When You Fail.

A while ago I wrote about how your failure is not guaranteed. I was in the midst of an intense period of online and clinical training for my work, and my thoughts were spiraling under the weight of it. Writing that post was a cathartic exercise. I needed to assure myself (in writing and in the investigation that brings) that my failure was not a forgone conclusion.

And sure enough, I didn’t fail.

Didn’t fail my exam, my paper, or my clinical. Did not fail my interview for my new position.

Did. Not. Fail.

(At those particular moments, anyway).

But even if failure is not guaranteed, neither is success! There will be times when we will fail spectacularly.

Friday was one of those times.

A few weeks ago I was still in my last week of clinical training, and on Friday, we had been unexpectedly let out early. I felt radiant that afternoon. The last hurdle had been leapt. I could hardly remember an evening where each moment was not spoken for, and where the weight of what was to come wasn’t pressing down on me. But now all the deadlines were blissfully past. It was the end of the week, the sun was warm and hazy, and the wide open possibilities of a full weekend off lay in front of me.

When I came home the shine began to wear off. It’s movie night at our house on friday, but each kid seemed agitated, continually in the other’s space. Ignorant to the preordained sovereignty of each couch cushion, limbs spilled over their respective area to hang off their annoyed sibling. Feet digging into sides.  It was the general restless energy that always seems to result in wrestling (or it’s more accurate nomenclature, wrastling)

It’s my belief that wrastling at home only ever ends one of two ways: when the parents shut it down, or in tears. It was tears on Friday as the goofing around became violent and resulted in my 8 year old boy punching an arm that had held him too long.

I called him away from the chaos of the couch to talk about how we need to be careful when we’re angry. How we can’t physically lash out when we’re upset. But it was no good, he wasn’t hearing any of it. A wiser person might have considered the emotional state of his audience (and the growing frustration inside myself). I did not.

And so in moments he was yelling, and unexpectedly, I was yelling too. 30 years between us, but the 8 year old and 38 year old were shouting at each other in the hallway. Cooler heads prevailed (which means my wife tagged me out and I retreated to the patio), but the night was ruined. After that moment, all previous successes evaporated. The end of my course and the interview that went well, the sunny day, the wide open possibility of the weekend before me. Vanished.

In case you somehow missed the incredible irony, I was telling my son that we need to be careful in our anger – seconds before I simultaneously made my point and lost all credibility.

It was a big failure. One that betrayed who I wanted to be, and revealed something deep inside myself.

I’m always embarrassed for those who can’t hold their emotions together in public. The couple that doesn’t mind if the neighbours hear them yelling at each other on the patio, the hothead in the car behind you who lays on the horn and flips you the bird for driving the speed limit or slowing down for a yellow light, the restaurant patron who needs to berate the waitress for the food taking so long at lunch hour. These have always looked to me like weakness.

It’s not strength that caused me to raise my voice to my son, it was weakness. The need to be powerful and heard. It’s strange, you puff up and yell to feel bigger, but the moment after you feel smaller than ever before.

A week after this outburst I was travelling across the border who hear two of my favorite speakers. A spiritual pilgrimage of sorts. These speakers are wisdom teachers, tackling big ideas and concepts; unearthing what it means to interact with the biggest mysteries in our lives. How to live a good life. How to craft meaning. Sometimes simply to wake to your life.

I had been listening to similar content for years now, but if ever I was beginning to believe the delusion that I had reached some plateau, some new level of enlightenment and wisdom, my outburst on Friday cured me of that pretty quickly. Because all the big ideas in the world don’t have the least bit of value if you can’t take them home with you.

The only thing worse than the person who flips you the bird as they pass you is seeing their bumper sticker promoting tolerance. The only thing worse than the person laying into their waiter is that assailant being a spiritual guru or church elder. I’ve always noted the pastor who leads a group of hundreds at church and whose children hate him and rebel as loudly as possible. The therapist who can engage with anyone, as long as they aren’t family.

They say that we often show the greatest disdain for others when they exhibit our own weaknesses. When my conversation devolved to a yelling match with my kid, it revealed both what little control I actually have, and the fraudulence of my enlightenment.

But enlightenment is a strange term.

In my life, enlightenment has always been a ridiculous word. Either far too light and ethereal to ever be of any real value, or else imbued with magical status. Enlightenment (and you could throw in synonymous contemporaries such as the evolution of consciousness, awakening or woke) can become a McGuffin of sorts – a thing that people long for and strive after without ever realizing what it really is, or why they pursue it.

It occurred to me after this failure that to enlighten something literally means to cast light upon it and reveal it. If we truly wish to be enlightened, we had best prepare for the possibility that we will not like what it illuminates in our self. ‘Enlightenment’ gets lumped in with unexamined cliches such as ‘knowing yourself’, but knowing yourself includes the good, the bad and the ugly. Because it’s all in there. Knowing myself includes knowing all the petty little ways I clamor for control. It includes revealing my temper and triggers.

We can ignore those dark and angry and embarrassing places inside of us, but that’s not enlightenment, that’s just posturing and repressing. And posturing and repression may look good on the outside, but it certainly won’t bring us any peace.

And that’s the goal, right? Less yelling matches with our kids? Less taking it out on the waiter? Less road rage? Enlightenment, waking up, progress, evolution. These might be a bit idealistic,  but these are all good things, worthy of working towards.

After our blowout, when we had both cooled down, my son sat next to me on the hammock as I held him tight, asked for his forgiveness and once again, in a slightly new context, discussed the importance of controlling our behavior when we’re angry. It doesn’t negate everything that came before it, but it was a nice moment.

In the days and weeks that have followed, I’ve been thankful that our closest relationships are cumulative. The strength of my relationship with my son is not absolved by one misstep, any more than it is secured by one success.

I think it’s similar with our enlightenment, our progress, our waking up. It’s less our arrival and more our continual, staggered march forward. It is a direction and movement over time. It of course includes our successes, but it graciously includes our failures as well.