We had just arrived at our vacation destination. We, that was Gigi, a friend of hers, and I.

It was a nice enough place with a sandy beach and a pier above the beach. That pier had spaces for vendors and had the feel of a small mall. Where the promenade was a few feet above the beach, stone stairs every hundred feet or so led down to the sand.

Small waves lapped up onto the yellow sand – it was peaceful.

Gigi and her friend went off to check out the vendors, and I walked down to the farther end of the dam after parking the Jeep. I used my crutches, but today they did not bother me too much. I walked by quite a few of vendor stands, then climbed down some stairs to the sandy beach and seated myself on the lowest step.

While watching the sea and the people strolling along, another person joined me on the stairs, sitting a bit above me. He seemed nice enough and did not bother me.

I had been in charge of all our belongings and had a few bags with me. When I noticed a metal door just a bit to my right, I made sure all my stuff was safely in the bags and that they were safely closed. I opened the metal door, stepped through, closed it behind me, and found myself on a slippery deck of a big ship.

My foothold was not very secure, so I did not go to explore; I went back through the door and towards my stairs. To my horror, the guy who had been there with me was gone, and with him all my belongings.

Somehow also the steps were not there anymore, so I had to climb up to the about four feet high pier. Despite my crutches, I managed that much, but I still had no idea what to do now. Everything was in those bags: money, passports, clothing – everything for this vacation.

I started toward the mall entrance, hoping to find Gigi. And I did – and confessed that I had lost all our belongings. She and her friend were pretty pooped about this and left me standing there, uncertain what to do.

I decided to go back to the car, sit down in it, and think about what I could do next. I found the mall’s exit and went out, but it all looked different than the area where I had parked the car – no sign of the Jeep. I imagined that I must have gotten the wrong exit from the mall and headed back in to find the right exit.

But when I entered the mall again, that also looked unfamiliar – I had been unable to trace back where I had exited the mall, and I now really started to get worried and nervous. I left the mall again and crossed the street to a path lined with some benches. Next to one of those benches was a pad-mounted electric transformer shed. I leaned my crutches on it and slumped over it in rising despair – all my things lost, Gigi hates me, and no idea what to do!

But right there, a thought hit me – I remembered that I had had dreams in the past where I had been unable to trace back my own steps and got lost more and more, the harder I tried.

Was I just dreaming all this now – was I just in a bad dream, just like those other ones I now remembered?

I recalled that in the last of those dreams I had pounded my chest with a fist (just as in the movie “The Wolf of Wall Street”) and that had woken me up.

I straightened up and pounded my chest with my left hand as hard as I could.

I did not wake up!

Again!

Nothing!

Full despair kicked in now – I cried, snot and tears streaming down my face – THIS WAS ALL REAL!

And then I woke up! Cozy under my blanket and relieved, nothing had been stolen.

I struck me – and still does – how real this all felt, even though, looking back, some of the things were nonsensical. There would not be a metal door on the beach that led to the deck of a ship, and stairs coming down from a promenade would not suddenly disappear.

And above all, how could I remember a former dream – in a dream??

But while I was in the middle of that other world, it all was very normal – – – just like the reality in which I now write this essay……..

I found the essay below in the “nice things” folder on my computer and decided that this is not a good place for this gem to live – from hence forward it shall live on this blog.

But before I introduce you to Budd’s essay, first my own little remark that it’s not only CUBs that have this effect. My Warrior and I had a similar relationship developed, and we certainly had some good adventures together. One memorable outing was an event that got logged in my logbook simply as “PAM to Catalina for lunch” on May 26, 1993, but what actually happened was asking permission to date this girl – and I guess I got it.

Without further ado, here is …

CUB THERAPY By Budd Davisson

Does it bother you when an airplane turns around, takes one look at you, and starts smirking? Or, as is often the case with J-3 Cubs, it breaks into an out-and-out laugh? Cubs laugh a lot, especially when they feel they are being herded around by a pilot who needs to lighten up on life a bit.
Cubs, the right ones anyway, have a way of ignoring B.S. They don’t believe in pretense. Or hours flown. Or stature in life, checkbooks, or corporate standing. They cut right through to the essence of flight, the same way they cut right through to the essence of the person. They seem to know that, once they are in the air, what seemed important on the ground really doesn’t mean anything.
It has always mystified me how, or why, Cubs have this whimsical way of gently poking an overly serious pilot right between the eyes and making him wake up to what’s really important in life, They are rag-and-tube psychiatrists with a sense of humor.
Part of the Cub’s ability to be a three-dimensional shrink may be that they look past the pilot to the person. They ignore the mechanical and go for the emotional and are most likely to do their best to cheer up a down-in-the-mouth pilot if he is one of their kind of people, a grass-roots type who fits the Cub and the Cub’s way of thinking. On the other hand, Cubs can, if in the right mood and they sense the pilot is a rag-leg, Spamcan driver who thinks flying a Cub is slumming, do their best to make a fool out of him.
Cubs, like a sensitive lover, know by touch when the match between aviator and flying machine is right. They know when the pilot is truly in his element because they sense when the act of flight is a form of making love.
On this flight, however, this particular Cub wasn’t up to practicing either philosophy or psychiatry. In fact, as soon as the little Continental started clattering, the airplane turned around, took one good look at me, and said to itself, “Is this guy for real?” I thought I was, but the Cub knew better and was practically going into hysterics.
For reasons known only to the two of us, when I walked out on the ramp that day, I bypassed my beloved Pitts Special and climbed on board this little clipped-wing clown. The Pitts and I have a torrid love affair dating back two decades. But my mood was not into torrid. Actually, I was in a weird mood: seriously introspective with a touch of Groucho. But the Cub wasn’t going to let me get away with anything serious. It was going to do its best to rehabilitate me.
The Cub started working its magic almost as soon as the throttle hit the stop and the slipstream through the open door began messing with my hair. Yeah, I know this sounds corny, but I actually felt something inside of me begin letting go. It was as if something had been squeezing increasingly harder for a long time, and I didn’t even know it was there until it was gone. As soon as those 800x4s left the ground, whatever it was that wasn’t supposed to be there suddenly turned me loose, and part of me absolutely lit up and wanted to yell out the open door, “All right, all right – all right!” I felt good and was loving it!
With 90 horses in the nose, the little clipped Cub pointed its nose up and kept going, lifting my spirits with every foot it put between me and the Earth. It knew where to go to set me free. Cubs always seem to know.
Answers come to different people in different places, but they almost always come to me somewhere in the first 50 feet of certain flights. The flight in the clipped Cub was one of those. I had been sitting on an emotional fence, so grave and profound I had begun to think my problems were real. I was so, so serious.
Then along came the Cub.
Obviously, Cubs don’t take life seriously. In fact, they don’t take anything seriously, with one big exception: They are very serious about a pilot’s willingness and ability to understand what the airplane is telling him, and they expect the pilot to make decisions and define the path, rather than blithely riding from crisis to crisis. A Cub isn’t going to be a crutch for a weak pilot any more than life is going to offer the weak individual a ready fix or a quick way out.
The Cub, just like much of life, isn’t going to wait around. It responds to a firm but gentle hand, and the finesse it shows in flight is a direct reflection of the finesse and control shown by the pilot. If the pilot knows exactly where he wants to go and clearly understands the role his hands and feet play in these decisions, then the Cub will respond and become his partner, not his crutch. Otherwise, it will meander around, slipping and sliding and generally performing a poor imitation of flight. Life reacts to a weak hand the same way. But I had forgotten that. It was a momentary brain glitch, but one the Cub clearly saw, so it forcibly whacked me up alongside the head until I remembered how life actually worked.
Don’t you hate it when the machine you are operating is smarter than you are?
As it happens, the front seat was occupied by one of my closest friends. Barbara with the ready laugh and understanding soul, and she happened to turn around and saw this goofy grin on my face. She took one look, shook her head, and silently mouthed something about “I never will understand boys.”
That’s okay, we don’t understand us either. But Cubs do. And, at that particular moment, that’s all that mattered.

“You don’t love me anymore!” is a very weird accusation to make.

I have been contemplating this whole subject of love since one memorable evening of an intense Constellation session. These constellations are a very new-age way of trying to understand the world. They are sessions with several people, all tuning into the epigenetic field that connects us all. Each of the participants picks a character from the situation being investigated, slips into this persona, and lives and acts through a scene, in order to understand the situation better.

In this particular session, I assumed the role of my father and found out that he did not have this fuzzy feeling of love towards his children – one of them would be me – but that he just did his duty. 

I don’t remember the details of that session and its outcome but I remember telling my sister about it and she was very concerned that I might be hurt by the fact that our dad did not really love us but just did his duty.

But I was completely OK with that.

For quite a while I had realized that love is not that fuzzy feeling you have towards another person that prompts you to finally whisper “I love you” and which crushes you if you don’t get a “I love you too” back. In my world, love is an action that I volunteer for; it is a decision I make – to care for someone without any expectation of reciprocity.

This fuzzy feeling you hope will be returned in kind is mostly just infatuation, at best ‘liking.’

In the game of “I like you if you like me,” you are not in control because liking will wither when not returned. Loving, on the other hand, puts you completely in control, nothing another person can change.

Stopping to love a person would be wholly your own decision, but if it really was love, I don’t think such a reversal is even possible.

I just recently found out that the bible agrees with me:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. (1 Corinthians 13)

I particularly like the “it does not boast.” It reminds me of an early lesson I learned from my parents who pointed out how often my grandmother stressed all the good deeds she did. It was explained that it was not a good thing to do. This still sits strong with me and I really don’t like to remind my fellow humans of the good things I did, among all the alleged crimes I undoubtedly committed. This must be a common sentiment as, in court, it is much better to have a lawyer defend you instead of doing it yourself.

A to be unnamed philosopher once defined Greatness in Man in a similar fashion:

The hardest task one can have is to continue to love his fellows despite all reasons he should not.

The first time I read this definition it created such an emotional turmoil that my water broke; and I have to admit that this turmoil is not quite handled even now, more than four decades later.

Now that we have a better understanding of Love, what is that fuzzy feeling that prompts you to whisper “I love you?”

My current understanding is that it is an expression that you want to be near a person, share things with him or her, that you want the distance between you to be small. As liking is measured in one over feet (the more you like something the smaller you want the distance to be) this fuzzy feeling must be Liking or its short-lived cousin infatuation.

Other than love, liking does make demands; it wants reciprocity.

In my world telling somebody “I love you” is just a statement of fact and the best reply would be “Thank you!” or, as Han Solo said to Princess Lea after she informed him of that fact, “I know!”

In our culture telling somebody “I love you” has become customary but it is, in my opinion, based on a misunderstanding of what love really is. What the speaker really means is “I like you more than others.”

Have you ever been viciously attacked out of the blue by a friend or loved one, and just stood there completely bewildered “What did I do??”

You feel completely innocent!

But let me tell you – you did something, so you are not THAT innocent. Sure, it is not necessarily something you actively did, but you missed to do something.

Let me explain.

I start with the premise that we all never intentionally do something wrong but this does not always work out and sometimes we do things that are not considered to be ethical or right. Maybe we based our decision on false data, or we simply misunderstood a situation and acted incorrectly.

Another premise that I base my arguments on is that we don’t like to be wrong. From this follows that we try to hide any wrongdoing. And the best way to do this is to simply forget that misdeed ourselves. Unfortunately forgetting is not that easy, and there remains an access point to that secret, still very well hidden but not well enough to be triggered by something that resonates with it.

That trigger could be a sound, an expression, the tone of a voice, or even a mannerism. Do you remember a person whose voice inexplicably drives you crazy? – Like That!

Now imagine you triggered such a misdeed in a loved one by using the word ‘rambunctious’ while standing just the right way in the sunlight and looking at him over your left shoulder with slightly squinted eyes. There were just enough similarities in that scene to the circumstances of his or her big unethical behavior.

There is a moment of tension but then you move away out of the sunlight and make a remark about something completely unrelated, so the threat of being exposed disappears for your loved one. But what stays is the question or uncertainty “Does he know??”

You just created yourself a big problem by missing to find out his or her big secret that NEEDS to be kept under wraps at all cost. You now have an enemy because you need to be put down at every opportunity just to minimize your credibility and worth – just in case you know the secret.

There you have it – how to get yourself some enemies without knowing what you did.

I start with the provocative thesis that the act of forgiving is egotistical.

A bit of background is in order. 

Let us first establish the meaning of the words in the title of this essay:

The Forgiver is the one who has something to forgive, and
the Forgivee is the one to whom forgiveness is granted because he is alleged to have done something to Forgiver that should warrant forgiving.

There are two levels to this business of forgiveness. The first is ‘granting pardon‘ to somebody who has done wrong. This “granting of pardon” should only be done if asked for and we are not obligated to forgive if there is no remorse that he as the perpetrator has done wrong. Dwayne, a wrangler turned YouTube celebrity-philosopher argues that point very succinctly.

The second element of forgiving concerns only the Forgiver, the Forgivee does not even have a role. This might be recognized in Jesus’ famous last words “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” At first glance, this seems to contradict the idea, that forgiveness should be only granted if asked for, and those Romans who nailed Jesus to the cross certainly did not ask for forgiveness. 

In my interpretation, how the Forgiver sees himself is essential. Does he see himself as a victim or is he above and beyond being harmed? Jesus was not a victim, God is not a victim, so there is nothing even there to forgive. 

Only if somebody does FEEL like a victim, even for something as mundane as being short-changed at the store, or somebody not waiting their turn in line at Starbucks, could make him BE a victim and demand an apology.

It is always our choice what we are and what effect we allow others to have on us. Looking for an apology is a sure sign that we allowed the perpetrator to turn us into a victim. I must strongly state that I don’t like to be a victim and I do not allow others to turn me into one. I do not disagree with Dwayne that forgiveness should only be granted if asked for, but for your own sake, demand an apology only to help the Forgivee become a more valuable member of society, and not because you “deserve” that  “I’m sorry”.

My conclusion is to recognize that, if I feel that I have to forgive somebody for something, I already went off the rails.

Forgiving in itself, or the realization that no forgiving is due is thus very egotistical, as it makes me more free – and that, in turn, makes it so much easier to “Love Thy Neigbor as Thyself”.