Envy and the Coolness of Rain
I'm not sure there was much, in the insulated and comfortable first-world lives lead by many suburban boys in the America of the 1970's, that festered as maddeningly upon the mind as seeing your friend get a new bicycle that was substantially cooler than yours. Like, for instance, an orange Huffy dirt bike with a long, squarish motorcycle seat suspended by a shock absorber. A shock absorber. One which gave the seat an easy three inches of luxurious, tail-cushioning travel, making the rider virtually impervious to the bone-jarring landings resulting from the typical takeoff points: Shallow curbs, landscape berms and sidewalk edges. The very idea of springs on a bike was mind-bending stuff to the forward-thinking kids in the neighborhood.
There were nicer bikes. But none that came stock with grips straight from a pro-motocross machine, a white number plate on the front, pre-printed in black with an enormous #1 (a conclusion of rank so obvious, it seemed to me, it could've easily been foregone) and an orange flag, flapping on the end of a long fiberglass rod attached to the seat braces. Watching that flag whipping in the wind - snapping as it moved, like a shuffling deck of cards - on the back of my friend Jon's bike, as he glided lightly over the ruts and bumps in the newly-graded but as-yet-unbuilt housing development up the road from where we lived, brought up feelings both aspirational and sickening.
It wasn't that my bike was lacking in amenities. Above the word "Coyote" scrolled across the metallic green paint of my chain guard, was a tri-color banana seat and a polished silver sissy bar - straight out of Easy Rider - behind it. Steering was stylish and smooth via ape-hanger handlebars, with a three-speed shifter mounted up high, as it should be. Putting power to ground was a squared-off rear tire, white-lettered and slick. For speeding down steep declines in a straight line, very few bikes found among my band of friends could touch it. But pavement-bound downhilling was a sport for nine-year-olds (and then later, for college kids, if you happen to have read Oklahoma Superman). We were ten. The age when it was time to test your skills against the bare earth.
Rattling breathlessly along, following Jon on the same dirt paths which once seemed so easy, now were almost unbearable on my fixed-seat bike. Every jolt transferred up my spine and directly to my clenched teeth, my treadless rear tire clawing for traction in the loose dirt. I got my first taste of jealousy. And it was bitter.
Jealousy, though, like all things transient, wears off with time and changing perspectives. In this case, it was a few months later, after Jon's shock-absorbing seat eventually led him to become a believer in his own invincibility, and he agreed to jump a sharp curb - at top speed - at the very bottom of a steep hill. The group of regulars in the neighborhood all offered encouragement and words of admiration - while exchanging glances of incredulity behind his back - for what he was about to do, as he readied himself in my driveway at the top of the hill.
His eyes pinched into a pre-teen scowl of determination as he set off, pedaling furiously, secure in the knowledge that any sticks or uneven pavement would pass unfelt beneath his suspended body. While his bouncing seat performed beautifully on the run-up, he undoubtedly realized somewhere along the descent that his wheel would likely hit first, and that the seat was likely not up to the task which would shortly be asked of it. The gut-churning simultaneous sounds of a blowing tire and crunching metal against concrete echoed back up the hill to where our group was standing, and we all stared in quiet disbelief as Jon was launched far into the neighbor's yard.
The limitations of having suspension on one's bike seat were evident to Jon first, but then settled in with the rest of us the next morning, as we stood with him - the bruising left from his face's collision with the summer-dry grass his only injury - staring at the dumpster by his house in the cul-de-sac. The era of the orange Huffy was over. And with it, my short-lived episode of jealousy. An orange flag, motionless, on the end of a fiberglass rod jutted past the closed lid of the container.
Regardless of circumstance, envy, if considered, seems to be devoid of any logic. Anger, sadness, joy: All are reactions or states-of-mind. But jealousy? No matter how heavily and awkwardly it sits on the shoulders, no matter how many times it shows itself to be petty and temporary, we still bend to shake hands with it regularly. Gone, for me, are the days of envying three-speed bicycles. Now I find myself longing, at times, to be as gifted as another. To have the effortless ability to carry surface conversations in crowded rooms. Or to possess the young and agile mind that thinks up a thousand digital ways to change the world. Or to wield the writing talent of Ernest Hemingway or Anthony Doerr. Or for the easy and carefree daily existence of the eternal optimist.
And even as I experience it, I know my jealousy of these traits in people is a black hole created by no-one but me. Its intense gravity threatens to tear energy and motivation and intentionality from my actions. It causes me to compare the things I do with that which others have done; knowing full well that I will never possess the skills exactly as I envy them in others. And knowing, too, that even if I did, it wouldn't change me in the way I imagine. I'd just envy something else.
It's that cold reality which I think hints at the reason we succumb to envy so regularly: The very nature of our existence is one of imperfection. Less-than-whole fulfillment. And we convince ourselves we can feel complete, or draw a step closer to a perfect life if we just had that one more thing. If we could only perform at the level of that person. If we had the easy confidence in all situations we think we see in others. It becomes both a hope and an excuse. We could do that if. We will be happy when. It's no wonder we don't feel adequate to a given task, because we aren't gifted like them. How could we possibly do something great, when we don't have the resources, or the encouraging family life, or the experience or the temperament or the contacts everyone else seems to possess?
The truth, of course, is that there is unfairness. But in an ironic twist of fairness, even unfairness travels in two directions. Just as someone has the money to pursue the freedom you desire, they perhaps do not have the gift you exude of putting others at ease. Just as someone has the ability to light up a room, they may not have your innate logic. Just as someone has a seemingly endless list of friends, they might long for the depth of insight your fewer-but-closer friends value in you. Familiarity breeds contempt, and for this reason, we rarely see ourselves clearly. Our own talents seem to us an old pair of pants, frayed and ill-fitting. Not nearly as tailored and crisp as those worn daily by the people we see on the street.
It's an illusion, though. And we know it, in our saner moments. We know it by thinking back to those times we did get what we thought would make us happy...and it didn't. We know it because never has pining for something others possess, resulted in a single moment of joy for us.
Following then, comes the truth that it's terribly important we take an active care in ignoring anything that withers away at our time, or consumes our enthusiasm, or gives us an unecessary crutch on which to lean, that only makes us weaker and slower in the end. Envy is at the very top of a list of things that do all of these, and worse. The end result is that our hearts become tiny, dying gardens, suffocating under a mat of rampant weeds. A thorny, vined thicket choking the life from the flowers, draining all moisture from the soil. And as our hearts harden under the dry earth, every action of those we envy seems to drive the spade further into our own chests. As Baltasar Gracián, the Spanish philosopher, said:
The envious die not once, but as oft as the envied win applause.
Jealousy causes us to wish for the accolades of the limelight in the illusory hope of real gain. If we fully understood the price paid for - or exacted by - that which others have, we would likely see that their lives aren't materially different from our own. The silent tradeoff is that for one gain, we must sacrifice another. Our own talents, seeming dim and small to us, are magnified and brilliant in the eyes of the observer.
It is a peace-giving fact that our lives - regardless of how wonderful and just such things temporarily feel - hold exactly the same value absent any recognition or credit. Those things are fleeting, and depend on circumstance and the sway of the crowd, rather than on the legitimacy of our actions. Our gifts are not ranked against those of our neighbors. Our happiness should never be comparative. It cannot depend on the lack of it in those around us. In fact, it cannot exist unless we add to the happiness of those around us.
We find ourselves relieved of envy by responding with joy to the advancement of others. By giving credit honestly; by drawing attention to the gifts we see in people; by thanking and supporting and believing-in those we find in our lives. And in endeavoring consciously toward these things, we find, over time, that we feel less and less of the gnawing angst of wishing we were other than we are.
The Great Freedom comes not from imagining ourselves larger and stronger and more important than we are. But by fashioning ourselves as empty vessels, devoid of the need for trappings and notoriety. Not made less by force of action, but by the realization that our greatest gain comes from filling ourselves with the hope-giving water of encouragement and humility. It is this water which brings life again to our own hearts, while mirroring the light of others. That it might shine as it was intended: Bright and unhindered, with a brilliance beautiful to all in its path.
And casting out jealousy, by leaving no shadows under which it can hide.