tuesdays with morrie
it's always a refreshing read, Tuesdays with Morrie. Highly inspiring and motivating. It's a sad story - I mean, anything that discusses death is sad, but this one has a very unique approach to it, it's actually a blend of things happy and sad. Weird, I know, but I feel like I'm enlightened now that I'd re-read it. as if I'd been given an entirely different perspective on life. a very positive one, if I may add.
The wisdom of Morrie is amazing. For somebody at the brink of death, it is impossible not to admire the way he talks, really. How positive he saw things, how full of love he was. The ordinary person, when faced with such problem, is expected to be all bitter and God-cursing and such… but Morrie was anything but that.
Down to the last minute, all he had to give was love.
I found myself identifying with author Mitch Albom better now than when I first picked up this book a couple of years ago as a senior in high school. His description of his life and musings as a frustrated piano player turned sports writer hit closer to home now than it did two years ago.
Two years ago, I saw his world like an outsider looking in - a hopeful senior without an inkling that soon, I will be seeing the same world through the eyes of a struggling sophomore Journ major. Disillusioned as I am, I feel like I'm seeing things more clearly now.
Now, just like him, I feel compelled to do everything on a deadline, in a mad rush like I was driving in fifth gear. Like him, I feel like I'm always in a hurry, running around, doing the things I have to do almost automatically. Like him, I feel like I'm chasing something without a face, and at eighteen, I don't even know what it is just yet.
Morrie says most people are unhappy because they go about life like they were half-asleep. Because they chase the wrong things, because they put their values on the wrong things, because they put all their efforts into accomplishing the things they think matter, but in reality do not.
Morrie says most people are unhappy because the meaning of their lives have eluded them, time and again. Which is probably the reason why they're still running.
Sad as it is, I realize he's right. I realize I myself am guilty of the things he pointed out to Mitch. I myself am guilty of burying myself in accomplishments, thinking I could control things with them. I myself am guilty of burying myself in work, because work was something tangible, something sensible, something responsive. I myself am guilty of sacrificing relationships and choosing work over people, thinking work ought to weigh more, thinking work took precedence over everything else. Even people. I am not proud of this, but this is what I've been doing for years now.
It is this identification with Mitch that drew me to Morrie and his wisdom.
Reading Tuesdays with Morrie felt like listening to an old mentor. At the edge of death, he has so much to say, so much to teach. And at the core of his teachings is the one most important thing most of us ignore - love. Some do because they think it doesn't matter. Others do because they simply don't understand it. I think I'm guilty of both.
At the core of his teachings is love, something which seemed like it didn't fit inside a cold world where people lived wrapped up in their own disillusioned lives of self-centeredness and accomplishments. Again, I am not proud of this, but that's where I'd spent more than half my life - right there in that world, where I, in an effort to conform and belong, in turn wrapped myself in my own pride and vanities and misaligned priorities.
I, too, thought I was damn good, walking around with a cigarette that's not quite unlit hanging from my lips, seeking identity in a façade of toughness. I'm anything but tough, but it's a defense mechanism of some sort. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, I could fool people into believing I knew what I was doing. I was foolish enough to think I could fool the world.
And then, I realized I couldn't fool the world, and it's because the world doesn't give a damn, after all.
It crushed me and my pride, how little and insignificant I am, despite everything. Remember, I thought with all I've been striving to accomplish, I could control the things around me.
Morrie says status would get me nowhere. And that if I were showing off to the people on top, they'd still look down on me anyway. The realization hit me cold like a brick across my forehead.
It all boils down to one thing - love. Again. It always wins, he says.
I found myself reluctant to believe him, when he said the most important thing in life is not money, not work, not fame, but love. The most important thing, Morrie says, is to give out love and to let it come in.
Now, I find myself asking how such emotion could have so much bearing in a world where people are judged based on how much they earn, how much they own, how much they accomplish. I find myself asking how love could be the answer to everything in a world where how well one performs is more important than how much one loves.
But then again, Morrie says, culture isn't always right. The culture we have now doesn't encourage people to feel good about themselves, and maybe he's right. Maybe he's right in saying we have to be strong enough to resist culture.
Morrie says culture teaches people the wrong things. He says it teaches us to put great value on material things that don't satisfy us. We are so wrapped up in the little things, the distractions we think we need just to keep going, day after day, that we lose sight of the things that ought to matter. Like family, relationships, nature - the very basic things, those that we take for granted. We live in a world that glorifies routine and stereotypes as signs that things are okay when they're not. Perhaps he's right.
Another point for Morrie, none for me still.
Morrie suffered from amyothropic lateral sclerosis, a disease of the neurological system. It was a very painful disease, and it renders its victims helpless by making them lose control of their muscles. Because of it, he was confined on a wheelchair, or in his bed, unable to move around, experience the world. Yet he has a very positive outlook on life.
On the other hand, here I am, physically well and able, and I'm complaining about my life? This simple realization made me think about my issues with self-pity - if a dying man could afford to look at life with a smile on his face, why couldn't I? I'm eighteen, and because of the pressures I had imposed upon myself, I had contemplated suicide more than once in the course of two semesters.
And this man right here, he wanted to live, despite the cruelties of the world whereas I had wanted to die. It all seems selfish now, it really does. Morrie does have this knack for making people feel somewhat ashamed of themselves.
I admire Morrie for a lot of things. I admire him most for being in touch with his emotions. He says people are too busy being afraid of their own feelings, too busy being afraid of pain, too busy being afraid of love and the vulnerability it brings. His lesson about detaching oneself from emotions was something I found useful and challenging.
I also admire him for his work ethic. He promised himself that he would never do any work that exploited somebody else, that he would never make money off the sweat of others. I found that an admirable goal, and I think in the profession I'm seeking to enter, my goal shouldn't be any different. He believed in fairness, in justice. And I couldn't agree more.
Another thing I admire him for is his listening skill. He listened like the one he was talking to was the only person on Earth. He says you should be with the person you're with fully. People are great with the small talk, but seldom do we listen to another person without any hidden agenda. Most of the time, when we're talking to someone, our thoughts are somewhere else. I found myself taking mental note of this the next time I interview somebody. I resolve to be there on the interview, and not let my mind wander to my plans for the next few hours, my exams the next day, or the friends I plan to meet soon.
Morrie taught me a lot of things, and I haven't even met him, and sadly enough, I will never get the chance to thank him either. I will never get the chance to thank him for teaching me to forgive myself for the things I didn't do. I will never get to thank him for teaching me how to align my priorities. I will never get to thank him for shedding some light into the dark corners of my mind, where there used to be only doubts and insecurities. Now there's only a refreshed sense of commitment to the work I choose to do, the vocation I choose to pursue.
Morrie taught me to make my dreams happen. He taught me I should see through the rubble, recognize my potentials and stretch myself to the limits. He taught me to find what's good and true and beautiful in me, in my life and in what I do, because that's where happiness is.
Morrie taught me I should devote myself to loving others, the community around me, and to things that would give my life meaning and purpose. I think in the profession I'm seeking to enter, this is a rather important lesson. Many of us become professionals just for the sake of earning money. Morrie taught me that things could be worth a lot more than that.
Most importantly, with Morrie, I came face to face with my own mortality. He's right - everybody knows they're going to die, but nobody believes it. I have this certain WonderWoman tendency, this ridiculous idea that the world was on my shoulders, that I could do everything because that's what's expected of me. Morrie made me realize I'm just me, and like everybody else, sooner or later, I'm also going to die.
The question is, inevitably - am I ready to go anytime? Have I left enough of myself for the world to remember I even existed?
Morrie has the answer, and he says, death ends a life, not a relationship. The memories will be there, the love one created when he was still alive will be there, and one can die without ever really going away.
And that's what I'm going to do - do and be and love all I can until I could say I could die without ever really leaving, firmly planting myself in the lives of the people I plan to reach out to and touch, both as the person and as the journalist I plan on becoming. Soon.