SEPTEMBER 6, 2025 – The regular follower of this blog might sense a pattern of incongruity. In many posts I convey genuine optimism about life. Other posts signal deep concern about the current state of affairs afflicting our country and pessimism about our social, political, economic, and most critical, environmental prospects. How, you might ask, can these opposing sentiments be reconciled?
First, I’ve learned by experience that most problems have an acceptable solution; you just need to discover or invent one. Over time, this lesson became the focus of my law practice. All too often as a baby lawyer, when I met resistance—either in the form of black letter law or interwoven case law or stonewalling by opposing counsel or a government official—I’d declare, “game over.” But as I developed more confidence and realized that often the most rewarding opportunities for creativity were to be found within the relatively rigid framework of rules and regulations that shape “the rule of law,” I developed much more of a “can-do” attitude. Often in structuring a deal or fashioning an acceptable “work-around” when faced with a hurdle, I would tell people, “There is no problem for which there isn’t a solution. We just need to roll up our sleeves, put on our thinking caps and find it.”
This approach was fostered by examples I witnessed among practitioners around me—mentors, colleagues, and even opponents. One standout was the late Jack Hoeschler, who was one of the most creative and optimistic lawyers I ever met. He was my nemesis in a years-running case in which we cross swords weekly, over the phone, in person, in and out of court, and in our unending exchanges of briefs and pleadings. Yet despite our contentious professional relationship—or rather, because of it—we became steadfast friends. More pertinent here, Jack actively demonstrated the connection between innovative thinking and optimism. The one attribute was dependent on the other. I took this lesson to heart and ran with it.
Another example, however, was my mother. She refused to give up. If someone told her “No, we can’t do that” or “that can’t be done” or she encountered some other fly in the ointment, she’d respond with a Plan B, and if necessary, Plans C and D. Her style was non-combative and betrayed little outward frustration. Soon after Dad was appointed to his job the local newspaper published a splashy front-page article about him and our family (including a family portrait featuring us in our finest clothes, seated on the sofa, which, for the photo, had been moved in front of the stone fireplace). The article cited Mother’s statement of her philosophy of child-rearing, paraphrased as, “I believe in stating things in the affirmative. For example, instead of saying, ‘Don’t dash into the street,’ I’ll say, ‘Look both ways before you cross the street.’” Upon reading this I realized that Mother’s optimism was as deliberate as it was subconscious and vowed to work harder to emulate both forms in my own outlook and behavior.
Then ironically there was the optimism that I drew from my “job from hell”—selling books door-to-door in Buffalo, New York, at the time, the “armpit of North America.” (See posts beginning 12/30/2023). My high school friend, Mike Regan, ensnared me into the crazy summer job following my sophomore year of college. The experience included a week of sales boot camp in Nashville, where the principal mantra was “Act enthusiastic, you become enthusiastic.” As stupid as that sounded, I discovered that if I took regular swigs of the Kool-Aid and spewed it out of my mouth in loud outbursts, the words actually left me feeling, well . . . more optimistic. During my darkest days of cancer treatment, I relied heavily on this simple, crazy declaration of optimism.
And speaking of said treatment, another ironic source of optimism was the very necessity of that experience. Dozens of people applied technology, expertise, and above all, continuing heartfelt care to extend my lease on life. As I told many of them, their efforts made me “an incurable optimist.” I meant it—and still mean it.
Beyond the foregoing sources of my optimism, a critical reason exists for sustaining it: grandchildren.
Given the ravages of age, your natural tendency is to see the glass of life as being half empty. When you were 30, working out every day, sharp, alert, strong, vibrant and enthusiastic, you could easily see yourself sustaining that level of “RPMs” into your 50s. But at 70 with an aching back and knees, the advance of cataracts, and occasional struggle to keep both nostrils above the waterline, you start lowering your sights, horizons, objectives. You read the latest news of nonsense, and in a perverted way, you find relief in the knowledge that you’ll likely be dead and gone before the whole planet implodes under the cumulative weight of human misdeeds, but because you’re 70 and seeing the glass as half empty, you worry that as the collapse accelerates, the country might be down the sewer pipes before your own demise.
The problem with all that is the image and example you project in the company of your grandchildren. If they see you as an “incurable” pessimist, they are likely to run—not walk awa from you. Not only will they disfavor your company, but they’ll see life as a glass half empty, when for the sake of their own happiness and fulfillment and for the improvement of the world they will inherit, they should be seeing their prospects as a glass half full. Curtesy of your own pessimism, they themselves will become filled with gloom and doom.
Thus, for the sake of our grandchildren, I remain, consciously and hopefully, subconsciously, an “incurable optimist.”
Now for the hard part: reconciliation of my optimism with my express pessimism from the well of realism. I’ve studied enough about what’s unfolding now in the world to know that we live in dangerous times; that “certain inalienable rights, [such as] life, liberty and pursuit of happiness” are seriously threatened by the current regime and its enablers, supporters, apologists, and enthusiasts. I’m alarmed by what the overwhelming numbers of climatologists are telling us about anthropogenic climate change and what other scientists are observing about the effects of climate change. I’ve studied enough history to worry that with disturbing regularity, violent conflicts arise, empires collapse, whole ways of life are swept into the whirlwind of passing storms. I know that life is like the ocean—the domain of Neptune and his trident; the home of typhoons; the realm of tides, swells, rogue waves, icebergs, heavy seas, and tsunamis; the place of the Drake Passage, the Roaring Forties, and the Straits of Magellan; (despite . . . its South Seas islands full of coconut palms and tourist friendly grass huts; the Great Barrier Reef and other underwater wonders; beautiful coastal beaches, fair trade winds, and calm sheltered harbors; glorious sunrises and sunsets, moonrises and moonsets). In other words, I know the harsh reality of the world we live in and how quickly and often we sink into the bottomless swamp of our foibles and frailties. Moreover, I can’t ignore the dangers that I know exist, and worse yet, I can’t be silent about them—I’m compelled to speak out, to rant, often boisterously.
Perhaps “realist” is more positive than “pessimist,” and thus, maybe my “optimism” and “pessimism” can be reconciled by semantics: if my “pessimistic” rants can be recategorized as “rants of realism,” they will be less out of step with what I believe is my natural and personal optimism.
I have a friend who’s both a cynic and a contrarian about many things, but I respect his intellect, knowledge and perspective. If his views grate on my sensibilities, I’ve learned that often he states fundamental truths. Among his many axioms about life is, “It all ends badly.” He draws amusement from the mere utterance of this objectively accurate description. The quip could be applied as well, I suppose, to the history of civilization. But in either case—life or history—I refuse to adopt this inherently pessimistic view.
From my own study of history, as well as my observation of individual lives, I find quite a different lesson from that of my cynical, contrarian friend. Out of all the horrors, disasters, misfortunes, sufferings, wars to end all peace, cruelties, and barbarism, humanity proves time and again that our leading positive attribute, the one that has thus far ensured our survival, is . . . RESILIENCE. This more than anything—including our omnipresent dysfunctionality—is our defining trait. If on some level I might acknowledge that yes, technically, “it all ends badly,” and if I know that as a species we’ll never stop “screwing things up”—big time—I also know that our resilience will see us through.
And that, my friends, is how I reconcile my “optimistic” posts with my “realist” rants.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
