Daily Dose (July 23 – 26)
TUESDAY JULY 23 —
This week we will be asking; As we walk through our days, how do we carry and honor what really matters?
Rabbi Abraham Heschel starts us off with a necessary paradigm shift. “We teach children how to measure, how to weigh. We fail to teach them how to revere, how to sense wonder and awe. The sense of the sublime, the sign of the inward greatness of the human soul and something which is potentially given to all men, is now a rare gift.”
Joanna Rogers Macy’s affirmation does my heart good. “To be alive in this beautiful, self-organizing universe—to participate in the dance of life with senses to perceive it, lungs that breathe it, organs that draw nourishment from it—is a wonder beyond words. Gratitude for the gift of life is the primary wellspring of all religions, the hallmark of the mystic, the source of all true art. Furthermore, it is a privilege to be alive in this time when we can choose to take part in the self-healing of our world.”
Gratitude for the gift of life. Amen.
I remember a conversation I had with my son Zach when he was 9 1/2 years old.
“You know Dad,” Zach is talking with his mouth full of cereal, “I think my life has been pretty full.”
“Really?” I say to my son.
“Yeah. I mean, think about it. I have actually held a Serval Cat. In my lap. I have touched a real NASCAR racecar. I have been on an Aircraft Carrier. I have ridden in a real Ferrari. I have touched the actual Spruce Goose. And I have been within one foot of a Crossbill, and he didn’t even move. Not bad.”
No, son, not bad. Even better that you see it that way.
Here’s the deal: As long as success is measured by keeping score (weighing or honoring or carrying the wrong stuff), we lose track of most everything that makes us human and grounded, and therefore, glad to be alive:
–reveling in the gifts of the senses
–resting in moments of gratitude
–sharing laughter, a smile, camaraderie or joy
And in knowing we are on this journey together—fueled by the gratitude for the gift of life—empowers us to spill small gestures of kindness and healing. To create acts of inclusion or community to someone left out, or someone on the fringes (extending a hand of healing or acceptance to someone who hurts). And to find a friend, a family member, or someone important to you, and say, “Thank you”.
WEDNESDAY JULY 24 —
How do we measure—how do we carry and honor—what really matters?
“The most pernicious thing (is) this tendency we have to apply productivity to realms of life that should, by their very nature, be devoid of that criterion.” Maria Popova told the BBC.
And with that paradigm shift, a wonderful memory from some years ago, comes to mind… I am just on the edge of sleep, adrift in that kingdom where images move with exaggerated pace—as if the dream world carousel surrenders its final pirouettes, and gravity regains its dominion. Bees, nature’s incantatory pollen couriers, furnish a hypnotic drone, the perpetual melody of early summer’s symphony. The sun is a benevolent comforter, and the smell of fresh cut grass bring back the baseball games of my youth. My pillow—my accommodating black Labrador, Conroy—rises and falls with each breath. My cap is pulled down over my eyes and I dream of hitting a game-winning home run. The air is close, suffused with the scent of Conroy’s warm skin. We have nowhere to go this day and are in no hurry to get there.
But it has not always been this way. I was bent on being the young clergyman making his mark on this world. Not that we former clergy have a monopoly on this infection. It seems to taint us all. It’s just that I was rewarded ironically-for my hell-bent pace. We church folk were encouraged to burn ourselves out for God-conjuring images of one so weary with well doing he begins to smolder at the collar and eventually spontaneously combusts, to perpetual sainthood. A fate, which won great respect and added, I was proud to divulge, plaques to my wall. Suffice it to say, I never heard or preached any sermons on the necessity of slowing down let alone the art of doing nothing. I lived unwittingly chained to the cardinal rule that it didn’t matter if you didn’t know where you were going, it was the ultimate of bad form to be late.
Here’s the invitation of the garden. Here is where we begin. Sitting. Lolling. Savoring.
There are no shortcuts. My temptation—as a new gardener—was to dash off to the local nursery, load up on color, inject seedlings into the soil, and expect an immediate payoff. This is hardly a surprise, as I live that way in all areas of my life. Including prayer, spiritual growth, exercise and emotional wellbeing.
We can safely infer that freedom to loll struck me as an exercise utterly foreign to my busy, religious, performance-oriented world.
I’m with Mirabel Osler, “I am deeply committed to sitting in the garden.”
The phone rings, disturbing my reverie. A child of my culture, I jump up and scramble to answer, “What are you doing?” the voice inquires. “Nothing,” I answer, winded. Pause. I sense an arched eyebrow, Nothing? I rack my brain for an appropriate explanation. “Well, I’m in the garden taking a nap with my dog.”
“No.” Another pause. “No, I mean what are you doing really?”
The moral is clear: Like big boys who don’t cry, real gardeners don’t nap with their dogs.
THURSDAY JULY 24 —
On a trip some years back, I’m at a pub in the airport. (Not atypical during my peak travel years… name the airport I’ll tell you the best pub). I have an hour before my flight departs. My papers are spread out. It is a Sunday, I have preached three services, and I am trying to write a Sabbath Moment. (Yes, of course it is last minute. Deadlines and chaos motivate me. I have a book idea on Sabbath for ADHD Procrastinators.)
I have just reread the story about “weighing the kids”. And what I want to know, is how to practice this—you know, giving weight to those things that really matter—today?
I love this… Did you know that to honor means “to weigh heavy?” In other words, to give value, or to literally embrace the sacred in this moment.
“Sitting at a bar, eating and working and answering your cell phone,” the bartender is saying to me (while I’m doing my best to ignore him and think of something meaningful to write). “Either you’re dedicated or slightly crazy.”
“Crazy comes close,” I tell him, “But you know how it goes. I have stuff to do, and too little time to do it. I have deadlines and I’m on my way home.”
“Say no more,” he says. “This beer is on me. But only if you put your papers away, and just enjoy it.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, “but I’ve got to finish this, so I face my family in a good mood.”
“Ok,” he says. “Just don’t forget the flowers.”
“Thanks,” I tell him. I write his inspiration on the back of a bar napkin, double his tip and head for my plane.
How do we measure—how do we carry and honor—what really matters?
First, we pause. And embrace gratitude for the gift of life. The small gifts in the ordinary moments.
Why pause? Because we quite literally, only have this moment. There is no guarantee for tomorrow.
This week I received an email from SM reader Lynn Lankford, along with the photo above. She wrote, “Megan O’Neill from Hamburg, NY, sent me this chalk art with the accompanying message: ‘I get a lot of people asking me why I would spend so much time on something that washes away. I tell them life is short. It doesn’t last forever, just like this doe. She stood looking in this meadow for only a moment. The piece is called ‘Impermanence’ in honor of all that is short.’ Forty-five minutes after this picture was taken, a downpour washed away all the chalk. The story reminded me of your columns and call to live in the present. Blessings.”
Yes. And Amen. To all the reminders to pause and savor the gift of the sacrament of the present moment.
FRIDAY — JULY 26
How do we measure—how do we carry and honor—what really matters?
First, we pause. And embrace gratitude for the gift of life. The small gifts in the ordinary moments.
But let’s be honest. That’s not easy when life feels upside down. When we are sure we don’t merit the gifts of grace.
Some time back, my friend had the courage to tell me that his life was on the brink, and he held himself back, not thinking he would be allowed into a life (or world) of abundance and permission and joy and grace. He didn’t ask for my advice, and I didn’t really have any, but wanted to write him anyway. “I was thinking about your comments—re: being excessively fragile and vulnerable—thinking that I didn’t know what to say, sipping my Dow’s Port while watching the Monday Night Football, and remembering the times in my life when I felt on the edge or in some way susceptible to shattering (both shattered, and shattering someone, anyone around me), and trying to remember what triggered those times, and I came up with zero. If all else fails, I’d be more than happy to pour you a glass of Port and offer you a chair on the back deck to watch the sun set over Puget Sound, and hope for a little luck that maybe we’d see a bald eagle float by, and tell you that I don’t know much, ‘but that sure is a damn fine eagle, isn’t it?’ Who knows; before the light gives way completely, we could wander over to the garden and take a hit of fragrance from the rose Souvenir de la Malmasion, and marvel at the different ways the universe lets us get intoxicated, loitering in the moment, knowing full well that this drunkenness—like any other—comes with a price; the bittersweet reality that it can never quite fill that pit in our soul, even though it comes close, Or, we can stay put on the deck, crank up the music, let Mr. Clapton fill the dark and the empty spaces, swap stories with a good friend, and hope that the angels are taking notes on recommendations for ways to make eternity heavenly.”
Let’s give Marcus Borg the last word, “Given all of life’s ambiguities and the reality of impermanence and suffering, our existence is remarkable, wondrous. It evokes awe and amazement. We need to pay attention. Really pay attention. Lest we become blind to the awe and wonder that fills our days.”
For our friends near Jasper, Alberta, Canada. Our hearts are with you, as the wildfire has ravaged your town and community. With that destruction and loss, our deepest sympathies go out to you.
Tomorrow morning I’ll be on a plane to Southern California, Mary and Joseph Retreat Center, Rancho Palos Verdes. I’ll see some of you there.
Prayer for our week…
Come Into The Quiet
As we enter into the quiet stillness
of this present moment,
we awaken to everything around us,
without and within,
as if for the first time,
seeing with new eyes,
with an open heart,
resting in peace,
flowing with joy,
in the loving radiance
of our Beloved…
Seeing as if from our heart,
with eternal eyes.
Bob Holmes
Photo… “Hey Terry, I’ve enjoyed your posts on my extended vacation in Ireland. A Covid+ meant no more tour, but three days in Portrush, Northern Ireland was okay! Here’s a picture for you.” Linda Rosetti… Thank you Linda… And I’m so grateful for your photos, please send them to [email protected]
