Trigger Happy

6,500 languages in the world. I only know one.

It's the language I learned. In kindergarten, it was Dick and Jane and their dog Spot. In grade school, please and thank you. By high school: shit, ass, fuck. (Full disclosure: that was middle school.)



Joko Beck had a story about rowing a boat on a foggy day when another boat smashes into your stern. You're furious with the careless dipshit that just scratched your paint job, but you discover the boat is empty.

Where does the anger go?

The boat didn't cause the anger. It was the thoughts about the dipshit driving it. The boat simply triggered our unconscious beliefs about ourselves and life. In some teachings, the boat is a Buddha graciously showing us where we're stuck.

It is not the anger.



This past week, my Buddha has been Bobby.

Bobby is a lap dog I'm babysitting. At his house, Bobby has the life. In the morning, his owner prepares him cantaloupe. At night, it's a scrambled egg. He gets three walks a day and has run of the house.

Bobby's not cool with our house. Bobby doesn't like wet grass. He wants to pee on the deck. I carry him into the yard to pee-pee. But Bobby's smart. When it's time for pee-pee, he runs away. When I get him, I stand in the yard with a handful of doggy snacks singing, "Pee-pee, now. Pee-pee, now" and watch him sprint for the door.

Trigger, meet anger.

I'm angry because he won't do what I want, like stop pissing on the deck and come when I call. Those are my thoughts, my beliefs...that he should do what I want when I tell him. And they're irrational. I know this because I have friends that work wonders with horses and dogs. They understand a language that animals understand. I'm floundering in Dog Speak 101.



Recently, I began reading Non-Violent Communication by Marshall Rosenberg and discovered a whole new language. Over the last 16 years as a college teacher, I've come to realize how my words affect others. What I say and how I say it can trigger reactions. When there are 30 students, there are a lot triggers.

Choosing my words and actions carefully can prevent unnecessary reactions, bridge impasses, and can stimulate growth. Just as importantly, it can shine the light on my own triggers and what lies beneath my actions. What is the true nature of experience? Where does the anger go?

Here in a minute, I'll let Bobby outside. He will graciously show me my belief systems.

Pee-pee, now.

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What I Wasn't

Flash fiction: a story told in a few words.



By some accounts, the shortest story ever told was by Hemingway:

"For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

Six words is all it took. Six. I never get tired of rehashing all the possibilities, all the heartache and complexities that come along with selling baby shoes, never worn, via a Want Ad.

Recently, I submitted a story to a science fiction website, 365 Tomorrows. I had 600 words to tell a story. They ran it. It goes like this.

WHAT I WASN’T

It started with a flash.

Like the Big Bang, an explosion that swallowed everything. The pain sunk deep into my head, and then was replaced with blurry colors. There were no edges to the blobs floating before a background of gray. The pinks and the browns and the silvers and the blues shifted in silence that was so deep and perfect, like floating in a pristine ocean.

And then the silence was gone, obliterated by the sounds of a tapping keyboard and a young man talking. His name was Ben. He just broke up with his girlfriend, said he was ready to spread his wings. You know, fly a little.

“What’s wrong with her left eye?” Madeline asked. 

She was the one making the keyboard rattle. A colorful blob merged into my line of sight and then—SNICK—my left eyelid slid up. More colors.

“Hand me the drops,” Ben said.

The drops were cold and slippery. They burned my eyes. I blinked the world into focus. Ben’s hair hung over his ears and he hadn’t shaved in days. His eyes were green, like the green of new growth. The white collar of his lab coat was pulled up.

He flashed a bright light in my left eye. “How’s that?” he asked. “Can you see me?”

He spoke like I was deaf or old. I was neither.

“Give me something. Sing a song, belch…something.”

“Stop badgering her,” Madeline said. “She’s not ready to talk.”

An argument ensued. I was left staring at a gray ceiling with an attached rail that encircled us with a heavy plastic curtain. I realized, not until that moment, that I couldn’t move. My body was like wet metal shavings, the table hard and cold. Madeline made the keyboard dance while Ben fiddled with a tray of medical tools.

That’s when the memories came.

I remembered Christmas and my dog and the time Simon brought flowers to work and sang and I blushed. I remembered all the little good things and the little bad things, how they hurt and how they pleased. That’s when I smiled.

“There,” Madeline said. “Give her the mirror.”

Ben stuck something in my hand. He lifted my naked arm, wrapping his hand around my dead fingers. I saw my red hair spread over my shoulders. My skin was fair and my eyes were green, like emeralds.

“Heather.” I watched my lips move. That was my name.

Madeline kept tapping the keyboard. Ben danced around the table and rubbed my hands and legs. The feeling came back with pins and needles. The sensations came in dense waves, as if my body had fallen asleep. Ben massaged my arms and shoulders and feet. I sank into the incoming tide of memories to escape the discomfort, each one a jewel that reminded me who I was.  

There was sledding and the time I learned to drive and a funeral and my first kiss. I remembered my life.

Ben was rushing to the other side when he slipped. Falling, he grabbed the curtain. The metal rings pinged as the plastic ripped away. We weren’t in a small room, not like I thought. I let my head roll to the side. I saw more tables like the one beneath me. On them were nude women with red hair spilled over their shoulders and fair skin. Their eyes were closed, but I knew they were green.

“Damn it, Ben.” The keyboard clattered at high speed.

And those sweet, sweet memories went away.

http:bertauski.com

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What Tomorrow May Bring

Our potential for good is matched by that of destruction. At any moment, change can fall on the world, people fight and die, and our comfortable lives can be lost to corrupt leaders. These are circumstances we can’t imagine, but places like this exist in the world today. 

What if tomorrow brings that grave reality to us, and we wake to find our lives in flux, poverty and confusion? Perhaps humanity’s insatiable appetites drive us to the brink of survival where sanity is redefined and life, as we know it, changes forever. 

Tomorrow, our lives could be very dark. 

Dystopian tales take us to these lightless places where suffering is a daily chore. But they also show us that in the deepest part of the night, pitched against a backdrop of despair, a beam of hope will shine brighter than ever before. And in our darkest moments, it can show us the way back. 

On May 1

Follow 11 authors into 11 dystopian tomorrows, where the dark portions of our humanity have taken hold of today, where the fabric of society is torn and greed consumes us all. Follow us down a dark path.

And find out what tomorrow may bring.

Get your copy today!

Open Minds, Susan Kaye Quinn

The Moon Dwellers, David Estes

Prison Nation, Jenni Merritt

Daynight, Megan Thomason

Stitch, Samantha Durante

The Annihilation of Foreverland, Tony Bertauski

The Girls from Alcyone, Cary Caffrey

The Narrowing Path, David J. Normoyle

The Rain, Joseph A.

Virulent: The Release, Shelbi Wescott

External Forces, Deborah Rix

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Reality is Relative

We map the universe with five senses

Interpret reality with our mind

We rely on this body

What a poor vessel it is

Get the sequel to Halfskin for 0.99 

until the end of this week. 

Clay has arrived.

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The Halfskin series

Moderation is a Bitch

I don't have to lose weight. But I should.

In my mid-40s, things don't work the same. I need glasses to watch a movie and I read notes like Redd Foxx. I don't sleep through the night without a trip to the bathroom. If you're 40+, you know there are other things.

My son could eat lard for breakfast and still be a rail. He'll  burn it off with 19 year old metabolism and a weekend of skating. I exercise five days a week, but I can't eat lard. In fact, the older I get, the less indulgence I can afford.

I was listening to the audiobook The Mindful Way Through Depression that introduces the practice of mindfulness by eating a raisin. By engaging all the senses, he transforms the simple act of eating one raisin into something exquisite. I eat my food like a desperate wolf. When my wife made vegetarian burritos, I stared at the lone burrito on my plate, aware of my thoughts.

• This isn't going to be enough.
• I need chips.
• I just want to be happy.

What was interesting was that these thoughts were non-negotiable. I WILL eat another burrito. I WILL eat chips. And, later on, I WILL eat dessert. This, by the way, did happen.

I had lunch with a friend who recently got into shape. He described his process of slowing down when he makes decisions, pointing out that we tend to rush our actions when we know they are compulsive so we can't change our mind.

Eating is challenging, no doubt about it.

Things like cigarettes or booze, we can cut those out. Not eating. Eating presents the challenge of self-deprivation and self-control. It's not just being fully present with my dull oatmeal, it's being fully present with hunger. Saying no to an awesome dessert. It's one burrito, not two. It's being fully present with life as it is, regardless of how I feel about, with no guarantee I'll lose weight or reduce my nightly trips to the bathroom.

Moderation is a bitch. I think the Buddha said that.

http:bertauski.com

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Who is the Teacher?

I've learned more as a teacher in the past 15 years than I did as a student.

It's the moments that I stop being a student that I fail as a teacher. I feel less like an authority, more of a messenger. I don't have anything special, I've just been doing it longer than most of my students.



When I first started, I handed out a lot of I don't knows to questions. But as the years accumulated, I found answers and passed them along. Now, fifteen years later, I look like an expert (to some). However, it doesn't seem special any more than walking or running, which, to a toddler, might seem quite impressive.

The challenge, as I see it, is to find a way to connect through the embodiment of beginner's mind. What's it like to hear about a concept for the very first time? How can I present this information, this experience, in a way that someone can digest?

This is assuming that all students come with sharpened pencils and shiny apples. If they did, it would be like sailing across glass. But they bring with them the messiness of life--the emotional hardships of home, the confusion of identity and the conflict of survival. They bring with them everyday shit that makes the waters choppy.

For some, it's quite stormy.

Can I find a way to cut through the wind, to be a beacon in darkness, to share with them direction? Not if I have no light to show, no direction to point. But if, every day, I arrive at work as a student in front of the class, I might do so.

But if I am a student...who is the teacher?

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A Ticket to Dignity

Let's be honest, it's a speed trap.

The road had recently changed from 45 mph to 35 mph when the town decided to just pull the 45 mph signs. It still FEELS like it should be 45. Ask the people getting busted on a daily basis, they'd agree.

My ticket in the process.

So I head down ticket alley and see a car pulled over on the right shoulder. I follow the two cars ahead of me into the left lane, giving the officer plenty of space to get back to his car. Twenty seconds later, I've got lights in my rearview.

I find the nearest side road, wondering if he's going to bust me for going 38. Or maybe my speedometer is broken, or there's a taillight out, or he doesn't like blue pickups.

"Do you know why I pulled you over."

"No, sir."

"You are required by law to slow down 10 mph below the speed limit when passing flashing lights."

This, I did not know. Apparently, switching lanes isn't enough.

I give him my info. My driving record is spotless and I wasn't going unreasonable fast, so I expect a warning. I get a ticket for $165 with no points. He tells me I could've gotten a $500 ticket and 6 points. This feels ludicrous, but I politely take the ticket.

I'll go to court in February. I'll plead guilty and, in most cases, the judge will knock the ticket in half. I'll pay the $80 and leave and never, ever, ever pass flashing lights without slowing down.

But here's the thing.

I want to plead my case. I want to pay $0. I can afford the fine, I won't get the points, but I want to win. I want to plead not guilty and explain to the judge that there was an entire lane between me and the officer and that, in fact, I wasn't speeding. I could even claim to be going under the speed limit. He didn't have a speed gun on me.

But all that's not true, and I know it. I wasn't an entire lane over. And I know exactly how fast I was going because I use cruise control on that stretch. All I have to do is lie and, maybe, I'll get the fine reduced even more or, hallelujah, have it thrown out.

How common has dishonesty become? We see it practiced in courtrooms, in politics, and everyday life. We teach our children to be true to themselves and others but, when it comes right down to it, we sometimes knowingly lie, even if it's tiny, insignificant self-deceptions for our own benefit, because it's not the truth that matters but what you can prove. I'm guilty of this. Sometimes, it happens so automatically, I don't catch it until later. Am I really going to sell my dignity to beat this ticket?

The measure of a man is what he does with power. --Socrates

Here's what I hope happens: the judge looks at this ticket and reads the officer the riot act for such misjudgment. Here's a citizen with a clean record and, by switching lanes, was clearly observing your safety. The fact that he didn't slow down to 25 mph does not warrant a ticket. Now give me your badge, you are relieved of duty.

Here's what will happen: pay the fine and leave.

And from now on, Mr. Bertauski, slow down.

http:bertauski.com

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