly. “Why thank you, sir, ma'am,” the man said, softly.

His reaction put me in mind of a morning several years back when we'd been visiting our son in New York State. I'd taken a solitary walk, reveling in the abundance of birds and wildflowers, when I heard the roar of a motorcycle. Looking up, I saw a bushy-bearded, much-tattooed biker rumbling down the deserted, rural road.

I stepped to the side of the road to give him room, and he passed me in a whoosh of sound. Then he stopped his bike and got off.

I felt an adrenaline rush of pure panic as all of the horror stories I'd ever read rushed to my brain. Fear rooted me to the ground as that muscled, bearded figure advanced toward me and then detoured into a gully, where he commenced picking wildflowers. Seeing me stare, he shrugged sheepishly.

“My mom likes them,” he growled.

From childhood, we're taught not to judge a book by its cover, and I believe this with all my heart. Sometimes, though, I slip up. Sometimes, when I come up against someone who doesn't conform to my ideas of good taste or behavior or belief, I begin to pigeonhole them. No matter that I shrink from the idea of stereotyping, I do the very thing I abhor.

But when I'm wrong—and so often I am—I'm both humbled and overjoyed that my core belief is right after all. And that there is beauty to be found in as many places as wildflowers grow.

I Could Be Wrong

Allan Barger

I believe in uncertainty. I believe that the four words “I could be wrong” should be etched above every schoolroom, house of worship, political assembly hall, and scientific laboratory. Uncertainty is an odd creed, but I find it deeply spiritual, combining humility and a deep respect for the mysteries of God and life. It's not an easy creed.

My conversion to uncertainty came from my life. As an evangelical Christian and a pastor, I spent years trying to reconcile my religious certainties with the certain fact that I was gay. I tried being not gay for almost twenty-five years only to find I had simply been wrong. It didn't help, and it didn't stop. In the process I hurt myself, and worse, I hurt others. Sometimes, no matter how certain I am, life and God hand me a different message. This was my hardest lesson in uncertainty. I didn't lose faith in God, but I certainly lost faith in certainty.

My commitment to uncertainty grows today because I see an appalling excess of certainty around me. It seems to me that certainty visits a great many evils upon the world. I see religions lose their humanity because they are certain they know divinity. Some commit acts of terror and others acts of political intolerance all in the name of God. I watch political certainties create inflexibility in the face of changing information and situations. I see scientific researchers sidelined by other scientists when their theories challenge the scientific orthodoxy—sidelined not because they lack sound evidence but because accepting their evidence means rethinking cherished certainties. It's human to resist uncertainty. I resist it myself. But when my certainties are in overdrive, I act as if the truth will die if I can't make you see it and then I can do terrible things. I need uncertainty to keep me humble.

Some ask me if it's crippling to always question myself. I find it uncomfortable, but not crippling. I act with more confidence if I know in my heart that I'm willing to abandon my certainties if the facts, or the outcomes, turn out wrong. Today, as a teacher and a research analyst, I have certain knowledge. I'm also pretty certain what I want for my children and grandchildren. I'm politically active because I hold certainties about human equality, democracy, and spirituality. I'm certain of a great many things, but I embrace uncertainty because it makes me a better person. I do make mistakes; it's part of being human. The real error is to be too certain to see my mistakes. Certainty becomes a prison for my mind. Humble uncertainty lets the truth emerge. That's why I believe in uncertainty—but I could be wrong.

Everyone Is Included

Catherine Mcdowall

I was not the least popular kid in my school, but I was probably in the bottom third. Hoping to elevate my social position a bit before high school, I begged my parents for permission to throw an eighth grade graduation party. To my utter shock and delight, they said yes.

I quickly drafted a list of invitees, including only my two best friends and fifteen or so of the most popular kids. But when I brought the list to my mother, she shook her head and explained, “No, you must invite the entire class or the party is off.” Was she out of her mind? She rarely entertained her own friends, and now she was essentially forcing me to invite fifty or so young teens to our home?

Desperate for the party, I agreed to her terms. I spent an entire period of recess tracking down my classmates to pass out invitations. Perhaps not surprisingly, one of the last people I found was Maureen. Heavier and more awkward than most, Maureen typically spent recesses huddled in a corner trying to avoid the gaze of the other kids.

Maureen watched with apprehension as I approached her, no doubt fearing some put-down or teasing. I handed her the invitation and said, with a confident smile on my face, “I hope you can come, too!” I will never forget the look on her face as she took the invitation from me and offered a shy smile. At that moment, my mother's requirement to include everyone suddenly made perfect sense.

Some twenty-five years later, my own daughter, Sophie, started preschool in our neighborhood. At the parent meeting, we were informed of a rigid school rule: “Everyone is included.” For example, kids were not permitted to exclude other kids from their play, kids could not discuss play dates that happened outside school hours that did not include everyone in the class, cubbies could only be used to distribute party invitations if the whole class was invited, and so forth.

Later, I overheard Sophie imploring her younger sister to let her join a game of Barbies by explaining, “Everyone is included, Jessica!” This poignant incident made me recall my experience learning this mantra, and made me reflect on how universally this tenet applied to almost every area of my life.

I throw parties that are too crowded and that require too much preparation and cleanup. My small kids can get overwhelmed by the number of children at their birthday parties. The softball team I organize for my office has too many players. A quick lunch at work with one friend quickly morphs into a group outing of eight or ten. But these events, with their boisterous chaos and unpredictability, are more enjoyable to me than many smaller events or intimate gatherings.

More significantly, in my work as a prosecutor, I believe that the law applies equally to everyone. The theft of a Ford Escort should be prosecuted with as much fervor as the theft of an Escalade. The rape of a prostitute deserves as much attention as the rape of a suburban mom. And the murder of a drug dealer should be pursued as heartily as the murder of a prominent public figure.

More broadly, my political and religious beliefs are founded on this tenet as well. Democracy is premised on the concept of “one person, one vote.” Jesus taught us to “love your neighbor” and lived this commandment by loving enemies, tax collectors, prostitutes, foreigners, lepers, sinners, and even those who would harm him.

The vivid memory of Maureen's happiness at being included in my party helps to remind me of the value of this core belief and to apply it even when it may be difficult to do so. This is what I believe, and it guides me to this day: everyone is included.