Stephen King or a Stiff Drink?

 
Lately, I could use a stiff drink -- the kind of liquid satisfaction that comes from a book that promises to deliver life-changing enlightenment and eternal happiness, all from the convenience of my living room.

As you may remember, I quit Self Help Books about a year ago. However, I recently discovered a new form of self help book and I must admit it has caused me to fall off the wagon with a thud. This new kind of self help book is more subtle. It doesn’t hit me over the head with a title like “Be Happy Now.” It doesn’t make overt promises. There are no charts or to-do lists.

It is the self-help memoir.

These are stories about people who have helped themselves out of whatever rut they were in and are happy to retell their adventures along the way. The not-so-obvious promise is that by reading this book, maybe I can do what they did, learn the lessons they learned, and then improve my life accordingly. I’ve read these kinds of books before, but never lumped them into the same category as “Self Help” because, hey -- they’re memoirs, right? Right?

Not really -- at least not for me; not if the one reading it has the intention of obtaining Self Help. Then it becomes a little like the alcoholic who claims not to drink, but then sucks down a bottle of vanilla extract. Instead of enjoying the book for what it was intended to do -- to be an enjoyable read that may deliver a few personal insights along the way -- I tend to exploit the book for my own personal gain.

Recently I read Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. This is a really great book which I won’t review here except to add that it’s a fascinating story of how she turned her life around. Needless to say, I devoured this book, examining each and every word and phrase for an ANSWER to my discontent. I came away with a few words of wisdom, such as:

- Recognize yourself as a friend
- Practice unconditional love of self
- See another’s anger as an expression of their fear

And so on...

All great stuff. All valuable. Her story is very uplifting -- unless you’re a Self Help Book addict like myself. As usual, I felt like crap after reading it which is my pattern after reading a Self Help book. Because when all is said and done, my life is pretty much the same as when I began. I still get frustrated at the long commute to work. I still feel overwhelmed by the demands of my job and my family. I still get angry. I still get sad. I am bothered by it all. Therefore, I reason that I’m a failure for not managing to generate contentment through her words.

But then I got to thinking. In her book, Elizabeth’s life changed in the midst of her divorce and then further when she took several months off to travel around the world to discover herself. To finance her travel, she managed to get an advance on the book she would write about her experience. Pretty sweet. Then, in another Self Help memoir I’ve read, the Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle, Tolle’s path to enlightenment began after nearly committing suicide.

Wait a minute. Does this mean I have to nearly kill myself or completely throw my life upside down in order to attain enlightenment? Do I have to spend several months in an Ashram? Leave my family? Lose a close friend or relative? Get into a disfiguring accident?

‘Cuz that’s not gonna happen. Not if I can help it. No. In fact, Hell no.

Now I’m starting to see why reading these books isn’t doing me much good, especially if my intention is to follow their example to gain some sort of enlightenment. It’s frustrating to read stories about people whose lives change after some catastrophic event. I mean, that’s easy. People confront death in some fashion and boom! their perspective changes. Whose wouldn’t?

But what about the rest of us trudging through our daily lives? Is all that drama really necessary? Because I don’t plan to go anywhere, or do anything, except what I’m doing. I don’t want to have a near-death experience. I don’t want any of my friends or family members to die. I’m not going to quit my job on a whim. I want to find contentment right here, in my life, with my family, while doing the dishes. I want to find enlightenment in a pile of dirty laundry or during a long commute home from work. In other words, I want to do it the hard way.

Really, is that so much to ask?

A few weeks ago I had a dream. In the dream I was an enormous bird about the size of a small prop plane with a vast wing-span. I was flying somewhere between two mountain ranges in Alaska. An icy river flowed below. It was cold. Very cold. I, this great flying beast, was also very, very cold. But it didn’t bother me. I felt the cold, but I wasn’t bothered by it and I was happy.

Normally, I fight coldness on a daily basis. I keep a space heater in my cubicle at work. I bring extra sweaters and jackets wherever I go. My fingers are always cold. I am always bothered by the cold. But not in this dream. In the dream I was just as cold -- extremely, bone-chillingly cold -- but I didn’t mind.

This is what I want from life. I want to experience its ups and downs, the long commutes, the piles of never-ending laundry, the constant demands of my family, the overwhelming responsibilities -- but I don’t want to be bothered by it anymore. I want to see it all, experience it all, from the icy waters and sharp rocks to stressful mornings and screaming children. But I don’t want to be bothered by it anymore.

To me, that’s enlightenment.

I don’t think I’m going to find that in a book, folks. And I really (really) need to stop trying. A few days ago I started reading Anne Lamott’s Grace Eventually. Of course it’s a good book. Of course she makes me smile with her truth and honesty and humility. But my intentions are all wrong. She's writing about faith, and because of that I’m reading it to find an ANSWER. So I think, for now, I’m going to put it away until I can just read it with the crazy intention of having fun. Instead, I think I’ll read something way more useful like Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma. Or Fodor’s Guide to Maui.

Or maybe, just a good Stephen King book.