Putting My Sack Down
September 01, 2008
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around
the lake. Wallace
Stevens
You must have a place
to which you can go in your heart, your mind,
or your house, almost every day, where you do
not owe anyone and where no one owes you--a
place that simply allows for the blossoming
of something new and promising.
Joseph Campbell
Within you there is a stillness and a
sanctuary to which you can retreat at anytime
and be yourself. Herman Hesse
What's in your sack? the traveler, stooped
from the heaviness, is asked.
My Mother.
Isn't she heavy?
She sure is.
Why don't you put her down?
I can't.
Well, why can't you stop carrying her?
I don't know. I've always carried her.
I know this: I, too, carry a sack, and am reluctant to set it down.
What is in the sack is not the primary issue.
Our sacks can carry a whole lot of things.
The anxiety of the day,
past grievances,
woundedness,
an unfair life,
a preoccupation with busyness,
our desire for perfection,
self-righteousness,
our need to impress.
Whatever it is, we find reassurance in the weight. Whatever it is, every single one prevents us from accepting life as a gift today.
I am traveling from JFK to Dallas. First Class. (It was be nice to middle-aged writers day.) Next to me, a young man (perhaps 30) works at his lap top. Until we depart he is conducting business on his cell phone. On his armrest table are reports and other paperwork. He is dressed in his business attire, a perfectly starched shirt, tie still knotted. His dress and his focus impress me. I am reading a novel. During the meal, he asks, "So, what do you do?"
I usually respond to that inquiry, "I'm a TV Evangelist."
Mostly because people do a double-take, and more than likely for the rest of the flight leave me undisturbed.
"I'm a writer."
"Like Stephen King?"
"Very similar," I say.
Then I tell him about my book Soul Gardening. He tells me a story. "When I was a boy in northern Texas, my grandmother had a garden. And she loved green beans. And she loved me. One of my favorite memories is helping my grandmother pick green beans. Today, my life is good. I have a big house and a bigger mortgage. But that means that I work 60 hour weeks, and I have a hard time keeping up my commitments to my wife and three kids. And sometimes, I get a little overwhelmed. I've never told anyone this, but last year I planted a green bean plant. In back of my house. It's not much, and it made my wife laugh, but it's amazing what it does to my blood pressure, every time I return home from a trip. It reminds me of my grandmother. Peaceful somehow. Strange, huh?"
No, I tell him, not strange at all.
Everybody needs a green bean plant.
When he visits his green bean plant, he sets his sack down.
When he visits his green bean plant, he practices sanctuary.
A sanctuary is a place where I am at home with my own company.
A sanctuary is about union restored.
A sanctuary is a place of rest (Sabbath).
A sanctuary is about setting the sack down.
Sanctuary is that place where time is sacred.
In our hurried and over-hyped world, we need sanctuaries.
This is a simple truth.
Just not so simple to follow through.
My sanctuary is my garden. Unfortunately, I have been away from home for a few days, so my schedule is off-kilter. I miss my garden. Parts of my trip did not go as planned, so I'm out of whack. Anxious.
I'm eager to return to my sanctuary garden. But I miss the point entirely when I assume that my sanctuary is a place that I orchestrate or manage. As if the sacred present and tidy control are synonymous.
Perhaps Hesse is right, "Within you there is a stillness and a sanctuary to which you can retreat at anytime and be yourself." Even on trips when you are out of whack.
Spent the last few days in the Ottawa National Park in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. My father lives in a small town up here, in the middle of nowhere. Even MapQuest asks, Are you sure this is your destination?
Yesterday I followed a four-wheeler track trough the forest. Somewhere along the way, a bear scented me before I saw him, but I followed his tracks for a good while, hoping (against better judgment) for a chance encounter. No luck. But I did stop to rest. Fortunately, near a patch of wild blueberries. I filled my mouth with sweet berries and let the sun warm my face. There is no sound, save a breeze rustling the birch leaves. I take a breath and set down my sack.
My Mother.
Isn't she heavy?
She sure is.
Why don't you put her down?
I can't.
Well, why can't you stop carrying her?
I don't know. I've always carried her.
I know this: I, too, carry a sack, and am reluctant to set it down.
What is in the sack is not the primary issue.
Our sacks can carry a whole lot of things.
The anxiety of the day,
past grievances,
woundedness,
an unfair life,
a preoccupation with busyness,
our desire for perfection,
self-righteousness,
our need to impress.
Whatever it is, we find reassurance in the weight. Whatever it is, every single one prevents us from accepting life as a gift today.
I am traveling from JFK to Dallas. First Class. (It was be nice to middle-aged writers day.) Next to me, a young man (perhaps 30) works at his lap top. Until we depart he is conducting business on his cell phone. On his armrest table are reports and other paperwork. He is dressed in his business attire, a perfectly starched shirt, tie still knotted. His dress and his focus impress me. I am reading a novel. During the meal, he asks, "So, what do you do?"
I usually respond to that inquiry, "I'm a TV Evangelist."
Mostly because people do a double-take, and more than likely for the rest of the flight leave me undisturbed.
"I'm a writer."
"Like Stephen King?"
"Very similar," I say.
Then I tell him about my book Soul Gardening. He tells me a story. "When I was a boy in northern Texas, my grandmother had a garden. And she loved green beans. And she loved me. One of my favorite memories is helping my grandmother pick green beans. Today, my life is good. I have a big house and a bigger mortgage. But that means that I work 60 hour weeks, and I have a hard time keeping up my commitments to my wife and three kids. And sometimes, I get a little overwhelmed. I've never told anyone this, but last year I planted a green bean plant. In back of my house. It's not much, and it made my wife laugh, but it's amazing what it does to my blood pressure, every time I return home from a trip. It reminds me of my grandmother. Peaceful somehow. Strange, huh?"
No, I tell him, not strange at all.
Everybody needs a green bean plant.
When he visits his green bean plant, he sets his sack down.
When he visits his green bean plant, he practices sanctuary.
A sanctuary is a place where I am at home with my own company.
A sanctuary is about union restored.
A sanctuary is a place of rest (Sabbath).
A sanctuary is about setting the sack down.
Sanctuary is that place where time is sacred.
In our hurried and over-hyped world, we need sanctuaries.
This is a simple truth.
Just not so simple to follow through.
My sanctuary is my garden. Unfortunately, I have been away from home for a few days, so my schedule is off-kilter. I miss my garden. Parts of my trip did not go as planned, so I'm out of whack. Anxious.
I'm eager to return to my sanctuary garden. But I miss the point entirely when I assume that my sanctuary is a place that I orchestrate or manage. As if the sacred present and tidy control are synonymous.
Perhaps Hesse is right, "Within you there is a stillness and a sanctuary to which you can retreat at anytime and be yourself." Even on trips when you are out of whack.
Spent the last few days in the Ottawa National Park in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. My father lives in a small town up here, in the middle of nowhere. Even MapQuest asks, Are you sure this is your destination?
Yesterday I followed a four-wheeler track trough the forest. Somewhere along the way, a bear scented me before I saw him, but I followed his tracks for a good while, hoping (against better judgment) for a chance encounter. No luck. But I did stop to rest. Fortunately, near a patch of wild blueberries. I filled my mouth with sweet berries and let the sun warm my face. There is no sound, save a breeze rustling the birch leaves. I take a breath and set down my sack.
Poems / Prayers
Witness
Sometimes the mountain
is hidden from me in veils
of cloud, sometimes
I am hidden from the mountain
in veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue,
when I forget or refuse to go
down to the shore or a few yards
up the road, on a clear day, to reconfirm
that witnessing presence.
Denise Levertov
Sabbaths
Whatever is foreseen is joy
Must be lived out from day to day.
Vision held open in the dark
By our ten thousand days of work.
Harvest will fill the barn; for that
The hand must ache, the face must sweat.
And yet no leaf or grain is filled
By work of ours; the field is tilled
And left to grace. That we may reap,
Great work is done while we're asleep.
When we work well, a Sabbath mood
Rests on our day, and finds it good.
Wendell Berry
There remains therefore a Sabbath rest for the people of God. For the one who has entered God's rest has also rested from his works, as God did from His. Let us therefore be diligent to enter that rest. Amen.
Book of Hebrews
Peace,
Terry Hershey
