Terry Hershey

In This Issue:

• Dandelions by Terry Hershey
• Sabbath Thought
• Poems
• Words to live by
• Letters

Dandelions

photo: aussiegall

If dandelions were rare and fragile, people would know themselves out to pay $14.95 a plant, raise them by hand in greenhouses and form dandelion societies and all that. But they are everywhere and don’t need us and kind of do what they please. So we call them weeds and murder them at every opportunity.
Robert Fulgham

If I ever become a Saint–I will surely be one of “darkness,” I will continually be absent from heaven–to light the light of those in darkness on earth.
Mother Teresa of Calcutta

Literature is born when something in life goes slightly adrift.
Simone de Beauvoir (The Prime of Life)

Why fear the dark? How can we help but love it when it is the darkness that brings the stars to us? What’s more: who does not know that it is on the darkest nights that the stars acquire their greatest splendor?
Dom Helder Camara (Brazilian Catholic Archbishop 1909 - 1999

It gives one a sudden start in going down a barren, stony street, to see upon a narrow strip of grass, just within the iron fence, the radiant dandelion, shining in the grass, like a spark dropped from the sun.
Henry Ward Beecher

But I have seen these people dance, laughing, to the edge of the grave. I believe now they will dance back from it.
Rick Bragg (writing in New Orleans in the aftermath of Katrina)

My computer-hard-drive died. Gave up the ghost.

No: I did not have anything backed up.

Yes: it is hard to feel the empathy from people who begin their

condolences with, “You are an idiot!”

Okay. No argument.

But allow me one paragraph to whinge. The past three weeks have been a cascade of less-than-pleasant-betidings. Hit a deer and wrecked my truck. Needed oral surgery. At an impasse with an old friend. To add insult to injury, couldn’t sleep last night, my brain racked with undone items on my list, to many deadlines past, persistent writer’s block, and Wayne Newton singing “Dankashane.” There’s gotta be a law. Or at least medication.

Then there’s the weather. If you are by nature given to a congenial mood, Seattle’s November is the month when the mental carousel lurches from its sprockets and the whole ride goes cattywhampus. November arrived here on October 15. It’s raining sideways. Great trees are buffeted, appearing tossed in the sustained winds. Electrical lights blink, and then go out. One of the grand fir trees ended up on our new garage-barn.

For wisdom I consult with my son Zach. Looking at our disheveled lawn and garden, he pondered, “Dad, wouldn’t it be great if there were no storms or wars or pests or wind or rain of any kind?”

You’re preaching to the choir, son.

Which brings me to this newsletter. Finally.

A couple of months ago I lectured in Spokane for the Inland Empire Garden Club. The subject they gave me: Learning to love our dandelions.

I used this story from Anthony deMello: "A man who took great pride in his lawn found himself with a large crop of dandelions. He tried every method he knew to get rid of them. Still they plagued him. Finally he wrote the Department of Agriculture. He enumerated all the things he had tried and closed his letter with the question: "What shall I do now?"

In due course the reply came:
"We suggest you learn to love them."

“I too had a lawn I prided myself on and I too was plagued with dandelions that I fought with every means in my power. So learning to love them was no easy matter. I began by talking to them each day. Cordial. Friendly. They maintained a sullen silence. They were smarting from the war I had waged against them and were suspicious of my motives. But it wasn’t long before they smiled back. And relaxed. Soon we were good friends.

My lawn, of course, was ruined. But, how attractive my new garden became.”

photo: judepics

I have toyed with two very mature responses to my own recent dandelions. One, I dream about a tiki hut on Bali. Two, I dream about a tiki hut laying in a hammock with a cold beer, on Bali.

Nothing wrong with tiki huts, or Bali for that matter, but there is no doubt that I can go to great lengths to remove myself from the moment. . .from this day, this scenario, these emotions, these disappointments.

Dandelions come in various forms. Sometimes, a falling fir tree. Other times it’s a lingering dissatisfaction with our state in life. Something about the difference between the life we planned, and the life we have. Perhaps something about ourselves we dislike or even abhor. Or maybe, simply a lingering sadness about something we are certain we lack: resolve, talent, courage, faith or a winning lottery ticket.

I have no desire to get into a debate about who caused the tree to fall. A whole in my roof is no time to play Theology Jeopardy. It is enough to know that there is a hole in my roof. Who I blame doesn’t help much.

Dandelions have this in common. They feel like a hole. Or at least like something undone. Or amiss. And we don’t like untidy things. Whether it is our garden, our desk, our mind or our soul. We feel compelled to fix it. Resolve it. Manage it. Make it tidy.

We gardener’s know all about this syndrome. Go to any gardener’s house, and the first words from their lips, “I’m sorry. You should have seen my garden last week (or next week, or don’t look there, or wait until I finish that bed, it’ll be spectacular).”

There is a wonderful seduction in the promise of tomorrow’s potential to undo or redo or remake. But I pay a price. With this laundry list that depends upon “if only,” I withhold. . .

. . .passion

. . .commitment

. . .energy

. . .attention

. . .and hope

photo: emospada

Bank on this: it does me zero–as in zip, zilch, nada–good to live with if onlys.

A Baptist preacher, an Episcopalian priest and a Jewish Rabbi were arguing about when life begins.

Baptist preacher, “Life begins when the egg and the sperm touch.”

Episcopalian priest, “Life begins when there is viability in the womb.”

“No, no,” said the Rabbi, “life begins when your kids leave home and your dog dies. That’s when life begins.”

Like it or not, we all have those places. In the back of our minds, you know, that checklist for when life will really begin.

I read a short story about car trips. The writer described several long car trips from his life. One as a young child, one as an older child with siblings, one leaving home on his way to college, one with his wife-to-be returning home to meet the parents, one with wife and children. One on his way to a new town after a divorce. On this last trip, he stops at a Rest Area. He leaves the car to stretch his legs. In the space next to him another car parks. Out jumps two perfectly manicured children. A handsome couple, smiling, content. Then it hit him: “I’ve always been in the wrong car.”

I have felt that way before. You know, being in the wrong life. The wrong body. The wrong family, or marriage, or job, or relationship.

Here’s the deal: Dandelions invite us to a spirituality of imperfection.

photo: jurek d.

Behind my house is a large hole. It’s going to be a pond. You know, someday. It was going to be a pond four years ago. Now, it is a hole, full of dandelions. An amphitheater of dandelions. As if a five gallon bucket of butter yellow paint were poured, creating a river to where the waterfall will begin, 140 feet away. All summer, a river of yellow. Had one visitor comment, “What a creative idea, make a river and pond of dandelions. I never would have thought of that. It’s beautiful.” “Yes,” I tell them, “I planned it this way.”

What I saw as blight or indictment or shortcoming, they saw as genius. Go figure.

Spirituality begins with acceptance. In other words, I begin here. In this moment. I am not a pawn or victim or puppet. And in beginning here, I accept my imperfection–my brokenness, my divided and fractured being (what William James called my “torn-to-pieces-hood”). That here, even with the untidy parts, the untidy emotions, I can embrace the Sacrament of the blessed present. . ..in this conversation, this conundrum, this moment of grace, this serendipity, this problem.

photo: lollerkeet

...

If perfection is the goal, I am not free to embrace the beauty that resides in imperfection.

If wholeness means no fault lines, I miss the exquisiteness from the way the light shines through the cracks.

If dandelions must be viewed with suspicion and distrust, I miss all the rivers of yellow that course through my days.

If my garden can only be enjoyed when it’s perfect, I miss the grace and sublimity of self-seeded-johnny-jump-ups on a grey winter day.

...

Tonight storms roll and sweep and bludgeon through the area. The sky is a grand stage, home to a play with perpetual scene changes in caffeinated motion. Outside our dining room window, the Japanese Maple tree “Bloodgood,” is backlit, basking in shafts of low angled sunlight muted or filtered in grey. The leaves, normally the color of bruised scarlet are now the color of raspberry jello. I do a double-take. The leaves glisten and smile, wet from the rain. Zach has cranked up the music, Three Dog Night, and we sit by the fire, and watch the dusk slowly settle outside our window.

...

It was easy to love God in all that

was beautiful.

The lessons of deeper knowledge, though, instructed me

to embrace God in all

things.

St. Francis of Assisi

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Sabbath Thought

Ben Harper: Lifeline - In The Colors

When your whole world is shaken

from all the risks we have taken

dance with me into the colors

of the dusk

when you have awoken

from all the dreams broken

dance with me into the colors

of the dusk

the paths we're walking on

crumble behind us

but if we leave now they will

never find us

and if this crazy world spins itself

down to dust

i want to be with you

in the colors

when you again start hoping

with your arms wide open

dance with me into the colors

of the dusk

and all will be right

dancing like water with the light

dance with me into the colors

of the dusk

(From Lifeline. Ben Harper & the Innocent Criminals)

Poems

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

Sunday Morning

What is divinity if it can come

Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,

In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else

In any balm or beauty of the earth,

Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?

Divinity must live within herself:

Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;

Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued

Elations when the forest blooms; gusty

Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;

All pleasures and all pains, remembering

The bough of summer and the winter branch,

These are the measures destined for her soul.

Wallace Stevens

Rumi, pay homage

I God said,

“Rumi, pay homage to everything

that has helped you

enter my arms.”

There would not be one experience of my life,

not one thought, not one feeling,

not any act, I

would not

bow

to.

Rumi

It’s All Right

Someone you trusted has treated you bad.

Someone has used you to vent their ill temper.

Did you expect anything different?

You work–better than some others’–has languished,

neglected. Or a job you tried was too hard,

and you failed. Maybe weather or bad luck

spoiled what you did. That grudge, held against you

for years after you patched up, has flared,

and you’ve lost a friend for a time. Things

at home aren’t so good; on the job your spirits

have sunk. But just when the worst bears down

you find a pretty bubble in your soup at noon,

and outside at work a bird says, “Hi!”

Slowly the sun creeps along the floor;

it is coming your way. It touches your shoe.

William Stafford

Starting With Little Things

Love the earth like a mole,

fur-near. Nearsighted,

hold close the clods,

their fine-print headlines.

Pat them with soft hands–

But spades, but pink and loving: they

break rock, nudge giants aside,

affable plow.

Fields are to touch:

each day nuzzle your way.

Tomorrow the world.

William Stafford

Words to Live By

We are not “everything,” but neither are we “nothing.” Spirituality is discovered in that space between paradox’s extremes, for there we confront our helplessness and powerlessness, our woundedness. In seeking to understand our limitations, we seek not only an easing of our pain but an understanding of what it means to hurt and what it means to be healed. Spirituality begins with the acceptance that our fractured being, our imperfection, simply is: There is no one to blame for our errors, neither ourselves now anyone else. Spirituality helps us first to see, and then to understand, and then to accept the imperfection that lies at the very core of our human being. Spirituality accepts that “If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly.”
Ernest Kurtz

He was becoming blind by degrees. He fought it with every means in his power. When medicine no longer served to fight it, he fought it with his emotions. It took courage to say to him, "I suggest you learn to love your blindness." It was a struggle. He refused to have anything to do with it in the beginning. And when he eventually brought himself to speak to his blindness his words were bitter. But he kept on speaking and the words slowly changed into words of resignation and tolerance and acceptance . . . and, one day, very much to his own surprise, they became words of friendliness . . . and love. Then came the day when he was able to put his arm around his blindness and say, "I love you." That was the day I saw him smile again. His vision, of course, was lost forever. But how attractive his face became!
Anthony DeMello, "The Song of the Bird"

Go to your bosom, knock there

and ask your heart what it doth know.

Shakespeare

I could suffer a great deal, or not, or for a long time. Or I could have the combo platter: suffer, breathe, pay, play, cry, and try to help people.

Ann Lamott

Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.

William Wordsworth, 1798

The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature.

To nurture a garden is to feed not just on the body, but the soul. Share the

botanical bliss of gardeners through the ages, who have cultivated philosophies to apply to their own - and our own - lives: Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are.

Alfred Austin, 1835-1913

Letters

Dear Terry, Most often in Life, I've struggled to find even one thing that truly anchors me as a reason to push onward over paths that seem to bear no promise of reward in any tangible, visible way. Rock-strewn, boulder-enhanced or simply non-negotiable are the walks I've travailed many a time in my 20 years of serving....others. Whether in my chiropractic clinic or along long, quiet hospital halls, I wondered aloud that perhaps I needed a new outlook or a new faith of some kind that would magically lift my spirits and that in turn would bolster me with new confidence in helping the hurt, the infirm or simply the forgotten. No. All I actually needed was some powerful words. You know the kind I speak of. The kind a 5 year old can utter that bystanders in church or the bank or the supermarket immediately hear and recognize at its simplicity of truth (and oftentimes a parent wish a million times over could be stricken from the record!). The kind that an utterly poor person can make that reveals their inner person to be amazingly wealthy and vibrant. The kind of words someone makes upon their deathbed when they take your hand in theirs and tell you in minutes what otherwise would take years for them to convey. Those kind of words. Words that reached my eyes in all of less than one single minute that utterly convinced me that I didn’t need a new faith that would launch me into a new era of self-or-other awareness. I say reached my eyes because as the newspaper print unfolded that day I read the words of a religious leader who was asked to describe his faith...'what is your faith?', was the pointed question from the media surrounding him. 'Oh', I thought for sure, 'he'll speak of Tibetan mountains and perfectness and a millions of things that I faintly am aware of but little understand'. Wrong. It wasn’t even remotely what he said. His words struck me in their simplicity in such a way that I realized that I already had in me what it was that I needed - faith - and more importantly, it struck a great chord of admiration indeed for what I had been missing all along was the fact that I now had a reason to be in awe of others who were profoundly excited about their own faiths!

"My religion," replied the Dali Lama, 'is compassion'.

There. That did it all for me.

In one sentence, one man - who like my Savior - cast aside all brand name variety of faiths and cut to the essence of what one can feel is the absolute bedrock of truth...And now my path is clear as ever, I walk the halls of clinics and hospitals not needing a new 'brand' or a new what-have-you. I just needed some really powerful words to inspire and comfort me in what are very long days during very long weeks helping those who need it most.

And if you are so lucky as to hear the absolute truth being uttered by a child, a beggar or a person soon to sleep, try to remember those words and keep them close to the heart. I have heard all of these and words from a man whose faith must be many things to many people. Dr. James Murphey

Terry, How interesting that you would write on success. (I liked it very much, esp. since I was quoted.) I also just wrote on the subject myself while at the abbey last week, albeit through a different window; from Rev 3 and the lukewarm church at Laodicea. It deals with success as the anesthetizing drug for sin. Personally, I have this very warm relationship with sin. It so permeates my core that to deny it or fear it would to allow it to wreak havoc with my sense of reality. I am sin and, unlike the Christ, in me there is much darkness. Some of it I deplore and some of it I rather enjoy. In my theology, sin is the pathway to God. Knowing it and admitting it and just calling it what it is – a big, big part of me. I treasure my love/hate relationship with sin, which for me has little to do with traditional “sins” most of which make up my goals in life. CH

I enjoy your newsletter. Keep up the good work! Thank you! EM

Thank you, Terry and staff, for the newsletter. When I see the email for the new issue, my heart leaps a little, and I anticipate opening the issue like a present, knowing there are layers to discover. I relish those moments when the secrets of the contents will strike a chord with my heart. Thank you...and may you always have something that feeds you as deliciously as this newsletter feeds me! BG

Hi Terry, Nice visuals - of the grey winter canopy appearing over Vashon Island... Our winter canopy made an appearance also. However, I suspect that ours was made of lace, while yours was made of marine tarp...:>) Dandelions are sprinkled throughout my back lawn...peeking through the mist of the foggy morning. Am looking forward to your next newsletter. Time to restore the soul, harvest time...A

Thanks for visiting with us!

photo: siilur