This is the inscription over the gate to Hell in Dante’s Divine Comedy.  Until recently, I’ve found these words chilling.  After all, it’s a greeting at the entrance to Hell, which is supposed to be a pretty nasty place, and who would want to live, or die, with no hope?

I do.

Hope is described on Wikipedia as “an optimistic attitude of mind based on an expectation of positive outcomes.” As a verb it describes a desire for certain things to happen.  “I hope I get a better job.”  “I hope that in our marriage we both will be happy every day.”  “I hope you recover soon.”

In our dark moments, we might feel that hope is all we have.  Yet I propose that hope, especially when it is unrealistic, prevents us from accepting and enjoying to the fullest the present moment in which we live. It might be pleasant to focus on some desired goal but that emphasis can prevent us from being fully engaged with the reality of our lives right now.

Several days ago I met with Frank, a mediator in a serious dispute.  During a break he told me about a former client of his, I’ll call him John, who was worth five hundred million dollars.

“John wanted to be a billionaire,” Frank said.  “I asked him what he could buy with a billion dollars that he couldn’t buy with five hundred million.”

“Good question,” I said.

“But he just repeated to me, over and over, that he wanted to be a billionaire.  That was his hope.  Two months later John died of a drug overdose.  He was under a lot of stress.”

I guess that John, like most of us, hoped for more in his life than he had and his addiction to hope kept him from feeling fulfilled by the five hundred million dollar moment he’d already achieved.

Years ago, at my thirty-fifth high school reunion, I spent time talking to David.  I remembered him from when we were twelve. We used to eat lunch together every school day in a secret place so the bullies wouldn’t find us.

“What have you done with yourself for the past thirty-five years?” I said.

“I’ve been an engineer for the City of Los Angeles.”

My immediate thought was that David must have lacked the imagination to get promoted and had no hope of becoming a supervisor or earning more money.  I felt disappointed for him.

“And I’ve enjoyed every minute of my career,” he said.

My disappointment turned to jealousy. His answer caused me to question my own career. Though I’d been extremely successful in terms of money and social standing, I was far from feeling that that I had enjoyed every minute. Not even close.  My hope had prevented me from focusing on each moment and savoring it.  While I was gazing at the far horizon my ship had crashed into many log jams and had been, at times, a rough journey.

Each of us enters into a marriage filled with expectation and desire. We think back on our wedding day as one of the happiest of our lives.  Yet, how easy it is to let our hopes prevent today, this moment, from being our happiest.

Call me wise, call me a fool, or call me just plain tired, but more and more I’ve abandoned hope. I’ve stopped expecting something to be better than the way it is today.  When my mother died, I was in the room, holding her hand.  She had been in a coma for five months, with no possibility to recover.  I did not feel a loss.  I felt at peace.

Now I attempt to embrace the moment rather than looking ahead to some rosy future, and I find that living with appreciation for the present, rather than hope for the future, brings me much closer to Heaven than to Dante’s Hell.

Alan

I have learned a great deal in my life by listening to the suggestions and wisdom of others.

About thirty-five years ago I had the opportunity to study with Dr. Paul Ware, a psychiatrist in Shreveport, Louisiana.  For an entire week, together with four or five other students, I followed Paul around to his lectures, his meetings, and his visits to a psychiatric hospital.  At the end of our five days of training he allocated to each of us one hour of his time to discuss privately anything we had on our minds.

I had a lot on my mind. After talking to Paul about my marriage, my work, and everything else I could think of, I had used all but four minutes of my time with him.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“There is one thing, but it would take more than four minutes to cover, so I guess we’d better stop now.”

“Alan, you can accomplish a lot in four minutes.  What is that one thing?”

I was embarrassed, and didn’t want to open something up that we didn’t have time to finish.  But I trusted Paul, and he was an expert on adolescent behavior.

“It’s about my son.  He’s fifteen.  About six months ago he got mad at me for something.  He left my house and went back to live with his mother.  He hasn’t seen me or spoken to me since.”

“Do you want to have a relationship with him?”

“Yes.  Of course.  Absolutely.”  I was near tears.

“Go home and apologize,” Paul said.

“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Do you want to have a relationship with your son or not?”

“Yes.  I do.”

“Then go home and apologize.”

I sighed.  I felt certain that I was in the right and that my son was unreasonable and wrong.  I often feel this way when I am in a dispute with someone.  But in those four minutes I took my first giant step toward becoming a better, more forgiving person.

When I returned home I arranged a meeting with my son.  We spoke, he aired his grievances, and I apologized.

Not long after that he returned to live with me at my home, and we have gotten along well ever since.  That experience was the inspiration for the Apology tool in my original People Tools book. It is also the reason I am willing to apologize, even when I don’t believe I’m wrong.  Of course, I will allow that every once in a while my belief that I am right is, regrettably, wrong.

Those four minutes have made a huge difference in the past thirty-five years of my life.

What else can you do in four minutes?

You can take a shower, fall in love, or listen to a song.

You can ask someone to marry you, or say “yes.”  Or say “no.”

You can be born, get married, or die.

You can make a good first impression, get a job offer, or decide to quit something which makes you unhappy or at which you are failing.

You can read this short blog, and decide to change your life.

Alan

Years ago, I returned from vacation and couldn’t find my keys.  I had hidden them somewhere, but didn’t remember where.  I couldn’t use my car, unlock the front door to my office, or open my storage unit.

Like those hidden keys, most people have hidden agendas.

An agenda is an intention to make something you desire happen, or prevent something from happening that you want to avoid.  “I want string beans for dinner” is a statement of what I want.  “I don’t want to talk about that now” is a statement identifying what I want to avoid, or, at least, postpone (a conversation).  When I clearly state my agenda, then my desire comes out of hiding.

When I don’t openly and clearly state what I want, my agenda remains hidden.  In the play The Rainmaker the deputy sheriff is divorced and lonely.  He tells the Sheriff, “I knew at the time that if I asked my wife to stay she would have stayed.  But I didn’t.  So she walked out the door.”  He sighed.  “Next time I would ask her to stay.  I would even say ‘please.’”

Just like those keys, when an agenda is hidden it won’t open anything, it won’t get you anywhere, it won’t do anyone any good.

Carlos, a friend of mine, desperately wanted to marry Catherine.  He hinted.  He brought her flowers.  He told me how much he loved her but never confessed his great love to her.  Then one day she texted him, “Carlos, I’m so happy.  I just married Dante in Barcelona.”  Oops!

Another friend, Donna, felt guilty after leaving Harold, her husband of more than twenty years. She told me, “For years he was staying out all night and making my life so miserable at home that I finally had to give up.  Even when I told him that I loved him but I’d leave if things didn’t change, he still didn’t say a word.  He just sat on the sofa and stared at the TV.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t feel guilty.  Maybe Harold really wanted you to leave him, but didn’t have the guts to say so.  Maybe he was trying to push you into it,” I said. “Maybe that was his hidden agenda.”

Donna paused.  “I’ve thought about it a lot.  And I think that’s exactly what happened.  I wish he had talked to me.  We could have avoided years of pain for both of us.”

For goodness sake, share your desire, your agenda, whatever it may be.  It’s always okay to ask, and don’t let anyone tell you differently.  A bit of courage for a few minutes can save your marriage, or your life.  I read in a news report a few years ago that a South Korean Airlines flight crashed because the copilot was afraid to tell the pilot that the plane was coming in too low on its approach before landing.

If someone complains that you didn’t perform according to their agenda, you can’t be held responsible, if they never directly asked you for what they wanted.

“Didn’t you stop at the store for paper towels and toilet paper on your way home?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you didn’t ask me to and I didn’t know we needed any.”

Let other people know what you want and what you don’t want.  If you keep your agenda a secret you’re sure to be disappointed.  Few, if any, people in this world are consistent and effective mind readers.  You have to tell us.

Like my keys, agendas which are hidden are useless.

And yes, I had to replace all of my keys.  And yes, I found them on the top shelf of my closet two years later, but by then it was too late for those keys to do me any good.

Alan