Making Plans
March 10, 2009
Life is what happens while we are making
other plans. John Lennon
If we want to be happy at all, I think, we
have to acknowledge that the circumstances
that encourage us in our love of this
existence are essential. We are part of what
is sacred. That is our main defense against
craziness, our solace, the source of our best
politics, and our only chance at
paradise. William Kittredge
Early in F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great
Gatsby, Daisy wonders aloud, "Do you always
watch for the longest day of the year and
then miss it? I always watch for the longest
day of the year and then miss it."
A bored and haughty Jordan replies (with a yawn), "We ought to plan something."
"All right," says Daisy. "What'll we plan? What do people plan?"
I have my own internal Daisy.
I am sure you do too.
Some mental gear we shift into, which is all about waiting for life to begin.
And while we're making plans, for a life yet to be, we miss the life we have today.
It happened to me this week. There is something about a crammed calendar, that tips the pin-ball-machine-in-my-mind to 'tilt,' and I find comfort in a litany of "if only" and "when." My week (three parish missions in three different cities, following a week of three speaking engagements in three different cities) began with a flight and then traffic in LA, where I sat, stewing in the rain on an interstate parking lot. It seemed a perfect metaphor for the very full week ahead. Only just begun and I am already annoyed. The easy way out? I find myself thinking about next week. You know, after I get through my obligations this week. I find solace in making plans for when life will get back to "normal."
On California's 101 Freeway, you break free of traffic around Ventura, when a curve in the freeway opens on to the Pacific Ocean. The infinite vista of water and sky is a surprise. And a relief.
The surprise makes me pause (literally, my car slows), and the pause returns me to the present.
Have you seen the movie "Grosse Pointe Blank?" John Cusak plays an assassin seeing a psychiatrist who is trying to persuade him not to kill. Cusak is given to moments of anxiety. (Go figure.) In a interesting scene, the psychiatrist tells Cusack to repeat to himself, "this is me breathing." In the end, it helps to calm him down.
The next hour driving north takes me along the ocean on one side, and hillsides of green from recent rains, on the other. Soon, on the hills there are clusters of live oak trees with their spreading evergreen canopies. The clusters are random and irregular. And the hills look like they have been dyed with smears of forest green, as if a divine painter stood with a brush wet with paint, and laughingly flung color onto a generous and open canvas. Toward the west, white clouds sit just above the ridge, looking like ill-fitting powdered wigs from Victorian England.
I pause.
And I give up my plans to let life begin next week.
Maybe, just maybe, it can begin today.
This is me breathing.
This is me breathing.
We will be ready "when," we tell ourselves.
I have heard it often, especially recently, (even coming from my own mouth), "When this economic crisis is over, then I will-----"
I have decided not to say that anymore.
If I cannot find the sacred in the midst of the crisis, what makes me think I will find the sacred when the crisis is past?
My drive along the coast takes me from my worry.
And reminds me that I can embrace this day.
Even if it wasn't in my plans.
This drive.
This moment.
This sky.
Last week, I overheard someone saying, "I want that, but I cannot afford it now."
I understand. The economic part anyway.
However, driving through the central coast of California, I see fields of wild mustard--immense carpets of neon-chartreuse--and I know what I cannot afford.
I cannot afford to shut down.
I cannot afford to withhold.
I cannot afford to be afraid.
So in the end, I had a week of moments.
New friends in Bellflower, Arroyo Grande and Aptos, California.
And in Arroyo, I drove a 1971 Jaguar E series. Tim, a new friend and the Jag's owner, let me live a dream. We cruised at dusk light. "It doesn't get any better than this," I told him. "Sunset and a Jag."
In San Luis Obispo, I enjoyed an Italian feast with my friends at Vieni Vai Trattoria. The owner Joseph tells me, "Here's the recipe for a good life: good food, good wine, good friends and lots of laughter."
Yes, I tell him.
And whatever you do, don't let your plans take you away from today.
A bored and haughty Jordan replies (with a yawn), "We ought to plan something."
"All right," says Daisy. "What'll we plan? What do people plan?"
I have my own internal Daisy.
I am sure you do too.
Some mental gear we shift into, which is all about waiting for life to begin.
And while we're making plans, for a life yet to be, we miss the life we have today.
It happened to me this week. There is something about a crammed calendar, that tips the pin-ball-machine-in-my-mind to 'tilt,' and I find comfort in a litany of "if only" and "when." My week (three parish missions in three different cities, following a week of three speaking engagements in three different cities) began with a flight and then traffic in LA, where I sat, stewing in the rain on an interstate parking lot. It seemed a perfect metaphor for the very full week ahead. Only just begun and I am already annoyed. The easy way out? I find myself thinking about next week. You know, after I get through my obligations this week. I find solace in making plans for when life will get back to "normal."
On California's 101 Freeway, you break free of traffic around Ventura, when a curve in the freeway opens on to the Pacific Ocean. The infinite vista of water and sky is a surprise. And a relief.
The surprise makes me pause (literally, my car slows), and the pause returns me to the present.
Have you seen the movie "Grosse Pointe Blank?" John Cusak plays an assassin seeing a psychiatrist who is trying to persuade him not to kill. Cusak is given to moments of anxiety. (Go figure.) In a interesting scene, the psychiatrist tells Cusack to repeat to himself, "this is me breathing." In the end, it helps to calm him down.
The next hour driving north takes me along the ocean on one side, and hillsides of green from recent rains, on the other. Soon, on the hills there are clusters of live oak trees with their spreading evergreen canopies. The clusters are random and irregular. And the hills look like they have been dyed with smears of forest green, as if a divine painter stood with a brush wet with paint, and laughingly flung color onto a generous and open canvas. Toward the west, white clouds sit just above the ridge, looking like ill-fitting powdered wigs from Victorian England.
I pause.
And I give up my plans to let life begin next week.
Maybe, just maybe, it can begin today.
This is me breathing.
This is me breathing.
We will be ready "when," we tell ourselves.
I have heard it often, especially recently, (even coming from my own mouth), "When this economic crisis is over, then I will-----"
I have decided not to say that anymore.
If I cannot find the sacred in the midst of the crisis, what makes me think I will find the sacred when the crisis is past?
My drive along the coast takes me from my worry.
And reminds me that I can embrace this day.
Even if it wasn't in my plans.
This drive.
This moment.
This sky.
Last week, I overheard someone saying, "I want that, but I cannot afford it now."
I understand. The economic part anyway.
However, driving through the central coast of California, I see fields of wild mustard--immense carpets of neon-chartreuse--and I know what I cannot afford.
I cannot afford to shut down.
I cannot afford to withhold.
I cannot afford to be afraid.
So in the end, I had a week of moments.
New friends in Bellflower, Arroyo Grande and Aptos, California.
And in Arroyo, I drove a 1971 Jaguar E series. Tim, a new friend and the Jag's owner, let me live a dream. We cruised at dusk light. "It doesn't get any better than this," I told him. "Sunset and a Jag."
In San Luis Obispo, I enjoyed an Italian feast with my friends at Vieni Vai Trattoria. The owner Joseph tells me, "Here's the recipe for a good life: good food, good wine, good friends and lots of laughter."
Yes, I tell him.
And whatever you do, don't let your plans take you away from today.
Poems / Prayers
The Sacraments
I once spoke to my friend, an old squirrel,
about the Sacraments--
he got so excited
and ran into a hollow in his tree and came
back holding some acorns, an owl feather,
and a ribbon he had found.
And I just smiled and said, "Yes, dear,
you understand:
everything imparts
His grace.
St. Francis of Assisi
Walk in Beauty
In Beauty may you walk.
All day long may you walk.
Through the returning seasons may you walk.
On the trail marked with pollen may you walk.
With grasshoppers about your feet may you walk.
With dew about your feet may you walk.
With Beauty may you walk.
With Beauty before you, may you walk.
With Beauty behind you, may you walk.
With Beauty above you, may you walk.
With Beauty below you, may you walk.
With Beauty all around you, may you walk.
In old age wandering on a trail of Beauty,
lively, may you walk.
In old age wandering on a trail of Beauty,
living again, may you walk.
It is finished in Beauty.
It is finished in Beauty.
Navajo Prayer and Blessing
Peace,
Terry Hershey
