Another Penny
December 29, 2008
When you possess light within, you see it
externally. Anaïs Nin
For behold, the kingdom of God is within
you (and among you). Jesus
Probably the worst thing that has happened
to our understanding of reality has been our
acceptance of ourselves as consumers.
Madeleine L'Engle
While a young mother waited at a
post-office-counter, her four-year-old
daughter occupied herself with the
opportunity for self-entertainment, exploring
around the lobby, looking, prattling, not a
item left untouched.
The girl finds a penny on the floor. "Look momma," she says proudly, "a penny."
Her mother, busy with a clerk at the window, mumbles an acknowledgment. Others in line smile while some shake their head and cogitate about the regrettable decline in discipline. The girl walks to the other side of the lobby and places the penny back onto the floor. Feigning surprise, she says, "Look mamma, I found another penny."
Delighted, she keeps at her enterprise, placing the penny in a different location, until she has found five pennies, each one of them brand new.
Yes, this is a likable story and certainly meant to lift the spirits, but I'll bet you serious money that I would have been one of the curmudgeons.
There is nothing like being made to wait in line, sidetracked by a bothersome, disconcerting and merry child.
And yet.
Jesus goes out of his way to connect the Kingdom of God with children.
It is no hyperbole. Because "children live in a world of imagination," Mike Yaconelli writes, "a world of aliveness. Playing Superman and feeling alive, (the child in us) hears a voice deep inside, a warm and loving voice, a living, believing voice, a wild and dangerous voice."
And then somewhere-somewhere along the way, we "grow up."
We realize that we can't fly after all, and our "God-hearing," goes on the blink. We go from flying-wonder-child, to exasperated and intolerant consumer.
Somehow, just being me isn't enough. It's as if we lose our true identity.
On our island, our winter wonderland has given way to rain, to melting snow, to grey skies and to huge snowplowed-drifts of snow, out-lining our roadways. These stained drifts are now the color of soot, a downer from last week's landscape, a magical pristine-dazzle of white.
So. How apropos that the change in weather ties in with the coming New Year?
What better time to recover the pristine?
Because resolutions, after all, can give us a clean slate.
Many of us are eager for some kind of change.
"I want to be a new person," one friend told me.
Another friend said, "This year's gotta be better than last."
And another wanted to cleanse 2008 out of her system. Not that I don't understand the sentiment.
Unfortunately, I'm not the resolution type. Although, I have tried. I looked, but could not find last year's list. (I think it had the wish for "a date with Angelina Jolie." Okay. Maybe that is best left unspoken.)
But thankfully, I have already received emails beseeching me to aim higher this year. One promised me that I could have a totally different life by this time next year. Another told me that I "could soar like an eagle," and another promised me wealth beyond my wildest imagination. (I know I needed to buy something for each of these resolutions to come to fruition, but sadly, they have been sent to the TRASH, and now I forget what I needed to buy.)
I'm stuck.
Really.
I'm stuck.
I don't know what to write.
So I'm sitting at my study window, watching the birdfeeder. Chickadees, thrushes, nuthatches and towhees are having a feast and a field day. (Strangely, their cousin species are sipping margaritas on the beach in Cabo, but these birds are reveling in the unmitigated joy of sunflower seeds in the grey late December of Seattle.)
From the birds I take my cue. I decide to aim my new year's resolution a little lower. And I choose to learn from the little girl in the post office.
Gratefully, this weekend, I enjoyed two other wonderful gifts.
One, I read Gerald May's book The Wisdom of Wilderness. Standing in the woods, May is struck by an old decomposing corpse of a tree and he feels the sadness of age and loss. On the tree sits a Pileated Woodpecker, wearing his distinctive red hat. May realizes that in that woodpecker, in that moment, the tree is, in fact, perfect. May looked at the trees of the forest and "saw all the imperfections of them. Each was broken here and there; all had branches cracked by winds and ice, some split down the middle by lightning; many bore the scars of disease, blighted spots, knots and burls and parasite vines upon them, broken, wounded, growing this way and that, all with their injuries of the year and their imperfections of birth and growth and yet all were absolutely perfect as they were."
There is something about the freedom to see that perfection-yes, the Kingdom of God or the sacrament of the blessed present-within. May goes on, "The woodpecker flew away, to another dead crumbling tree as if to underscore his point, and I knew then that the woodpecker was God's being, like trees and the children were God's being, like I am God's being, a sweetness of life."
Two, I learned from a lethargic, flippant, slacker panda named Po. (Zach and I are watching Kung Fu Panda.) Po (the biggest fan of Kung Fu) nurses an ill-fated dream of Kung Fu greatness. Not quite logical for a panda working every day in his family's noodle shop. In a turn of events ("there are no accidents," the turtle master says) Po is unexpectedly chosen to receive the sacred Dragon Scroll (to fulfill an ancient prophecy), which promises great power to its possessor. This allows Po to study alongside his idols, the legendary Furious Five-Tigress, Crane, Mantis, Viper and Monkey.
Po must face the foe: the vengeful and treacherous snow leopard Tai Lung. And it's up to Po to defend everyone from the oncoming threat. Victory is unlikely.
When Po finally opens the scroll, he finds nothing but a blank reflective surface. Po is stricken with despair at the scroll's apparent worthlessness. His insight comes from his father, who has promised to tell him the secret ingredient to his famous noodle soup.
Mr. Ping: The secret ingredient is... nothing!
Po: Huh?
Mr. Ping: You heard me. Nothing! There is no secret ingredient.
Po: Wait, wait; it's just plain old noodle soup? You don't add some kind of special sauce or something?
Mr. Ping: Don't have to. To make something special you just have to believe it's special.
Too simple? Maybe.
But here's the deal: The miracle for the little girl is that there need not be a miracle: just a slow drip of experience. If there are no unsacred moments, then the sacred is infused in this moment. Even the smallest or most banal thing deserves our undivided attention.
It made a difference to the little girl.
And it made a difference to Po.
I walk from my study back to my house. The embers in the fireplace are still burning, and I read a prayer from John O'Donohue;
To risk being disturbed and changed.
May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love,
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for
And waste my heart on fear no more.
In this moment, I find a penny.
Happy new year.
NEW YEAR NOTE TO MY FRIENDS: For this season of celebration and the weeks beyond. I would like to offer you these gifts.
(If the links do not work, please simply cut and paste.)
ONE:: A special incentive on anything you may want to buy from our books, CDs, DVDs and posters.
Until January 15, 2009, EVERYTHING is 40% off.
Yes, everything.
Go to http://www.terryhershey.com/specials
TWO: New Terry Hershey videos.
Go to http://communities.faithstreams.com/Author/TerryHershey/tabid/26822/Default.aspx
The girl finds a penny on the floor. "Look momma," she says proudly, "a penny."
Her mother, busy with a clerk at the window, mumbles an acknowledgment. Others in line smile while some shake their head and cogitate about the regrettable decline in discipline. The girl walks to the other side of the lobby and places the penny back onto the floor. Feigning surprise, she says, "Look mamma, I found another penny."
Delighted, she keeps at her enterprise, placing the penny in a different location, until she has found five pennies, each one of them brand new.
Yes, this is a likable story and certainly meant to lift the spirits, but I'll bet you serious money that I would have been one of the curmudgeons.
There is nothing like being made to wait in line, sidetracked by a bothersome, disconcerting and merry child.
And yet.
Jesus goes out of his way to connect the Kingdom of God with children.
It is no hyperbole. Because "children live in a world of imagination," Mike Yaconelli writes, "a world of aliveness. Playing Superman and feeling alive, (the child in us) hears a voice deep inside, a warm and loving voice, a living, believing voice, a wild and dangerous voice."
And then somewhere-somewhere along the way, we "grow up."
We realize that we can't fly after all, and our "God-hearing," goes on the blink. We go from flying-wonder-child, to exasperated and intolerant consumer.
Somehow, just being me isn't enough. It's as if we lose our true identity.
On our island, our winter wonderland has given way to rain, to melting snow, to grey skies and to huge snowplowed-drifts of snow, out-lining our roadways. These stained drifts are now the color of soot, a downer from last week's landscape, a magical pristine-dazzle of white.
So. How apropos that the change in weather ties in with the coming New Year?
What better time to recover the pristine?
Because resolutions, after all, can give us a clean slate.
Many of us are eager for some kind of change.
"I want to be a new person," one friend told me.
Another friend said, "This year's gotta be better than last."
And another wanted to cleanse 2008 out of her system. Not that I don't understand the sentiment.
Unfortunately, I'm not the resolution type. Although, I have tried. I looked, but could not find last year's list. (I think it had the wish for "a date with Angelina Jolie." Okay. Maybe that is best left unspoken.)
But thankfully, I have already received emails beseeching me to aim higher this year. One promised me that I could have a totally different life by this time next year. Another told me that I "could soar like an eagle," and another promised me wealth beyond my wildest imagination. (I know I needed to buy something for each of these resolutions to come to fruition, but sadly, they have been sent to the TRASH, and now I forget what I needed to buy.)
I'm stuck.
Really.
I'm stuck.
I don't know what to write.
So I'm sitting at my study window, watching the birdfeeder. Chickadees, thrushes, nuthatches and towhees are having a feast and a field day. (Strangely, their cousin species are sipping margaritas on the beach in Cabo, but these birds are reveling in the unmitigated joy of sunflower seeds in the grey late December of Seattle.)
From the birds I take my cue. I decide to aim my new year's resolution a little lower. And I choose to learn from the little girl in the post office.
Gratefully, this weekend, I enjoyed two other wonderful gifts.
One, I read Gerald May's book The Wisdom of Wilderness. Standing in the woods, May is struck by an old decomposing corpse of a tree and he feels the sadness of age and loss. On the tree sits a Pileated Woodpecker, wearing his distinctive red hat. May realizes that in that woodpecker, in that moment, the tree is, in fact, perfect. May looked at the trees of the forest and "saw all the imperfections of them. Each was broken here and there; all had branches cracked by winds and ice, some split down the middle by lightning; many bore the scars of disease, blighted spots, knots and burls and parasite vines upon them, broken, wounded, growing this way and that, all with their injuries of the year and their imperfections of birth and growth and yet all were absolutely perfect as they were."
There is something about the freedom to see that perfection-yes, the Kingdom of God or the sacrament of the blessed present-within. May goes on, "The woodpecker flew away, to another dead crumbling tree as if to underscore his point, and I knew then that the woodpecker was God's being, like trees and the children were God's being, like I am God's being, a sweetness of life."
Two, I learned from a lethargic, flippant, slacker panda named Po. (Zach and I are watching Kung Fu Panda.) Po (the biggest fan of Kung Fu) nurses an ill-fated dream of Kung Fu greatness. Not quite logical for a panda working every day in his family's noodle shop. In a turn of events ("there are no accidents," the turtle master says) Po is unexpectedly chosen to receive the sacred Dragon Scroll (to fulfill an ancient prophecy), which promises great power to its possessor. This allows Po to study alongside his idols, the legendary Furious Five-Tigress, Crane, Mantis, Viper and Monkey.
Po must face the foe: the vengeful and treacherous snow leopard Tai Lung. And it's up to Po to defend everyone from the oncoming threat. Victory is unlikely.
When Po finally opens the scroll, he finds nothing but a blank reflective surface. Po is stricken with despair at the scroll's apparent worthlessness. His insight comes from his father, who has promised to tell him the secret ingredient to his famous noodle soup.
Mr. Ping: The secret ingredient is... nothing!
Po: Huh?
Mr. Ping: You heard me. Nothing! There is no secret ingredient.
Po: Wait, wait; it's just plain old noodle soup? You don't add some kind of special sauce or something?
Mr. Ping: Don't have to. To make something special you just have to believe it's special.
Too simple? Maybe.
But here's the deal: The miracle for the little girl is that there need not be a miracle: just a slow drip of experience. If there are no unsacred moments, then the sacred is infused in this moment. Even the smallest or most banal thing deserves our undivided attention.
It made a difference to the little girl.
And it made a difference to Po.
I walk from my study back to my house. The embers in the fireplace are still burning, and I read a prayer from John O'Donohue;
To risk being disturbed and changed.
May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love,
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for
And waste my heart on fear no more.
In this moment, I find a penny.
Happy new year.
NEW YEAR NOTE TO MY FRIENDS: For this season of celebration and the weeks beyond. I would like to offer you these gifts.
(If the links do not work, please simply cut and paste.)
ONE:: A special incentive on anything you may want to buy from our books, CDs, DVDs and posters.
Until January 15, 2009, EVERYTHING is 40% off.
Yes, everything.
Go to http://www.terryhershey.com/specials
TWO: New Terry Hershey videos.
Go to http://communities.faithstreams.com/Author/TerryHershey/tabid/26822/Default.aspx
Poems / Prayers
The Waking
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
Theodore Roethke
A Morning Offering
I bless the night that nourished my heart
To set the ghosts of longing free
Into the flow and figure of dream
That went to harvest from the dark
Bread for the hunger no one sees.
All that is eternal in me
Welcomes the wonder of this day,
The field of brightness it creates
Offering time for each thing
To arise and illuminate.
I place on the altar of dawn;
The quiet loyalty of breath,
The tent of thought where I shelter,
Waves of desire I am shore to
And all beauty drawn to the eye.
May my mind come alive today
To the invisible geography
That invites me to new frontiers,
To break the dead shell of yesterdays
To risk being disturbed and changed.
May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love,
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for
And waste my heart on fear no more.
Amen.
John O'Donohue
Peace,
Terry Hershey
