Still, I've somehow grown throughout these past decades. It hasn't been easy.
My struggles were anything but steady. Lows were abyssal. Pains were crippling.
I weathered intimidation, assaults, treachery, and wild slander by inmates. I
incurred degradation, minor torture, coercion, threats, insults, and deprivation
from my warders. My basic human psychological and social needs were ignored,
and sometimes assaulted.
Despite this treatment, soft things within me have become softer with the
passage of time. When I sit up in the morning and glance out the window, I greet
most days with equanimity. I don't complain about the endless waiting – in line
for meals, on a list for medical care, or for the return of my physical
freedom. I'm grateful for the terrible food. More than once in recent years,
expressing gratitude for a simple act of kindness has brought me near to tears.
People I knew before prison can tell you, I was the guy who could (and usually
did) see the dark lining around every silver cloud. Some friends gave me the
longest, most ridiculous nickname as a result: Byron the Blackhearted, Dark
Cliffs upon which the Waves of Hope Break. Funny, right? Ha ha.
Except I was a miserable wreck. Oh, sure, I could smile and laugh and have fun,
but these were each fleeting, hollow acts, lacking substance or depth. I had
enjoyment aplenty; what I didn't have was joy. One is to the other as a fish is
to the skill of fishing – the outcome and the source.
Before prison I was often bored. I did things to kill time. I squandered hours,
days, and weeks. I believed that life was about pursuing hungers and thirsts
(which I fancied up by calling "acquiring experience"). I hunted down
and devoured what I called fun. In doing so, I occupied a kind of existential
vacuum. Yes, I was young. And yes, it's the way of young people to mindlessly
seek out indulgence and good times.
The more you make satisfaction a target, the more you miss that target and find
yourself feeling that it's not enough, that just a little bit more might make
you complete. Of course it doesn't. Still, this does nothing to dissuade from
the pursuit. Then the snake eats its own tail. The cycle continues.
People who develop fatal disorders or diseases sometimes have experiences
similar to mine with prison. It's been shown that knowledge of an imminent
death gives a greater sense of meaning to people's lives. Some go so far as to
say that they're grateful for their sickness, that they hadn't seen, until they
became ill, what was truly important in life. These people have envisioned for the
first time in their lives some kind of purpose. Whether that purpose is earthly
or spiritual doesn't matter, only that they feel it.
The realization of a meaning, the placement of oneself in a framework that
includes being of use and having some kind of future – these bring contentment
to even us so-called hopeless cases. I have a great job, my writing, and
relationships with people I love and care about. Above all, though, I have
hope.
A friend who totaled her car in an accident took the loss of her independence
pretty badly. When I called her, a few days after the accident, she voiced her
worries about getting to work, running necessary errands, and just maintaining
a social life without a car.
"The insurance company only provides a rental for two weeks. I'll have to
take the bus to work," she cried, sounding for all the world like a woman
on the brink of ruin.
"Well, there's your first mistake," I told her. "You're thinking
about this wrong. Instead of saying, 'I have to take the bus to work,' you
ought to say, 'I get to take the bus to work!'"
She fell silent. I couldn't blame her for feeling tipped over. Ten years
earlier, the Byronic thing would've been to serve her the same reply awash in a
tureen of sarcasm. My friend expected commiseration and instead got a friendly
rebuke. Prison life had changed me. I was no longer Missouri's reigning Prince
of Pessimism. I was someone else entirely. In her silence I heard the unspoken
question, Who the hell am I talking to?
So who am I? Who is anyone, for that matter? Buddhists espouse the philosophy
of no-self, the idea that because there are no definitive, fixed qualities that
define "me," selfhood is just an abstract concept and can't be said
to exist in any real sense. But of course – and here's the rub – Buddhism
doesn't claim that we don't exist, because what we experience is being
processed by someone. Thus we have at the core of existence a paradox: we
simultaneously exist and don't exist.
Uncertainty tends to make logical people very nervous. We fear what we don't
know. Because the future's arguably the most uncertain thing of all, we shore
up our psychological defenses with lists, savings accounts, insurance policies,
itineraries, investments, contingency plans, and more. When we're not busily
preparing for the unknown future, we're lamenting the unchangeable past. The
here-and-now becomes almost an afterthought.
Being present in a given moment involves a kind of surrender. It means abandoning
the urge to impose oneself on what is, and letting it happen. Some find it
terrifying. The desire to control is strong. But control is an illusion.
Circumstances are like the winds and the currents. At any time, a storm could
tear out of the west, or uncharted water could pull our little craft off
course. The most influence that we can hope to exert is a little direction,
when conditions are favorable. To fear winds and currents, therefore, is to
suffer. To expect a certain set of outcomes is to deny possibilities.
Remember Groundhog Day? It's a comedy but offers profundity that a lot
of viewers overlook because they're hung up on the big rodent and the
high-concept humor. In the movie, cynical TV weatherman Phil Collins (perfectly
played by Bill Murray) travels to cover a Groundhog Day festival in rural
Pennsylvania. First a blizzard that he predicted would miss the area traps him
in the town he so despises, then an inexplicable time loop forces Phil to
relive the same day there, with no hot water, no real entertainment, and
surrounded by the "hicks" he so despises. For Phil, it's a hell. He
kills himself repeatedly but always ends up right back in Punxsutawney,
Pennsylvania, on the morning of February second.
But when Phil discovers purpose and begins acting on it, within the bounds of
what's available to him, his day-long prison becomes a universe of infinite
possibility. He comes to appreciate the people and forms bonds with them. He
takes up piano lessons. He reads poetry. He learns to ice-sculpt. Forced to
relive the same day unendingly, he pushes aside his cynicism and chooses to
make his little world better, bit by bit. He saves a man from choking to death.
He spends time with a homeless man he knows will die that night. He replaces someone's
flat tire. He treats the woman he's come to love with respect and decency. Only
after finally living what he calls "the perfect day," Phil wakes up,
for the first time in a small eternity, on February third, the day after
Groundhog Day.
How often are comedies that are actually funny give us the meaning of life
without overt schmaltz and sentimentality? Even film critic Leonard Maltin
thought Groundhog Day deserved an Oscar.
Unlike Phil, my prison isn't temporal but physical, made of concrete and steel.
Being confined here, I could just surrender to despair and let myself languish.
So many other prisoners do. Instead, I've learned how to make my world a
powerfully dynamic one. I can still learn and teach, be of help to people, love
and be loved.
My mind – my not-self – exists without boundaries. So what's to be bitter
about? There are people living out there who can only dream of freedom like
this.
