Daily Dose (Aug 27 – 30)

TUESDAY AUGUST 27 —

Late in her life, May Sarton was questioned about what she wanted to be when she “grew up.”  She replied, “To be human.”
Not bad. To be human is about regaining what has been lost in the shuffle when life has been relegated to keeping score and making waves.
To be human is about cultivating the nourished and replenished life.
To be human is about gardening the soul.
To be human is about being gentle with yourself, a restorative mainlined straight to the heart.

Gratefully, my identity and well-being are not based (or predicated) on arrival or impressing or proving or keeping score. So, gratefully, there’s a supportive paradigm shift, and because of that, my questions have changed.
Instead of asking, “What do you (or did you) do?” I ask…
Are there butterflies in your garden? Are there dandelions in your lawn? And when was the last time your house smelled of paper-white narcissus?
Do sunsets make you smile? When was the last time you stood in stocking feet just to stare at the moon? Have you ever seen a sunflower bloom?
Does the laughter of children do your heart good? At what angle does the sun enter your house? Are you comforted by the sound of rain of your roof? And have you watched the hummingbirds dance?
Is your heart glad in the presence of compassion and grace and mercy?
I love to watch the hummingbirds dance. I loved to put on my “dancing shoes”.
I love the smile that fills my face when I hear anyone playing old time rock and roll. I love to stretch out on a garden bench on a warm summer day.
I love books, delight in poetry, and find sustenance in writing.
I love small gestures of generosity, witnessing the extraordinary number of big hearts there are in this world.
I love prayers that begin with the words, “Thank you…”
I love friends who remind me that I’m not on this journey alone, and that my opinion of myself needs some work.
I love it anytime someone says, “Let’s have a moment of silence,” and then makes it two.
I love cleansing tears that don’t need to be explained away. I love it when I make decisions from a soft heart.
I treasure the certainty that grace gives us all many second chances. And I love to lose track of time in my garden.
Yes. And this is important. To be human (open to awe and wonder, and to stay hydrated in our soul) is a spiritual (and self-compassionate) endeavor.

WEDNESDAY AUGUST 28 —

“Does it hurt?” the Rabbit asked the Skin Horse (about “becoming real”).
“Oh yes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “Sometimes it hurts a lot. But when you are real, you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” the Rabbit asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
(The Velveteen Rabbit)

You can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.
So. Let us be gentle with ourselves.
And no, this isn’t an affirmation exercise to say while looking in the mirror. Although that wouldn’t hurt.
It is an affirmation that allows us to hear the words, “Beauty is the illumination of your soul.” (Thank you John O’Donohue)
I know that it is most certainly our temptation and tendency, to see (or buy) and internalize the labels. And yes, it is palpable. And when we see only the labels, we miss Rumi’s invitation,
“But you have no need to go anywhere—
Journey within yourself.
Enter a mine of rubies
and bathe in the splendor of your own light.”
Rumi

Now back to our invitation this week; let us be gentle with ourselves.
Knowing that taking care of yourself, is giving yourself the permission to embrace the wholeness (the beauty and the light), which is alive and well even in the crazy or the broken.
And in our world that often feels catawampus, it is a good reminder, that “Taking care of yourself is the most powerful way to begin to take care of others.” (Bryant McGill)
If I were in church, I’d say, “Amen.” Because care of any kind—compassion, generosity, forgiveness, reconciliation, peacemaking, service, ministry, teaching, giving, healing—begins with and is nourished by self-care. By self-compassion.

“If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete.” Buddha

THURSDAY AUGUST 29 —

It’s already long past departure time. I’m standing near the gate, waiting for the inbound passengers to deplane. There’s nowhere to go, and the plane will depart when it departs. Even so, the passengers (including me) are beginning to huddle, as if our hovering will speed up the process. We form a makeshift column, all of us wanting dibs on the precious above-seat-cargo-space.
Standing nearby, facing the now open jet-bridge-door, is a uniformed soldier. He stands with nervous energy, conveying a restless and eager air. He watches the door intently. With him, a friend. In his right hand he holds a large poster board sign, now hanging down by his side, hand stenciled in magic marker, “Welcome Home!  I love you!”
Since he has been allowed to stand at the arrival gate (past airport security), it is evident that he is waiting for an “unaccompanied minor.” The passengers from the inbound flight spill from the doorway. She is the final passenger to deplane, accompanied by a flight attendant. Around her neck, a plastic packet hangs with her documents. She is, perhaps twelve or thirteen, although still childlike with two perfect braids. She scans the faces; sees her father, and her smile is radiant and luminous.
There is a moment. A pause. And she catapults herself into his wide-open arms.  His hand-lettered sign has dropped from his hand to the floor, now immaterial, and as his daughter leans into his chest, he clutches her tightly and kisses her head.  Those of us lucky enough to witness this scene know the healing power, and blessedness of this embrace.
No. We do not know their entire story. How long since their last visit? Why have they been separated?  Has he been deployed and in “harm’s way?” Does she live in another state, unable to frequently visit her father?
But this we do know: Every single one of us in that departure lounge wished to be in that embrace.

Here’s the deal: in that embrace, the little girl was at home.
Until the day we leave this earth, we all are looking for wide open arms—the gift of grace, and the gift of being seen.
Yes, we do our best to pretend that we have our act together, or that we are above overtures of compassion. But inside something gnaws. You see, we don’t trust our own goodness. Or our own beauty. So, we reach out, at every opportunity, looking for mercy. We need hugs to remind us.
Which brings us back to our invitation this week; let us be gentle with ourselves, embracing the gift of self-compassion. Yes. Giving ourselves the permission to embrace the wholeness (the beauty and the light), which is alive and well even in the crazy or the broken.

FRIDAY AUGUST 30 —

In the movie, The Mission, Rodrigo Mendoza (Robert De Niro) loses his lover to his brother, and then kills his brother in a pique of rage. His world is on tilt. He is visited in his cell by Father Gabriel (Jeremy Irons), who is told, “He won’t see anybody. I think he wants to die.”

In the cell Mendoza tells Fr. Gabriel, “You don’t know what I am.”
Fr. Gabriel, “Yes. You are a mercenary. You are a slave trader. And you killed your bother. I know. But you loved him, although you chose a strange way to show it.”
Mendoza, “For me there is no redemption.” 
Mercy is never easy to hear, let alone receive.

Redemption and healing? You don’t mean me, do you?
And to receive the gift of self-compassion, giving ourselves the permission to embrace the wholeness (the beauty and the light), which is alive and well even in the crazy or the broken.
Let us be gentle with ourselves.

There is a similar story (about the gift of mercy and being seen) told in the Gospel of Luke. A young man leaves home in order to explore and experiment. And “find himself.”
It doesn’t turn out like he planned. He squanders his inheritance and his opportunity, and lives penniless. So, he decides to return–full of shame and regret–willing to be his father’s servant, as some kind of penance. And then this sentence; “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” 
His Father’s reaction?  Wrath? 
Hardly. Just the opposite. His father throws a party. He calls for rings on his son’s fingers, shoes on his feet, and says: “Kill the fatted calf, and let us eat and be merry. My son was dead, and he’s alive, was lost, he’s found.” And they do indeed have the best of all parties, with music and dancing and everything else necessary for merriment.

We don’t see the gift, because we’ve been marinated in a narrative of scarcity (“I am not enough”). It is no surprise that we ascribe beauty to only the uncluttered and success to only the strong or powerful.
When we pause, and hear the voice of grace (trusting our sufficiency), we are no longer afraid of the brokenness and woundedness (they are not a threat to wholeness). In embracing our wounds, they become (as Richard Rohr reminds us) sacred wounds, because grace is alive and well.

Prayer for our week…
A Blessing for Presence
May you awaken to the mystery of being here
And enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.
May you have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.
May you receive great encouragement when new frontiers beckon.
May you respond to the call of your gift
And find the courage to follow its path.
May the flame of anger free you from falsity.
May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame and anxiety never linger about you.
May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of soul.
May you take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek no attention.
May you be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.
May you experience each day as a sacred gift,
Woven around the heart of wonder.
John O’Donohue

Photo… “Terry, Seeing your lovely butterfly reminded me that I had taken this one’s picture. Perhaps you can use it. If not, I hope you enjoy it anyway. Thanks for your ministry!” Theresa Jeevanjee… Thank you Theresa… I’m so grateful for your photos, please send them to [email protected]