Not satisfied, but yet, content.

Not satisfied, but yet, content

Muhammad Ali has died. A few weeks younger than I, it’s a reminder that the vulnerable, old-age portion of life is inevitable and that our loves, likes and obsessions will all reach their waning, crescent moon-phase.

But that’s not what this is about.

Ali was known first and foremost as a boxer, a group that only grudgingly wins respect from me. The point of professional boxing has always been to inflict a concussion on your opponent. It’s a studied, deliberate skill whose goal is the causing of injury, the humiliation of all other boxers if possible. The greatest. World champion.

But this is not about that either.

I have known men who considered boxing to be the epitome of athletic endeavour, who followed boxing news religiously, who could sit around talking boxing for hours. Perhaps they were right about the athleticism of successful boxers; I’ve no basis for commenting on that either way, or of comparing boxers athletic fitness to that of runners, jumpers, weight-lifters, cross-country skiers, etc., etc.

But that’s not what this is about either.

It all simply reminds me of the peculiar anomaly of focused obsessions, those things we claim to love, sometimes with a passion. For men, particularly, sports often falls into that category. Also hunting, car-racing, fishing, golf—add to this list yourself. Very few of us are skilled enough, fit enough, young enough to excel at any of these, but we follow with religious zeal the successes of those who are.

(If I had a “manly-obsession,” it would be for baseball, particularly the unbelievably athletic skill of a short stop in catching a deep, hard-hit grounder on the back hand side, spinning and nailing the runner at first base. Wow!)

The manly-obsessions (call them loves if you must) can be argued to find an explanation in Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, or B.F. Skinner’s Behaviourism. It seems obvious when we consider the passion we develop for certain behaviours, objects or events, that the obsession must relate to some need, to some ache inside us that seeks satisfaction.

(I hesitate to use this as an illustration, but I’ve observed that a hostile dog will whine contentedly if you quickly begin to scratch his chest between his front legs, may even roll over on his back thereby rendering useless any utility he might have had as a guard dog. Don’t try this at home!)

The passion for food and the resulting spike in obesity rates most likely responds to a need in search of relief, and that need is not physical hunger; it only takes 2500 calories or so per day to satisfy hunger. Let me suggest for the moment that overeating seeks alleviation from the symptoms of relentless despair, despair brought on by poverty with no hope of escape, frustrated dreams of success, being bullied or ignored, dissatisfaction with one’s appearance in a world where physical appearance is a measure of worth—add to this list as things occur to you.

Put this way, passionate attachments are symptoms of deeper longings we may not admit to, or even recognize. For men, the need to overcome, to be strong and protective, to be a provider despite a dangerous and hostile world may be driving our vicarious passion for Muhammad Ali, who could kick the s**t out of anyone and brag about it. We have a need to be in that place; identifying with Ali is as close as we can come to satisfying that need. The more we obsess, the closer we come.

Killing big animals, hooking big fish, driving a car loud and fast, climbing a big hill, driving a snowmobile as high as possible up a mountain, making a pile of money, these can each in their own way scratch an itch that results, arguably, from the rash of frustration.

Temporary relief is better than no relief at all.

Dealing with the frustration that results from a competitive, unequal, materialistic, over-stimulating world seems to be the logical way to combat manly obsessions.

Good luck with that.

But why deal with it at all? Let our men yell at TV screens, cheer the victor in a bloody sport, spend their kid’s education fund on toys, drive too fast and too dangerously, risk lives in a craving for recognition.

It doesn’t require genius to see how much we’re paying for our obsessive searches for self-esteem, for recognition, for success. A red-zone ticket to a Blue Jays baseball game averages $350; a top-of-the-line skidoo can run to $15,000—plus trailer, truck to haul it, gear, clothing, taxes, license, etc.; equipping our kid to play hockey, to learn to check, elbow, to be faster, stronger, shrewder than the other guy costs thousands a year—for what is arguably one of the most puzzling activities ever invented. (Let alone the possibility that we’re using our kids to alleviate our own frustrations, our own hunger for self-esteem and recognition. Shame on us—where that’s the case.)

I think Henry David Thoreau recognized that the rat race we run is not planned but is symptomatic when he wrote, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” How sad is that.

In his Storyline blog, Donald Miller poses his keys to contentment (frustration’s opposite?)

• Connecting with people I love each day
• Having a healthy routine
• Getting sleep and taking a sabbath
• Working on a meaningful project
• Giving generously to the people around me
• Being wise with my finances
• Having some sort of artistic creative expression in my life
• Having a long-term vision for my life
  
  

Others have found contentment in a spiritual connection to Christ, in embracing the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount, in pursuing His vision for their lives, in the hope that the story of His life, death and resurrection provides for them.

In the knowledge that Christ is on the side of the poor, the sick, the imprisoned—the frustrated.

But first, we men have to acknowledge the deep needs in us, name them and search for a way to avoid living just one more “life of quiet desperation.” We need to admit that such knowledge has implications for our relationships, our health, our politics, our economics, our spirituality.

(I don’t feel equipped to speak for women, hence the gender-specific tone.)