Balance

St. Thomas Aquinas once wrote, "Virtus in medio stat." Sort of loosely translated, that means "Virtue lies in taking the middle way." That was something of a favorite theme of his, actually. Liberally scattered throughout the volumes and volumes of his work are any number of references to the practice of virtue, (a word, by the way, which apparently meant a good deal more than moral virtue. Sort of a mixture of that, and blessedness, happiness, satisfaction, and so on...) and in almost every instance the key to the thing seems to be balance, perspective, avoiding extremes of any kind, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually, even physically. Trying to see everything that enters into our lives in proportion, in its proper relationship to everything else, never giving anything more importance than it really merits.

So, a pretty important virtue, this sense of balance. With it, any situation can be brought to a successful, satisfying conclusion. Without it, any number of things can bring our emotional and spiritual lives to a pretty sudden stop. Embarrassingly enough, the thing that prompted all this reflection this past week was the realization that such a sense of balance is really pretty easily lost. This past month or so the papers and TV magazine shows have all had features on weather related stress. "Cabin fever", they call it. The fact that long periods of being closed in, inactive, bored stiff, and mad at the world can make you a little screwy. Well, that may be overstating the thing, but not by much.

The circumstances were as follows... You see, there is this dog that lives with me. Oh sure, the papers say that I own him, and am supposed to be in control of him, the policymaker, so to speak, in matters relative to our relationship. Yeah, that's what the papers say, but somehow or other, it has just never worked out that way in practice. There is a sense in which ours are not kindred souls. In short, there are any number of issues on which we do not see eye to eye. The number of times a day he should be fed springs to mind as an example. And directly related to that, I suppose, the number of times a day he should be let out to wander about the neighborhood wreaking terrible destruction on whatever crosses his path. He is of the opinion that 2 o'clock in the morning is an appropriate time for such self-expression. I, on the other hand, am firmly opposed to such a policy. But all of that, really, pales in comparison with the issue of who should get out of the pickup first.

It has been our habit for some years now, promptly at 9 every morning, to get into my pickup, and drive down to the post-office. Always one to give credit where it is due, I have to admit that he does really pretty well as a passenger. He prefers to ride up front, in the cab, and only rarely does he ever try to assume direct control of the steering wheel. When he does, it is usually because we have met another dog in another pickup coming in the opposite direction. There are a great many dogs in pickups in this part of the country. No, the real problems begin when we are back in our own garage, the trip over, and mail safely in hand. Now, for some reason, the notion has become lodged deep in the dim recesses of that walnut-sized brain of his, that he should be the first one out of the cab. It has become, over the years, something of a matter of principle to him. It's as though his personal honor were at stake if I should touch foot on the garage floor before he does. So, suiting deed to thought, the instant the door is open, out he bolts, with the force of a medium-sized comet, generally leaving me draped over the steering column, and the mail scattered about amongst the garbage cans, half empty containers of motor oil, and a snow-covered lawn mower.

Well. Even the most mild-mannered of us reach a point at which enough is enough. In my own case, that point was reached this morning. As usual, I had chiseled my way through the three inch layer of ice that has sealed my back door shut every morning since Christmas. As usual, the dog and I had made our pilgrimage. and as usual, as we turned into the driveway, he began to quiver like a bow string, steeling himself for the conflict that was to come. As usual, I stopped the pickup, and had no sooner cracked the door than he began to try tunneling through the seat under me.

And it is at that point, I think, that my balance snapped. Perhaps it was the weather, perhaps it was cabin fever, perhaps any number of things. All I know for sure is that suddenly it became very important to me that I get out first. I grabbed the mutt by the collar and sat him back in place, telling him in no uncertain terms that if he knew what was good for him, he'd sit quietly until I was out of the pickup, and well on my way to the back door.

It has been pointed out earlier in this article that the pooch is no intellectual giant. "Dim-witted" or something like it, was, I believe, the phrase used. And in that the assessment is accurate enough. Perhaps he wrote the whole thing off as simply a momentary breach of sanity on my part. Perhaps he thought it was a sort of new game. In any case he completely missed the point. He lunged again. I shoved again, repeating my original warning, in an even more menacing of voice. At that point the whole thing turned into free-for-all, a yelling, snarling, scuffling mass of dog, clergy, and mail.

Well, balance, though stretched, had not broken. I took advantage of a pause in the hostilities to gather my thoughts. They went something like this. "John, here you are, a full-grown man, standing in a garage in 40 degrees below zero, with one foot in a garbage can, the other stuck in a steering wheel, one hand around the throat of an irritated canine, and the other clutching a chewed up copy of Catholic Digest and half a bill from Polar Telephone. Is this the mark of a reasonable man, a man of balance and perspective?"

No, I had to admit, it isn't. Much of the rest of the day, then, was spent in quiet reflection on how easy it is to lose one's sense of proportion, and what an awful waste of energy that always means. That scuffle in the garage had been a silly business, and from the point of view of Thomas Aquinas, at least, not particularly virtuous. Perhaps an awful lot of the silly, pointless things we do spring from the same seed, an unbalanced set of values, attaching too much importance to something that really doesn't matter very much at all. Winning an argument, some new possession, building an image in the eyes of our neighbors, trying to seem intelligent, powerful, popular, successful, a long list of things which, when given more importance than they really merit, can drive us to do far more foolish things than wrestling with a dog in the cab of a pickup. It can be a sobering thought, but one which I recommend as a good, fruitful Lenten meditation. To what extent have I left the "middle way"... to what extent is my sense of proportion distorted? Why should it be so important to me that I win this argument with my husband or wife... with the kids... Why does getting that new car, or that promotion loom so terribly largely in my life... Why does it matter whether the neighbors are impressed with my house, my salary, my social set... Why have I become more concerned about my image than about my substance? Well, that list could go on and on. Right now I've got to cut about a three foot length of rope. Tomorrow morning I'm going to tie that miserable mutt to the door handle on his side. Then we'll see who gets out first.

From 1980 through 1982, Father Sandell served as Chaplain to the Bishop O'Reilly Council No. 3918,Grafton, North Dakota Chapter of the Knights of Columbus. "Scattered Thoughts" is a collection of based on essays originally written for the Chaplain's Corner, column of the Council's monthly newsletter.