When god closes a door, he opens a window. My mental impression of this motivational slogan has always been an image of myself, frantic, trapped in a burning building, about to escape the flames when woosh the hand of God slams closed the door I was just about to climb through. Thanks, you jerk. You say there’s a window open somewhere here? Smoke clouds my eyes, and I charge the door. It’s a no-go. The thing is sealed with the protoplasmic superglue of divinity. Come on you omnipotent bastard! What’d you have to close the door for? And what’s this about opening a window? A WINDOW! If I do escape the fires of my imaginary inferno, it’s because the fire itself damages the structure so severely, that by chance (or perhaps a burst of my own herculean strength) a wall is blown cleanly from the side of the building.
Feeling trapped by life? Go poking around for a window. Bah!
There are certainly other platitudes about god and disappointment that get my gall, but generally, few things charge my bile like the suggestion that one ought to be pleased, a little thankful even, for things working out contrary to plan. I have the same mixture of pride and awe that others do for those “failure” stories about Abe Lincoln—failed business; couldn’t get into law school; engaged, but sweetheart died; ran for state legislature, lost; ran for Congress, lost; ran for Senate, lost; sought VP nod—got less than 100 votes; gangly, and generally a bit tough on the eyes… Poor old, Abe. But he went ahead and got himself elected president, wrote the Emancipation Proclamation and was one of the world’s great leaders. That said, old Abe certainly took his time beating around the house for an open window, and if I imagine facing down his considerable line of defeats, I wonder if I might not have just found a new line of work.
Well, you madam, are no Abraham Lincoln.
I find myself considering burning buildings and Abraham Lincoln this week, wondering whether I am blind to the proverbial escape hatch, or simply failing to show the proper fortitude that ought to be inspired by our sixteenth president. In my early twenties, I had a doey-eyed belief that long-term planning didn’t suit me, and that I would end up doing meaningful, earth-changing work, if I just followed my rather fickle impulses. It worked for a few years, but also resulted in changing jobs every year or so, being denied entrance to PhD programs twice, and a sinking feeling that my big chance had been missed. Stubbornness, bad judgment, and a certain level of poor self-awareness seemed to have sealed the doors and windows.
These are things I wanted to do, but couldn’t. When I am feeling frustrated, it’s rather nice to have this litany to dwell upon. But when I am ready to give myself the good swift kick deserved by such self-pity, I recognize that my loss at what I really ought to do with myself may be a result of far-too-reasonably placed expectations. My ingrained childhood goals included not getting pregnant before the end of high school, going to college, not ending up living in a dead, rust-belt town on welfare. Well, I shot for the moon, my friend, and ended up rather disconsolate about my life’s purpose from the point after which those goals were met.
If I am honest with myself, I must recognize that if doors were closed to me, it was my own doing. I seriously disliked graduate school the first time around, and have found far more fulfillment out in the world, working with and for people and causes I believe in. Why, then this impression that I must continue bullying my way against locked doors? Why is my sense of self so bleary that all I can recognize is that where I am is never quite right, and that I must try, try again, for something… something else?
Old Abe at least knew what he wanted. His failures, though certainly public and rather constant for a while there, fell along a trajectory. I suppose a benefit to so much failure is also a crystallizing effect. If a person really didn’t desperately, blindingly want something, they would quickly lose the initiative to pull themselves back up—gangly arms and all—and try again. While, extending my metaphor one more time, I have flounced against far too many doors, the Abe Lincoln of my imagination stayed focused on just one, until through sheer force of will (and, yeah, uncommon talent), he took the thing off its hinges.
So the lesson of failure for today seems to be this: we have options, perhaps not sissy little windows nudged open by god, but realistic options. Monomaniacal obsession, which if one is exceptional enough, may result in getting you where you want to be. Treating failure as a yardstick, one to clarify and measure how deeply our desires run. But gratitude? Feeling grateful for those closed doors appears to require a certain stretch of time, some distance from the sting of wounded pride. It seems doubtful that in such a short life as we have, there is nearly enough time to tend both to one’s emotional wounds and get on with things before the smoke fills our eyes.
There are certainly other platitudes about god and disappointment that get my gall, but generally, few things charge my bile like the suggestion that one ought to be pleased, a little thankful even, for things working out contrary to plan. I have the same mixture of pride and awe that others do for those “failure” stories about Abe Lincoln—failed business; couldn’t get into law school; engaged, but sweetheart died; ran for state legislature, lost; ran for Congress, lost; ran for Senate, lost; sought VP nod—got less than 100 votes; gangly, and generally a bit tough on the eyes… Poor old, Abe. But he went ahead and got himself elected president, wrote the Emancipation Proclamation and was one of the world’s great leaders. That said, old Abe certainly took his time beating around the house for an open window, and if I imagine facing down his considerable line of defeats, I wonder if I might not have just found a new line of work.
Well, you madam, are no Abraham Lincoln.
I find myself considering burning buildings and Abraham Lincoln this week, wondering whether I am blind to the proverbial escape hatch, or simply failing to show the proper fortitude that ought to be inspired by our sixteenth president. In my early twenties, I had a doey-eyed belief that long-term planning didn’t suit me, and that I would end up doing meaningful, earth-changing work, if I just followed my rather fickle impulses. It worked for a few years, but also resulted in changing jobs every year or so, being denied entrance to PhD programs twice, and a sinking feeling that my big chance had been missed. Stubbornness, bad judgment, and a certain level of poor self-awareness seemed to have sealed the doors and windows.
These are things I wanted to do, but couldn’t. When I am feeling frustrated, it’s rather nice to have this litany to dwell upon. But when I am ready to give myself the good swift kick deserved by such self-pity, I recognize that my loss at what I really ought to do with myself may be a result of far-too-reasonably placed expectations. My ingrained childhood goals included not getting pregnant before the end of high school, going to college, not ending up living in a dead, rust-belt town on welfare. Well, I shot for the moon, my friend, and ended up rather disconsolate about my life’s purpose from the point after which those goals were met.
If I am honest with myself, I must recognize that if doors were closed to me, it was my own doing. I seriously disliked graduate school the first time around, and have found far more fulfillment out in the world, working with and for people and causes I believe in. Why, then this impression that I must continue bullying my way against locked doors? Why is my sense of self so bleary that all I can recognize is that where I am is never quite right, and that I must try, try again, for something… something else?
Old Abe at least knew what he wanted. His failures, though certainly public and rather constant for a while there, fell along a trajectory. I suppose a benefit to so much failure is also a crystallizing effect. If a person really didn’t desperately, blindingly want something, they would quickly lose the initiative to pull themselves back up—gangly arms and all—and try again. While, extending my metaphor one more time, I have flounced against far too many doors, the Abe Lincoln of my imagination stayed focused on just one, until through sheer force of will (and, yeah, uncommon talent), he took the thing off its hinges.
So the lesson of failure for today seems to be this: we have options, perhaps not sissy little windows nudged open by god, but realistic options. Monomaniacal obsession, which if one is exceptional enough, may result in getting you where you want to be. Treating failure as a yardstick, one to clarify and measure how deeply our desires run. But gratitude? Feeling grateful for those closed doors appears to require a certain stretch of time, some distance from the sting of wounded pride. It seems doubtful that in such a short life as we have, there is nearly enough time to tend both to one’s emotional wounds and get on with things before the smoke fills our eyes.
