The Wrong Message

"You sent the wrong message with your August 7th post," a friend chided me. She was referring to my comments about how lucky I felt to be sitting in Wellfleet on Cape Cod, happily eating oysters. I compared my life to those who live in places like Beirut or Baghdad or Bangladesh. She probably had a point, because the whole vision of Wellfleet is that of a life of privilege. That's too bad, because what I meant to convey was that I was happy to be sitting in Wellfleet, eating oysters, sharing good times with good friends, and not having to worry about being shot at, car-bombed, or mud-slid into oblivion. We could've been just as happy eating our oysters in Gary Indiana. Well, almost as happy.

This same friend once related to me with chagrin about how most of her friends react when she tells them of her travels to "Third World" countries. She's been to lots of places like Guatemala, where people live simply, but happily and peacefully. "Oh," her friends will tell her, "those kinds of experiences must make you really appreciate what we have here." My friend and I both grow a little sad when we hear comments like that, because it demonstrates to us just how out of touch we in our "First World" society are becoming. Too often we substitute the "pleasure" of material comforts for real happiness, to the point where our emotional and intellectual well-being is now largely misplaced. Too much of what we think and feel about ourselves is now money-driven in a direction that, ultimately, can only be destructive. That's the very problem that I tried the most to rage against during my little campaign for Congress.

A few years ago I went to hear a Russian cellist perform in Louisville. I wish that I could remember his name, because he was brilliant. Anyway, he conducted a seminar for music students the day before his performance, and he was less than enthusiastic about what he heard. "What's the matter with you Americans?" he asked with dismay. "You play with no passion. Have you lost your souls?" I've always remembered that poignant question of his, and I've always hoped that he's wrong. But I often fear that he's right.