Without a List
October 06, 2008
This is my real world, where life proceeds at
its own healthy pace, where I can revel in
the luxury of paying more attention to
sunrise and sunset than to clock time.
Kathleen Norris
An old man is rocking on his porch, smoking his
pipe.
Young people pass by, and ask,
"Hey, old man, what are you doing?"
The
man keeps rocking and smoking, and says,
finally, "How soon do you need to know?"
By means of a diversion we can avoid our own
company 24 hours a day.
Pascal
Linus: Why are you always yelling
at me?
Lucy: Well, I'm not sure I can help
it. It's me.
Lucy: It's what I do.
Just then there was strong wind.
It blew the list out of Toad's hand. The list blew high into the air.
"Help!" cried Toad. "My list is blowing away. What will I do without my list?"
"Hurry!" said Frog. "We will run and catch it."
"No!" shouted Toad, "I cannot do that."
"Why not?" asked Frog.
"Because," wailed Toad, "running after my list is not one of the things that I wrote on my list of things to do!"
(Frog and Toad Together - http://www.amazon.com/Frog-Toad-Together-Read-Picture)
On a flight home late last night, my mind raced with the impending checklist. (I had been gone long enough to be "behind".) So I woke this autumn morning, steeling myself, ready to tackle whatever waited in the heap on my desk.
(Confession: As a 'P' on the Myers-Briggs--translated, "deadline means time to get started,"--I give 'Js', the list makers, a hard time. But this is not just about list making. It's about our cultural obsession that production be married to urgency. Like the company whose motto is "we only do rush orders." So. Our adrenalin is wired to "get stuff done. NOW.")
This morning I step outside and stand on my patio. The air in my garden has an autumn fragrance, which carries a willing acquiescence. It is a visceral, a sense of slowing down, the garden readying itself for dormancy. I take a deep breath. My compulsion (or appetite) for urgency leaves me. And I am glad to be alive.
I drink my coffee sitting on a boulder at the edge of our pond. The lawn and garden are littered with debris from last night's windstorm. I pick up some of the bigger branches and throw them in the compost heap. I fill the bird feeders, noting a couple of nuthatches on nearby fir trees waiting and a bit bothered. And I remember the Benedictine teaching, that work and play and prayer are all pieces of the same life.
My summer garden carries with it a persistent list (Time is short. So complete this. Do that. Accomplish this. Take care of that.)
The list loses it urgency in autumn. This is a time to savor. The clumps of Pennisetum grass near our pond, now the color of mustard. Seed heads of the taller Miscanthus are bowed, literally deferential, as if in a posture of prayer. The maple leaves are now a soft scarlet. My worries float up into the autumn air.
A reporter interviewing a 104-year-old woman asked: "And what do you think is the best thing about being 104?"
She simply replied, "No peer pressure."
She nailed that one.
And it reminded me that worry and urgency are the peer pressures of my world.
Here is what I know: One. Urgency is predicated on our need to overcome, or tidy up, fix, or cope. There is something about control, I suppose. And I wonder what kind of control I need, and what does it feed? And why am I so afraid of any uncertainty, or unpredictable part of my world?
At the Gardens and Grace Conference in Baltimore, the Cathedral of the Incarnation has a lovely (outdoor) blue slate courtyard, surrounded by shrubs and trees. The setting and marriage of deep green and slate blue (still wet from the evening rain) is calming. The patio is littered with yellow leaves dropped from the nearby trees. The leaves are scattered, random. And exquisite. The impression is playful and whimsical. I hear a noise, all too familiar, as a custodian carries out his assignment of blowing the leaves off the patio. After ten minutes, the patio is "clean," and ready for use.
So. When he finished, and there was no one else around, I picked up a few handfuls of leaves and scattered them, on to the patio.
And Two. Letting go of urgency (for the purpose of rest and renewal) is intentional.
John Killinger once asked Sister Corita Kent, a nun known as a leader of worship, to help lead worship services. He received a postcard a few days later that simply said, "Dear, I am trying to be quiet. S. Corita."
Why do we need permission to give up urgency, even for a day? If you have a patio, scatter some leaves. If you have a pond, sit on a rock and sip your coffee. This is not an assignment. It is all about healing that place where urgency can be born.
Our Jewish brothers and sisters use a prayer beginning, Barukh Adonai, Blessing God, or seeing God in all things, in all places. It is a way of slowing down.
Or, wherever you are, just sit still. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Say the rosary.
Light a candle.
Carry a talisman (a stone or some object from a place) that reminds you of a sacred space.
Walk in a park and enjoy the autumn air.
Spend an afternoon in your special chair in Starbucks.
If none of this helps, you can always make a list. Item one on the list: Today, I want to lose the list.
It blew the list out of Toad's hand. The list blew high into the air.
"Help!" cried Toad. "My list is blowing away. What will I do without my list?"
"Hurry!" said Frog. "We will run and catch it."
"No!" shouted Toad, "I cannot do that."
"Why not?" asked Frog.
"Because," wailed Toad, "running after my list is not one of the things that I wrote on my list of things to do!"
(Frog and Toad Together - http://www.amazon.com/Frog-Toad-Together-Read-Picture)
On a flight home late last night, my mind raced with the impending checklist. (I had been gone long enough to be "behind".) So I woke this autumn morning, steeling myself, ready to tackle whatever waited in the heap on my desk.
(Confession: As a 'P' on the Myers-Briggs--translated, "deadline means time to get started,"--I give 'Js', the list makers, a hard time. But this is not just about list making. It's about our cultural obsession that production be married to urgency. Like the company whose motto is "we only do rush orders." So. Our adrenalin is wired to "get stuff done. NOW.")
This morning I step outside and stand on my patio. The air in my garden has an autumn fragrance, which carries a willing acquiescence. It is a visceral, a sense of slowing down, the garden readying itself for dormancy. I take a deep breath. My compulsion (or appetite) for urgency leaves me. And I am glad to be alive.
I drink my coffee sitting on a boulder at the edge of our pond. The lawn and garden are littered with debris from last night's windstorm. I pick up some of the bigger branches and throw them in the compost heap. I fill the bird feeders, noting a couple of nuthatches on nearby fir trees waiting and a bit bothered. And I remember the Benedictine teaching, that work and play and prayer are all pieces of the same life.
My summer garden carries with it a persistent list (Time is short. So complete this. Do that. Accomplish this. Take care of that.)
The list loses it urgency in autumn. This is a time to savor. The clumps of Pennisetum grass near our pond, now the color of mustard. Seed heads of the taller Miscanthus are bowed, literally deferential, as if in a posture of prayer. The maple leaves are now a soft scarlet. My worries float up into the autumn air.
A reporter interviewing a 104-year-old woman asked: "And what do you think is the best thing about being 104?"
She simply replied, "No peer pressure."
She nailed that one.
And it reminded me that worry and urgency are the peer pressures of my world.
Here is what I know: One. Urgency is predicated on our need to overcome, or tidy up, fix, or cope. There is something about control, I suppose. And I wonder what kind of control I need, and what does it feed? And why am I so afraid of any uncertainty, or unpredictable part of my world?
At the Gardens and Grace Conference in Baltimore, the Cathedral of the Incarnation has a lovely (outdoor) blue slate courtyard, surrounded by shrubs and trees. The setting and marriage of deep green and slate blue (still wet from the evening rain) is calming. The patio is littered with yellow leaves dropped from the nearby trees. The leaves are scattered, random. And exquisite. The impression is playful and whimsical. I hear a noise, all too familiar, as a custodian carries out his assignment of blowing the leaves off the patio. After ten minutes, the patio is "clean," and ready for use.
So. When he finished, and there was no one else around, I picked up a few handfuls of leaves and scattered them, on to the patio.
And Two. Letting go of urgency (for the purpose of rest and renewal) is intentional.
John Killinger once asked Sister Corita Kent, a nun known as a leader of worship, to help lead worship services. He received a postcard a few days later that simply said, "Dear, I am trying to be quiet. S. Corita."
Why do we need permission to give up urgency, even for a day? If you have a patio, scatter some leaves. If you have a pond, sit on a rock and sip your coffee. This is not an assignment. It is all about healing that place where urgency can be born.
Our Jewish brothers and sisters use a prayer beginning, Barukh Adonai, Blessing God, or seeing God in all things, in all places. It is a way of slowing down.
Or, wherever you are, just sit still. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Say the rosary.
Light a candle.
Carry a talisman (a stone or some object from a place) that reminds you of a sacred space.
Walk in a park and enjoy the autumn air.
Spend an afternoon in your special chair in Starbucks.
If none of this helps, you can always make a list. Item one on the list: Today, I want to lose the list.
Poems / Prayers
God,
Let me breathe today.
Breathe in the soft air of autumn.
Breathe in the wonder of your hand print
In the color of maple leaves
And the sound of the stream over moss covered rocks.
Let me breathe out worry.
Breathe out the urgency of today's
or tomorrow's list.
In this space, let me hear my heart,
And let my breathing by my prayer
of gratitude. Amen.
The Invitation
Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong blunt beaks
drink the air
as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine
and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude-
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in this broken world.
I beg of you,
do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.
Mary Oliver (Red Bird)
http://www.amazon.com/Red-Bird-Poems-Mary-Oliver
Peace,
Terry Hershey
