It isn’t something we can buy on Amazon. There are no how-to manuals or instructive google searches. It won’t garner Twitter followers or Facebook likes. It isn’t religious or political.
“The Code, ” is unique to each person, but in general terms is the way we choose to move through the day, react and solve problems, and what we should expect of ourselves when life gets hard.
The Code is more significant than most everything else, especially those distractions that invade our well-being, stealing focus from what is important and turning us into captives of phone apps, futile trends and laziness, as well as disciples of those who thrive on division, hatred and short attention spans.
Attainment we seek though The Code must mean more than defensive resistance from co-workers, or the indignant and dismissive attitudes of an ineffective boss. It must take precedence over the judgmental way we react to those who seem unworthy, those we find toxic and unwilling to see beyond narcissistic little worlds. Those who either refuse or can’t be bothered to think beyond themselves.
Visualize The Code as an internal blueprint, distinctive only to yourself, one that can help steer through the heartbreak, euphoria, pettiness, love, and general struggles which are life – on a normal day. Most feelings, positive or negative, are at best ephemeral. The Code is about how we respond – who we thank, why we blame, and most importantly, how effectively we move through ever-changing and baffling emotional quadrants.
Stripped down to basics, “The Code,” is simply work. Nothing of any human or emotional value has ever been realized without work. History proves this. Creativity, intellect and talent all play a role, but NOTHING resulting in positive or tangible accomplishment comes without effort.
The great Stoics, who admittedly could be rigid and unyielding, believed the honest nature of fulfillment and inspiration comes only from work and introspection, as opposed to accolades, fortunes, or the enhancement of reputations.
The true beauty of our souls can only be discovered and beheld through contemplation, striving and diligence.
All of this this may be why we have found hard training to be an almost perfect mind/body stimulus, as well as a humbling equalizer. For a boxer truly committed to his craft, it is impossible to stay unscathed. Fighters must be ready, and even EXPECT to be knocked down. The Code is in the training. The best usually win, but not without taking some punishment. Not even Floyd Mayweather avoids suffering, be it in the ring or in pre-fight preparation.
Despite the cliches, the fittest cyclist will never TAME any road or mountain. (How do you conquer an inanimate entity?) Through grinding work Cyclists become efficient, the best elite, but never out-pedal the suffering. Real athletes welcome such strain. Training becomes a huge part of who they are, and of their Code.
As for those who cheat, dope, ask the absolute minimum, or otherwise try and get over WITHOUT doing the real work? They only prove themselves unhealthy, unstable, and emotionally stunted. Their identity, if anything, becomes a weak version of character, which is no Code at all.
At the same time, the worthiness we seek in ourselves extends well beyond the framework of fitness and sports, and is nourished through never-ending commitment. If your Code is honest, strong, and dare we say, moral, then the perceptions of others, along with self-destructive stereotypes, won’t matter.
It should be enough to move through the realities of each day with healthy intentions.
Yet to believe such adherence can lead to total serenity is also self-defeating, as is deluding ourselves with hopes of panaceas, no-strings bliss, or an all-encompassing comfort zone. This system of misguided thinking says more about those who preach such an existence as opposed to those who cynically wait for the life’s next hurdle. Better perhaps to do the required work, and therby recognize and appreciate healthier moments, fleeting as they can be.
The world takes prisoners and moves at its own clip, frequently unjust and often mean. It can also be invigorating and life-affirming, even within those darkest of days. Validating our Code can help us navigate black holes and horrible turns, moving us through the sorrow and pain.
Though emotions can’t and shouldn’t be dismissed or devalued simply because they make us and others uncomfortable. For most, anger and rage are all-too accessible, hardwired from a young age. Even the serene Taoist Monk struggles at times with anger. In those moments, the Code can be salvation.
Screaming at someone in the next car, who can’t hear you? Allowing yourself to get worked up over perceived as well as actual slights from those aforementioned co-workers and authority figures? Fantasizing silly dreams of taking a few of them outside and tuning them up, all because you’ve told yourself that they didn’t come of age as tortured or as tough as you had to be?
Or even trying to convince yourself that these less-thans have… NO REAL CODE?
Guess what? They probably don’t. And what difference does it make? We can only control how we react and allow ourselves to feel about such people and situations.
Anger is real, and will always be there, too accessible at times we would be better off avoiding it. The question is what we do with it? Far too often we grant it permission to take control, leading to bitterness, rising blood pressure and migraines. We’ve all been there, self-validation held hostage by perceptions of those who frankly, shouldn’t matter. These same people we judge because they aren’t on our level, simultaneously punishing ourselves with lofty ideals that we should be better. Toxic thinking that only leads to more misery.
But on good days, when we can justify our Code, reason takes over, begging us to slow down and actually breathe.
What we too often forget is The Code doesn’t judge, or expect us to be some mythic figure who can easily rise above daily struggles with self-infliction and alienation. It doesn’t require exacting precision.
Instead, it is more lighthouse, or street sign, reminding us that we aren’t always lost. Simply showing up and paying attention while focusing on one task at a time is a good start.
The Code can be our strength – the best of us.
If we let it.
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On a recent Saturday afternoon, when Justify crossed the line and sealed his Triple Crown legacy, I thought about the old man and hoped he’d been watching.
We don’t speak much anymore, and haven’t for years. Back when we did, our conversations were laced with the emotional stain of mistrust, bullying sarcasm (on both sides,) and all-encompassing blame. We were then, like now, too different to have much time for each other, something I suspect was preordained.
Back around the summer of love, my parents were far too young and ill-equipped to be married, much less have a child. They split when I was a toddler, and there remain scant recollections of us all under one roof. Between the age of 2-13, I might have seen him a dozen times. His only real skill was leaving, and staying off the radar.
He’d had a chance at a Division 1 football scholarship, but was never one for hard work, a path which would become his flawed narrative. In those years he bounced around a few odd jobs, gorge-eating and smoking himself into a health hazard. His main occupation, as it is now, was degenerative gambling. Unfortunately he wasn’t very good, especially in the casinos and sports books. (There are a few memories of big guys with ill-fitting suits and smashed noses standing outside our door asking after him, while my mother tried to hold the dog back.)
There was a short period when he returned, taking a Trainer’s Assistant job at a race track. (Probably helped that the wager windows were on site.) He was flush enough at one point to invest in a Pony that he presented to me as a gift one foggy, Bay Area morning. I must have been around 7. He saddled it up, along with a companion horse for himself, and after a quick lesson in handling, led me and my new friend through the stalls and workout areas. My fondness for horses and racing began that day. (The scent of churned oats and paddocks remain pleasant reminders on rare occasions I find myself around them.)
Of course a few months later, the old man was gone again, and the Pony was sent to a working ranch farther North. I did get up to see and ride him a few more times.
As I became a teenager, maneuvering my way through years that seemed endless, my father permanently grounded himself nearby. At that point he was on wife number three, or four, (I honestly can’t remember) and was flush with pride over his newborn son. He’d come off the road and was dealing cards; Later he would get into some form of real estate appraising. As he’d never stumbled across a shady angle that wasn’t worth exploiting, he was constantly running from creditors, the IRS and other various, shadowy thugs. We became, if possible, more estranged.
Partly out of necessity but mostly due to determination, I’d become a much better athlete than he had been. Having no father, especially in that era, forced hard choices when it came to neighborhood and schoolyard survival. There were several fights, most of which I escaped without much downside. (I did get my ass kicked occasionally by older kids, owing to my inner-rage and smart mouth.) But I also learned the timeless lesson for teenage boys: If you can play, and especially if you can play well, you were given a pass and for the most part, left alone.
Sports, and more so the training I craved then as much as I do now, pulled me through my young life. The result was an offspring’s mindset the old man, for his own unknown reasons, could never understand. (It didn’t help that I’d come by it all organically, without his presence or input.) He overcompensated with his other son, tying to tutor him into a football/baseball prodigy. It didn’t take, which disheartened them both.
Still, there would always be the horses. When Seattle Slew, and a few years later Affirmed, won the Triple Crown, I got him on the phone. Together we took apart each race, the breaks, track conditions, gate assignments and all other nuance. There was no one-upsmanship or rancor, just a kid and his old man talking the sport of kings.
He was also there when I called him, crying, after Ruffian broke down during her famous match race. He tried to assure me she could be saved, even if we both knew there was little hope. (The big black Philly was euthanized a few days later.)
14 years later I didn’t call, the day word came about the death of the magnificent Secretariat. Instead I went down to the beach and found a quiet spot on the seawall. Despite the sadness, my memories were vivid and pleasant, capped by the day he beat Sham by 31 lengths to win his own triple crown, a race I was lucky enough to witness on a black and white Zenith.
Hard living caught up to my father in his early 50’s. He suffered a stroke that left him paralyzed on one side. What followed was an inevitable decline. His wife left him and he’s lived alone ever since, though remains close to his youngest son. The few times we’ve seen each other or talked have been humbling, not only because of his condition, but more so the lingering shame that finds its way into much of what he says. He spends the days in assisted housing, playing video poker. This I know from random emails or the occasional text.
Unlike the old days, he doesn’t pick up the phone anymore.
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No matter which faction of the current shrill, political spectrum you lean toward, or get your gripes validated from, you can rest assured – You are the target consumer. The currency being traded, from the White House to the most liberal enclaves, is rage. Decency and grace have evaporated.
The over-fed and under-read peddle unhappiness as an overdue reckoning of old-fashioned populism, while so-called elites blame the messengers, ignoring the fact that their arrogance and political correctness helped create the current climate. Together, they have melded into a toxic hydra of lies, deception, bullying, greed and general creepiness.
Certain administrations, politicians, and cringe-worthy followers have no interest in watching things get better, only in watching them burn.
1600 takes pathological glee in watching the so-called enlightened panel rage nightly on CNN, demanding a code of ethics and behavior that seems more arcane by the minute, while over on Fox, a red stable of tone-deaf and misleading AI’s trip over themselves to justify false narratives, corruption and bad behavior.
All sides enable one another. Enemies, along with endless whining heads, make for excellent ratings. It’s a pandering, monotonous cycle designed to enforce ideals of hatred. Sadly it works, because most want to be told what to believe as well as handed a tangible enemy on which to focus insecurities and short comings.
It’s just easier that way, and Americans have gotten far too comfortable with easy.
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For the past week, the lack of D.C. civility has again dominated news cycles. Thanks should be offered to the Markle Family dysfunction for giving us a break.
A White House aide made a lousy, though for that group typical remark, about Senator John McCain, who is suffering though an aggressive form of brain cancer. The aide’s comment was immediately leaked. Everyone feigned outrage. The administration was pissy that it had leaked, while the growing industry of social arbiters demanded an official White House apology. The aide allegedly called McCain’s wife to say she was sorry, but that was, and remains, the extent of any walk-back.
It was, at best, an incredibly insensitive remark. At worst, another example of the bile and hatred cherished within this administration, a group that is angry, mostly white, and out to enrich themselves while destroying anything that resembles decency, good will or honest brokering. The volatile President plays to crowds of even angrier sycophantic followers, mostly scared, aging and fed-up white people who don’t care what is done in their name, as long as it’s done to someone they feel has maligned or slighted them over the years. Lack of broad focus and missing common sense aren’t helping.
(Full Disclosure – MaxTheWarrior is an aging white guy.)
The current toxic climate, along with movements like MeToo – as needed and overdue as it may be – make it too easy to climb on politically correct high horses.
No one is better at this than Americans. Partaking in mind-numbing rituals, sipping latte’s and thumbing through countless phone apps, while silently spinning themselves into states of medicated and narcissistic self-deception. Despite what older generations like to peddle, it’s not just millennials who are entitled. With apologies to Carly Simon, no one does it better, or so we tell ourselves because we are Americans. This kind of thinking offers a pass for rigorous mental and physical pursuits. Instead, it’s another scone, or chunk of lemon pound cake, while texting anyone who offers any sort of connection. And these are supposed to be the more enlightened. (Elitist – for you red hats.)
We wish we were more shocked, or outraged, by what we hear and what we see. If there was any reality, most of these types, ON ALL SIDES OF THE POLITICAL AISLE, would have been subjected to a few more humbling experiences. Bullies aren’t born. A few ass kickings might have straightened out some perceptions.
And enough already, with the constant and shrill debate over moral high ground. It doesn’t exist.
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Most of what we feel we should do, or say, and ultimately don’t, is informed by fear.
When it comes to career and work environments, fear forces an even more burdensome onus. It is the primary reason the Metoo movement has come to be, for the most part, a necessary force against a deserving group of offenders. Unfortunately its chilling effect on the modern workforce goes well beyond the insidious and overt behavior of abusive pigs.
This is the era of no one wanting to speak truth to power, whether it be in a small Midwest muffler shop, or in the halls of the White House. Along with normal concerns around losing a job, and all that entails, there is the uncertainty and gaslighting corporations and feeble-minded bosses use to keep free-thinkers in line. Managers, as well as those who occupy upper-floor offices, are sent to on-campus classes offering the latest techniques for avoiding conflict and feigning empathy. This is said to make excellent business sense. Soul destruction is not only preferred, it is encouraged, as long as the stock quote stays steady.
While we don’t endorse chaos, or blindly pissing on the chain of command, there should always be room for frank and serious discussion. If it gets heated, so what? Prime thinkers are expected to bring their A-game, allegedly. They are also reminded, constantly, that they are paid to do what they are told. Telling the Emperors they have no clothes is not sound advice for the career-minded over the long-haul. Individuality and countering points of view are often shunned, and rarely tolerated.
For several years meetings have been opened with the phrase, “We need to think out of the box.” This always comes from those who aren’t up to actually ‘DOING,’ what’s in the box. Fresh ideas and approaches are best when organic. Sitting around talking about doing something new and revolutionary doesn’t translate to results just because some plebe verbalizes it.
Keeping mental distance from sycophantic bullshit is not only necessary, it’s a requirement for navigating corporate minefields of mediocrity and indifference. Showing strength of any kind can easily trigger fear, especially from those insecure and higher on the food chain. Self-preservation is an instinct that goes back to prehistoric times, though in today’s realm, it also dictates far too many creative concessions. It also remains the price of doing business.
It’s up to you how much you can, and ultimately will sacrifice, all in the name of being dependable, stable, and employable.
Questioning authority used to be an honorable endeavor. It’s what the framers believed and died for. Sadly, like so much else in this country, these ideals are being weakened, by those who champion blind loyalty, conformity and ignorance. They achieve and maintain their status using their favorite weapon: Fear.
Believe nothing, and be, on occasion, pleasantly surprised. Embrace curiosity while resisting control. Finally, always decide for yourself.
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