Terry Hershey's Blog

Kindness

2010-03-11T14:02:00.000-08:00

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. Plato

Do you know about scotoma?

It is selective seeing, or more specifically, selective blindness.

In relationships, we see what we want to see. Which means that more than likely, I see a label I have attached to you. (And remember this: once you label someone, you dismiss them.)

One of the reasons we don't have peace is that we have forgotten that we belong to one another. Mother Teresa

It all hit me this week. I spent some time with a person I had "labeled." And my label created expectations and its own kind of baggage. And scotoma. Here's the deal: if I don't begin any encounter or relationship with the assumption that we are connected--or belong to one another, or are brother or sister, or share a common humanity--then I have no alternative but to see you as a competitor or an adversary. And when I do that, I begin (and conduct) each encounter defended or defensive or fearful or cynical or antagonistic.

This doesn't mean we don't have fractures, misunderstanding, disappointment or disputes. This doesn't mean that relationships don't have ebbs and flows. This doesn't mean that relationships do not end. It does mean that we work through them--wherever we are, and toward whichever direction we are headed--from a place of kindness.

Namaste is a Hindu word. It means literally, "I bow to you," but has come to mean "I honor the Spirit in you which is also in me."

It wouldn't hurt if we started with ourselves. Sometimes, we can be least kind to the person living in our own skin.

You have not lived a perfect day, unless you have done something for someone who will never be able to repay you. Ruth Smeltzer

Compensatory maladjustments

2010-03-08T14:13:00.001-08:00

Had a good discussion the other night with Fr. Ron Lengwin on Radio KDKA in Pittsburgh. We talked about The Power of Pause. And a good deal about setting down our sack.

Whenever I write or lecture or do an interview about The Power of Pause, I get the inevitable question; "how do I do this. . .this pausing thing?" Fair enough. Isn't it interesting that we are wired to "produce" even when we are not producing. (Just look at me, in my previous blog bemoaning the fact that I didn't blog all of last week. All that "wasted" time. . .)

We are most assuredly beguiled by the power part of the pause. As if the goal is to be skilled at this art. So. . .

We pause for productivity. ("Did you get a lot accomplished on your day off?")

We become efficient pausers. ("Did you have a beneficial Sabbath?")

We are competent pausers. ("Were you able to pause without distractions?")

My next book is going to be the The Competitor's Guide to Power of Pause. Or maybe, Surefire Tips on Multi-tasking and Pausing for Greater Efficiency.

To be sure, Pausing asks of us to make choices. (If we don't say no to something in our life, no will be said by default, and we will end up saying no to the people we love the most.)

But there is no "correct" way to practice this art. . .of pausing.

Yes, we practice paying attention.

We practice being centered.

We practice living with our senses, what we see, hear, taste, touch and smell.

We practice listening.

We practice saying yes to the moment and no to urgency.

We practice taking ownership and responsibility for (to embrace) our uniqueness (including the beauty, the inimitable, the tidied-up, the unattractive, the muddled, the unpleasant and the transgressions).

Trouble brews when we are tempted by (what John Dewey called) compensatory maladjustments. It means trying to make something right by overdoing or over exerting.

For example: Stop and smell the roses, turns into hanging an Antique Rose air freshener on our rear view mirror, with the windows rolled up, racing down the highway.

Simone Weil gives this illustration: If one says to one’s pupils: Now you must pay attention, one sees them contracting their brows, holding their breath, stiffening their muscles. If after two minutes they are asked what whey have been paying attention to, they cannot reply. They have been concentrating on nothing. They have not been paying attention. They have been contracting their muscles.

More information does not necessarily lead to better decisions. [One] study ... gave horse-racing handicappers varying amounts of information when ranking horses. The more information they received, the more confident they became about their answers. But the success of their predictions was actually worse when given 40 pieces of information, than when given five. (The Economist)

Lay down your weary tune

2010-03-05T15:16:00.000-08:00

No, I haven't posted this week.

Yes, I said I was going to post "almost" daily.

No, once a week is not almost daily.

It's not that I didn't have anything to say.

It's just that, well, I didn't have anything to say.

Which is not exactly true. I was tired.

Sometimes life stretches us and we are, quite literally, depleted. Not necessarily from busyness or occupation of time (although that doesn't help), but from the way we give great value (weight or honor) to fear or anxiety.

Here's the deal: I hate it when I get so stretched. I feel weak (or is it needy?). And I don't like being needy.

When Jesus observed, "Consider the lily. It neither toils nor spins," I don't think he meant that there was no work or creation or energy. I think that toil is about all the activity or commotion or bustle or buzz or distraction--that we sustain, and which, in the end, keeps up disconnected from ourselves and from the day.

In The Power of Pause I wrote about a traveler who carried a sack.

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.

Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum. Bob Dylan

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

or fear (anxiety) about impending events.

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 meant to consider the lilies, but we're a few months away. . .so I considered the daffodils instead. And listened to Mary Black sing Dylan's "Lay Down Your Weary Tune." It is medicine for the soul. I can't honestly say that I put my sack "all the way" down. But I'm close.

If you are dealing with fears and insecurities from old head programs, have compassion for yourself. Just love your insecurities, fears and resentments. Release and forgive them as they come up. Judging, beating or repressing insecurities just gives them power. Then you have a pattern that never gets resolved. Recognize that your real security is built from your relationship with your own heart. Sara Paddison, The Hidden Power of the Heart

Pause

2010-02-26T17:31:00.001-08:00

The Power of Pause

I ran into a friend yesterday. He told me, "I'm on my way to buy your book."

I wanted to hug him. Or at least buy him a beer.

Then he told me about the circumstances in his life. And the end of a long relationship and the disorientation that goes with murky transitions. (And in my heart, I knew exactly what he was talking about.)

"I need the power of pause more than ever," he told me. "Right now, I am going 110 miles per hour. And I don't know where I'm headed. I think I need to pause."

I can't argue with that.

And I wish him well.

But I can tell you from personal experience that the pause may not "set everything right."

He that lacks the time to mourn, lacks the time to mend. Shakespeare

Sometimes, the pause is not just for "slowing down," but for mourning. It may be, that in our pausing, there are no "answers." Which is kind of a bum deal in a culture that is bent on bumper sticker advice. And closure. Like four-year old children, five minutes out of the driveway, "Are we there yet?"

Mourning our loss. . .our requirement for closure and tidiness and perfection.

Maybe, pausing is not for "fixing" things, but for creating a space to just be.

There's a time for departure, even when there's no certain place to go.Tennessee Williams

Perhaps the power is in that space, where we are not itching for answers, or impatient with conundrums, or undone by life's vagaries.

The bench in the photo hasn't been used in awhile. But, even so, it's a good reminder. For more garden sanctuaries, check out my collection on zenfolio. I don't know where you go, but Theo Pelletier's description is spot on.

Home is a place where you can catch a dream and ride it to the end of the line and back. Where you can watch shadow and light doing a tight little tango on a wooden floor or an intoxicated moon rising through an empty window. Home is a place to become yourself. It’s the right spot, the bright spot, or just the spot where you can land on your feet or recline in a tub or sparkling brew if you’re so inclined. It’s a place of silence where harmony and chaos are shuffled like a deck of cards and it’s your draw. It’s somewhere you can close a door and open your heart. Where the Heart Is

This Life

2010-02-25T09:26:00.000-08:00

On my garden path, February 2010

This Life

Perhaps it will be on your walk

to the mail box

on a grey morning

when the sky is a tarp, synched down

at the corners.

Or perhaps

savoring your first sip of coffee

as you look out into the forest

at the weeping boughs of hemlock,

reassuring and languid.

Or perhaps

it is when you drive toward work

on a rainy morning, negotiating traffic

trapped in the tributary of unbounded and glistening

ruby annulets.

Or perhaps

it is when you watch

in the evening lamplight

your son reading, captivated

by worlds that are still in his dreams.

Or is it

when you sit fretful at your desk

balancing your checkbook

--just one more time--

praying for a better outcome.

Or perhaps

it is when you walk, so briskly

on the way to something

assuredly essential,

that you see, out of the corner of your eye

a splash of sunshine against the backdrop

of an aged and mossy stump

where the 'tete-a-tete' narcissus

shine, delighted and undaunted.

Perhaps. It is on a day

just like this very ordinary day,

when you realize, with a start,

that this. . .

this is life.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver, The Summer Day

Marital Art and other mysteries

2010-02-23T09:26:00.001-08:00

We say or write what we think we mean.

But Freudian slips are, well, a lot more entertaining. And perhaps, more accurate.

To the point.

In my Sabbath Moment, Endurance, I wrote:

"Endurance is hardly an inspiring word. (It brings to mind the moral fiber necessary for two root canals in Guatemala.) When I think of how my life should be, endurance is not what I had in mind.

I have an agenda.
I have a time-line.
And it is irritating when life interferes.
Even so, we try our best to tie up loose ends, or handle our impasse with the tricks of the trade. I like Tim Farrington's take, We fast, we pray, we take up a marital art. We spice our diet with ginseng and eat only vegetables grown in Zen-monastery gardens. If we have been meditating one hour a day, we mediate two. We hang the appropriate crystals and buy new furniture to address the nagging issue of feng shui. We see a past-life therapist. But none of it is any fun. The fountain that bubbled within us has gone dry, and we re just going through the dusty motions now.
There is something about our need to see a payoff for our efforts, isn't there? As if we can overcome this awkward part of our life.
But here s the deal: Awkward or inconvenient or downright intolerable, we are offered an invitation. What Heideger called dasein, or being in the world. This not a reference to existence, but to our capacity to enter fully into the day.
This day."

If you missed the "misspelled" word, so did I. But Sabbath Moment reader Carol (a spiritual director living in Michigan -- check out her blog -- prayerplaypolitics) pointed it out to me, no doubt, stifling her laughter.

The sentence should read, We fast, we pray, we take up a martial art. Not, as I wrote, a marital art. But that made me think how similar they are. Or not. On second thought, I believe that taking up a martial art would be much easier. And less complicated.

There is a skill set.

There is a measurement.

There is the satisfaction of achievement.

Marital art, on the other hand. . .well. . .do you know the Cathy comic strip?

Irving: I don't get it Cathy, one day you are independent and aloof. The next day you won't let me out of your sight. The next day you demand a commitment. The next day you won't let me near you. What are you trying to do to me Cathy?!?!?

Cathy: I am eliminating your need to go out with a lot of different women.

On March 19 at the Religious Education Congress in Anaheim, CA, I will be lecturing on: Living without Fear: The truth about intimacy, love, passion and sexuality. Now, I'm rethinking all of that. I believe that I'm going to talk about martial arts instead. So, if you have always wanted to learn the secrets about karate or Tai-Chi, I'll see you in Anaheim.

The soul is always complicated. Most of its thoughts and emotions could never be expressed in plain language. You could have the patience of Job and still never understand your partner, because the soul by nature doesn't lend itself to understanding or to clarity of expression. We may have to enter the confusion of another's soul, with no hope of ever finding clarity, without demanding that the other be clear in expressing her feelings, and without the hope that one day this person will finally grow up or get better or express herself more plainly. Thomas Moore, Soul Mates

Medicine Pouches and Spring

2010-02-20T15:51:00.001-08:00

In January, I wrote a Sabbath Moment about Medicine Pouches. Here is an excerpt: When the Shawnee and Chippewa (and other early people) went on hunts or vision quests or long journeys, each traveler would carry in a small rawhide pouch various tokens of spiritual power--perhaps a feather, a bit of fur, a claw, a carved root, a pinch of tobacco, a pebble or a shell. These were not simply magical charms; they were reminders of the energies that sustain all of life. By gathering these talismans into a medicine pouch, the hunter, traveler, or visionary seeker was recollecting the sources of healing and bounty and beauty.(Adapted from Scott Russell Sanders, Hunting for Hope)

Two weeks ago, my friend gifted me with a Medicine Pouch.

It's the real deal.

She's part Apache (and another tribe I don't recall) and knows about these things.

I do know that I am honored.

In it are talismans--small articles from things or places or people that keep me grounded and centered. . .and remind me:

We are living in a world that is absolutely transparent and God is shining through it all the time. God manifests Himself everywhere, in everything--in people and in things and in nature and in events. The only things is we don't see it. I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is everywhere.Thomas Merton

We need our medicine pouches more than ever. Because it is not easy to see God shining through; because we are bombarded, overwhelmed, and exhausted. Or as a friend put it, succinctly, we find ourselves "stretched" like never before.

Our knee-jerk is to ask, "So what do we do?" In other words, what is the solution?

Maybe one of the talisman's in our medicine pouch is the permission to pause, and live into this moment.

Who knows what "gate of heaven" we may see?

A poor life this if, full of care, we have not time to stand and stare.

William Henry Davies

So I walked the garden this morning. We have spring early here in the Pacific Northwest. Our temperatures almost 10 degrees above normal. People mowing their lawn in February is not a Seattle tradition. We prefer to come out of our funk and get up off our couch sometime in April.

Our bulbs are up early, our chorale of frogs are now in the pond, their rehearsals a few weeks ahead of schedule. And the warm weather--and extra sunlight--has put some of the birds (like Juncos and Chickadees) on the fast track toward romance. Apparently, when the weather is warm and food is abundant, bird hormones rage. Who would have guessed? But, it makes perfect sense to me.

I do know this: away from my desk, which is piled with obligations and assignments (yes, they are late) and notes about calamities that need to be resolved, I give myself the permission to be in a "medicine pouch" mood. And buried in the debris of old perennials, I see spring Crocuses, doing their best imitation of a gate of heaven.

PS. To listen to a chapter from the new audio book, The Power of Pause, go to the website and click the link in the bottom right corner under "What's New."

Power of Pause Audio Book

2010-02-19T15:10:00.000-08:00

It's here!

You know, the moment we've all been waiting for.

Who, I wonder, first uttered that delightful phrase?

I do know that most of the time, we are hoping for a moment (other than the one we are in right now) to rescue us or bail us out or cheer us up or Lord knows what.

And I also know that an Audio Book doesn't qualify as the "real" moment we've been waiting for. Unless you are my Mother, who has been waiting awhile.

I can tell you that I thoroughly enjoyed recording The Power of Pause.

I read all 52 chapters, in a friend's studio.

He is also the friend who created original music for the CD. Check him out: Mark Wells.

I can tell you that each chapter is an audio sanctuary. . .each one with a little story to help us pause.

There are 6 CDs. And if you want, or have a very long commute, or your in-laws are spending the weekend with you, it takes about 6 hours to listen to the whole thing.

It will be on Amazon soon, and in Barnes & Noble. In the meantime, if you buy it now on my site, it's only $19.95 (including shipping).

By this weekend, there will be a free chapter to download. I will keep you posted.

Go to the site to order: Power of Pause Audio Book

I'm back home on my island, where the sun is shining, and the daffodils are starting their full spring-stage-extravaganza.

Snowstorm and Other Plans

2010-02-12T10:15:00.000-08:00

Record snowfall hits Dallas area!!

That's what the paper says this morning.

That is where I am today. The Dallas area.

Actually I am in Glen Rose, south of Fort Worth, at the Glen Lake Retreat Center, where last night's lecture was cancelled, because the weather told people, "Stay off the roads. Stay in your homes. Drink a hot toddy--or two--and watch a movie that makes you want to cuddle (with someone you know, or someone you wish you knew, your choice)."

A few nights ago at St. Peter's in Fallbrook, CA, I lectured to a group that braved a deluge. The kind of rain that makes you talk about Noah. I told the group that if I wanted this kind of weather I would have stayed home, in Seattle. I talked with the group about the fact that we have a tendency (and irascible hope) to believe that life is in someplace other than the place we are in right now. So we are perpetually waiting for life to start. Or for a life different from the one we have right now. You know. . .if only. . .

Or, when it quits raining or snowing or when events aren't canceled. . .

As a wine lover, I talked about the how easy it is to hold on to that great bottle of wine, just waiting for the "right" event. And how we live our whole life with all of our great wines still "waiting" in the cellar.

Yesterday I received this note from Bridgid Murray at St. Peter's: "One of the people who attended your talk the other night popped into my office this morning. She was still buzzing. Then she told me that her husband went to the wine 'cellar' and pulled out a bottle of wine from Sicily that they had been saving for years. . .she said it tasted sooooo good. . ."

Amen. That's the spirit. It's time to visit our "cellars."

This morning I slept in and woke to a winter panorama. And stopped in at La Rosita for the world's best breakfast burritos. (Seriously. These are 'make you glad to be alive' good.) The owner told me that she had been up since 5:30, taking pictures, because the snow is so beautiful.

I find it easy to focus on what I'm missing, or have missed. . .and stop the flow of gratitude for the surprising ordinary gifts smack dab in the middle of the days or events I did not plan.

If you are in Texas. . .I'll see you Sunday at Aledo United Methodist Church, or at First United Methodist in Fort Worth.

Life is what happens when we are making other plans. John Lennon

Surrender and Ordinary Moments

2010-02-09T08:01:00.000-08:00

Suchin Rai --SuchinRai.zenfolio / ShuchinRaipaintings

Surrender

There is a moment

when you know that life will never be the same

rearranged, somehow.

And you do not know why

or how

only that you choose to surrender your mental list

with its expectations

as if it is some kind of indenture with fate

or God.

Even so, you reach

somewhere deep inside

for the resources to cope,

certain that you have carried them

all these years

or that they have carried you

for moments such as this.

And you find nothing

or at least

not what you expected

now standing, to your chagrin,

empty-handed

incapacitated by neediness, or weakness

or shame.

Even so, you reach again.

And again,

to the same result

until you find a stillness,

a momentary pause that keeps panic at bay.

Again, you reach inside.

It is involuntary, this search for coping skills;

only to find yourself, after each unremitting endeavor,

unable to move or think

or with muted tongue, to articulate

your sorrow and unrest.

While, in the back of your mind,

a shadow of dread courses, unrelenting.

So. You lay down your arms,

or cave in, to what feels inevitable

as if watching hope rise into the air,

now wisps of smoke.

How did we lose, all capacity to be in control?

Or is it, that we have lost

the permission to be ordinary?

On this day,

when life will never be the same,

through the prism of our tears

we notice the way that the light reflects

and dances over the countertop

and our empty coffee mug.

An unbearable light, perhaps?

Or, a divine and grace-filled reminder

that even in our emptiness or loss,

we are never more fully alive.

2010-02-01T16:33:00.000-08:00

Watched Mad Hot Ballroom with Zach. A documentary about fifth graders in several New York City Public Schools who learn, and compete in, ballroom dancing (Tango, Swing, Rhumba, Merengue and Foxtrot).

In one school -- Washington Heights -- there was a 97% poverty rate (at the time of the documentary). The principal says, "They come to school with issues."

You think?

And I worry about how I make it through the rough patches of any day or week?

I watch these children dance, and witness the way resiliency works -- springs up, recreates itself, finds some kind of fertile soil to grow and thrive. I've got to believe that whatever that soil is, it is connected to GRACE.

And make no mistake, this is a resiliency that is formed in the cauldron of a real and messy and complicated and thorny and an extraordinarily rich life.

Bonnlyn Cobb (Sabbath Moment reader) sent me this lovely excerpt from the Ballad "Sir Andrew Barton"

I am hurt but I am not slain.
I will lay me down and bleed awhile
Then rise to fight again.

Here's the way I figure it.

Whatever grows in the soil of GRACE, at the very least, comes to life in dance and laughter.

My friend Connie at Spirit of Grace in Surprise, AZ, just told me about laughter yoga.

I love it. What a great concept.

As for dance. . .

I won't take No For An Answer
I won't take no for an answer,
God began to say
To me
When He opened His arms each night
Wanting us to
Dance.
St. Catherine of Siena

(Recommendation: For inspiration, watch War Dance, a documentary about war refugees in Uganda, who demonstrate the necessity of dancing even amidst the most trying circumstances. The story follows children from the Acholi tribe, now war orphans representing the Patongo Primary School in a national music competition, where the children hope to compete and celebrate the power of music and dance to heal our deepest, emotional wounds. --www.shineglobal.org -- Craig Detweiler)

2010-01-30T19:54:00.000-08:00

"Writing -- to illuminate the actual world with a delicate light." Chekov

My day began with the weight of worry.

On my morning walk, I watch a doe and two fawns, standing 30 feet away, on the edge of the forest. The mother and one fawn stand on one side of my driveway. The second fawn, on the opposite, waits for me to pass. I look into the liquid-ebony eyes of the fawn. She (he) stands, frozen, camouflaged by the forest understory. They are still, for quite some time, and watching me, wondering, I suppose, what all the fuss is about.

I can tell you that I am mesmerized, nonetheless.

And there is something about wonder and awe, that lessens the weight of worry.

On the pathway back to my house I see the shoots of Iris Reticulata (the first of our garden season. . .miniature iris, regal purple, just out of the ground and looking like exquisite nib pens). I stop, kneel, and pay homage.

And I remember Jim Harrison’s great line; “Paying attention is only game in town.” I would have tweeted about all of this, but thankfully didn’t have a phone.

In case you haven't enjoyed this. The greatest impromptu piano duet by a 90-year-old couple in the Mayo Clinic lobby you'll hear today.

Next week I'll be in So. California. If you want to join me at an event. . .or wish to tell a friend: Find Terry.

To be Human

2010-01-27T12:57:00.000-08:00

Self-seeded sunflower, outside my study window -- September 2009

Recently, someone asked for my bio.

Usually, they want to know where I went to school and where I worked, and what I have accomplished that may make someone in the audience say, "Wow."

So I'm working on a new bio. Here's the first draft.

Late in her life, May Sarton was questioned about what she wanted to be when she “grew up.” She relied, “To be human.”

Not bad.

That's my goal in life, too.

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 he good life. To be human is about gardening the soul.

Now, my questions have begun to change:

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? And when do your irises blossom?

Are you comforted by the sound of rain of your roof? And have you watched the hummingbirds dance?

I love to watch the hummingbirds dance.

I love that my son likes to put on his dancing shoes.

I love to join him when we play old time rock and roll.

I love to stretch out on a garden bench on a warm summer day.

I love a hot shower and drying with an expensive oversized cotton towel.

I love books and savor poetry, and find sustenance--and sanity--in writing.

I treasure the certainty that grace gives us all many second chances.

And I love to lose track of time in my garden.

You are the Music

2010-01-24T11:21:00.000-08:00

The painting is the work of Ra Ra Schlitt -- an artist,

Sabbath Moment reader, and lover of life

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.

ee cummings

Last night I watched the movie Taking Woodstock. It is based on the memoir of Elliot Tiber (played by Demetri Martin), “Taking Woodstock: A True Story of a Riot, a Concert, and a Life.” Elliot is a mild-mannered, semicloseted gay interior decorator who had been living in New York, Greenwich Village. Elliot returns to the Catskills in order to help his parents (Jake and Sonia, immigrated Jews from Russia) keep afloat their financially failing, and badly degraded, motel. As the head of Bethel’s Chamber of Commerce, Elliot offers the motel as a home base for the promoters of Woodstock Ventures, after the company loses its permit for an arts festival, in the nearby town of Wallkill. The rest is history.

Elliot also takes inspiration from Vilma (Liev Schreiber), a ferociously masculine, kindhearted, cross-dressing, former Marine, who appears at the motel and provides its security. He wears a long blonde wig, and heels. In one exchange between Elliot and Vilma;

"Does my Dad know what you are?"

"Elliot," Vilma tells him, "I know what I am. That does make it easier for everyone else doesn’t it?"

For what it's worth: it's never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same; there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you're proud of. If you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.

Benjamin Button (Movie voice over—letter to his daughter)

Flat bellies

2010-01-22T16:32:00.000-08:00

I wanted to blog. But it's difficult to blog well, when you've had a bad week. (It was easier, last week, in Guatemala, on pain pills.) But then, from what I see and read today, I'm not the only one who had a bad week. Friends in Southern California are worried about the rain (I know it's bad. And we, in Seattle, feel for you, but sort of in the way that parents with grown children feel for a couple who just brought triplets home from the hospital. "Bless your heart. We just can't wait to see how you figure it all out.") I have one friend who is mired in anguish after an ugly divorce, another talks about lethargy and feeling the loss of passion, another lost his job, and another lost two friends in Haiti's earthquake. Not a good week.

Honestly, when I feel some of these things -- lethargy, gloom, grief, sorrow, pessimism, resentment -- I am reluctant to tell people. Mostly because, there are times when their adivce only exacerbates the problem, and annoys me, and does unspeakable things to my blood pressure.

"You just need to think positive thoughts," one woman told me after a recent lecture I gave about embracing grief and sorrow. "It's just a phase you're going through."

"You are right," I said. "I will think a positive thought about this phase. Thank God I'm almost finished talking with you."

Call me cynical if you want. But don't get me wrong. I'm impressed with positive thinking. However. There is a big difference between positive thinking and denial. You know, assuming that life can only be lived when everything is nice and tidy. It's like some kind of shamanism.

"It is consoling and comforting to know that a member of the community is able to see what is hidden and invisible to the rest and to bring back direct and reliable information from the supernatural worlds." Mircea Eliade (Scholar of shamanism)

But something about the woman's comment still sticks in my craw, so today I stop by Barnes & Noble for some help. Not seeing The Power of Pause on the front table is disconcerting enough, until I notice the subject of the front-table-books: Losing Weight in the New Year. I discovered, very quickly, that it is not enough, apparently, to just shed a few pounds. Or eat the right food. Now, the goal is a "flat belly." This phrase is in the title, of subtitle, or implicit promise of almost every book on the table. And it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, a flat belly will go a long way toward a positive mental attitude. So I stood by the table, sucked in my gut, and held my breath. It did not take long before I achieved a result. A young B&N employee tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Sir, I think it would be helpful if you would breathe now."

Oh well, who needs a flat belly anyway?

On the ferry, headed back to the island, with no hope of a flat belly, no desire to read the newspaper headlines and entertaining thoughts with a hopeless timbre -- furiously scribbling my mindset -- I raised my head, and absorbed (literally) the view.

We had quite the day today. You could see (the vista) from Mt. Ranier (in the south) to Mt. Baker (very north of Seattle). To the west, the sun glints (a good word, the light actually bouncing) off the snow-capped Olympic Mountain range. I walk outside to the ferry deck and stand at the railing. The air is invigorating, and is good for whatever is ailing me. "Looook," I wanted to say. "Everybody looook. The mountain!"

I do know this. While standing there, I knew that sometime earlier today I was awful worried about something. But right this minute, I can't for the life of me remember what it was.

Winter Garden

2010-01-19T10:21:00.000-08:00

Terry's Garden, in Winter

Winter Garden

When I travel

I search for public gardens,

to visit, and to amble.

But this is winter,

a docent tells me,

There is not much to see here now.

As it is

in my own garden,

I tell her.

Except in the early morning light

when outside my study window

I consider a still-life, in sepia tones.

Our lawn, encrusted with hoarfrost,

is now cloaked, silver glazed

as if gilded for commemoration.

I am certain of this,

as I walk under a cobalt-blue sky.

I listen to my breathing,

and hear the crunch of turf under foot.

The Clematis, with vines now browned and brittle,

--from life tendered in an extravagant summer offering--

covers our arbor,

co-mingling with canes of Antique Garden Roses

still defiantly nurturing the remnants of earlier blooms,

while perennials have deferred to the weather

and lay strewn upon the ground,

now a carpet of exhausted supplicants.

Stillness is not just a word

in a winter garden.

It is a space,

where the air, literally, drapes,

as if there is nothing pressing,

nothing to resolve,

nothing to undertake,

except to wait. And perhaps,

to rest.

And I smile, and ask myself, So what is next

on this winter day,

when there is not much to see?

Door into the New Year

2010-01-16T21:05:00.000-08:00

Antigua, Guatemala, 2010

I'm back from Guatemala. Resigned to the weather of the Pacific Northwest. Uninterrupted rain. Thankfully, we still have our Christmas tree up. And if it were up to me, I'd be playing Christmas music. You know, the really good stuff, like Sarah Mclachlan's "Happy Christmas,"or maybe, Kenny Chesney's "All I want for Christmas is a real good tan."

Last month Loyola Press asked me to write 30 resolutions for the new year. Each of them connected to The Power of Pause. It started January 10 and continues for 30 days (it's not to late to sign up). Loyola Press will send you an email pause reminder -- a powerful pause for each day. Gentle reminders as a way to trigger those parts of our soul that can stop and listen and pay attention.

I've been thinking about the small steps that make a difference.

Here are a few from the the list I wrote for Loyola. . .

1. But a small notebook. Each day make a notation using this sentence, "I never noticed that before. . ."

2. Go to your garage. Find something that you have moved at least three times. Give it away—to a friend, St. Vincent de Paul, or the charity of your choice.

3. Write a letter to someone you love. With real paper, pen, envelope, and stamp.

4. Grab a box of crayons. If you feel overwhelmed at any point today sit down for a 10-minute coloring break.

5. Watch this brief video for today’s pause.

6. For today, give up your cell phone, email, and internet.

and a few more I've added. . .

1. Ask you Doctor to write a prescription for Chocolate. Be specific.

2. Write in your journal, left handed. (Or right, if you are a lefty.)

3. Throw a party for National Disturbed Day. Invite everyone you know who is "slightly off-plumb" (or at least wishes to be).

4. Make a business card, "I'm in charge of celebrations." (Acknowledgement to Byrd Baylor)

5. Carry a card that says, "LEARNER'S PERMIT: Student Hugger. Licensed to practice."

6. Carry a first aid kit: include chocolate, your favorite CD, a favorite poem, quote from a favorite book or a favorite scripture.

7. Give a friend The Power of Pause.

There will be more to come in the days ahead. . .and. . .if you have any to add. . .I'd love to hear from you.

I wish for those I love this New Year an opportunity to earn sufficient, to have that which they need for their own,
and to give that which they desire to others, to bring into the lives of those about them some measure of joy, to know the satisfaction of work well done, of recreation earned,
and therefore savored, to end this year a little wiser a little kinder and
therefore a little happier. Eleanor Roosevelt

The Door of Heaven

2010-01-14T10:34:00.001-08:00

The Door of Heaven

Very early in the morning

my taxi rockets down a mountain road

toward another airport rendezvous.

The Guatemalan night sky

is the tint of black ink,

and we round a corner

to find ourselves,

quite literally, beneath the southern horizon;

where the light from a mere sliver

of the moon--suspended solitary--

is enough to vanquish

any sorrow.

As if the door of heaven,

on this commonplace morning

was intentionally left ajar.

Sunday in the Park

2010-01-11T13:52:00.000-08:00

With any kind of surgery, one needs time to heal. Here's what I know: whatever amount of "healing time" is required, is toooo long. Lord knows we hate to "waste time," even if it's for healing.

There are upsides. This past week, unable to chew, I learned new Spanish words. "Perdone, tiene usted un menu con alimento por una paja?" (Do you have a menu with meals / food through a straw?)

With my face swollen, I think about healing. And managing pain. There are similarities to our wounded hearts and souls.

My periodontist told me, "Take the pain pill before you feel the pain." I was certain that I missed the translation. I asked him to repeat it. He gave me the same instructions. Meaning, take the pill as (or when) the pain is beginning. Apparently, pain pills work better as a proactive preventative. We tend to wait until the pain is beyond the pale. Just like when we choose to slow down, you know, after we are drained and wrung dry.

Domingo (Sunday) is my favorite day here in Antigua. I sit in Parque Central. The park, almost a full city block square in the center of town, is flanked by the Cathedral. The park, every Sunday, is crowded with people. But it as if the pace has been ratcheted back by the very air that surrounds it. Families stroll, or sit together on benches, talking, laughing, as the children entertain themselves near the fountain in the middle of the park. No one is racing toward anything. I watch couples, not reticent to show affection, hug or kiss, and I can't help but smile, and bask in their tenderness; and I toast them, sipping my drink through a straw.

I see Sunday's in Parque Central in the same way I see my pain pills. They need to do their work proactive and preventative. I go to the park to heal.

Within you there is a stillness and a sanctuary to which you can retreat at any time and be yourself. Hermann Hesse

Reflections from a Dental Chair

2010-01-07T17:35:00.000-08:00

Volcano Agua January 2010

Periodontist chair actually. What happened? You don't want to know. My favorite part? The music filling the air from the ceiling speakers; The Eagles' Hotel California.

Last thing I remember, I was

Running for the door

I had to find the passage back to the place I was before

"Relax" said the night man

we are programmed to receive.

You can check out any time you like

but you can never leave.

Who says there is no cosmic synergy?

Actually, my day began in a Radiology Office. Sitting next to me, a young (maybe 5 or 6) Guatemalan boy. He tugged my sleeve and asked, "Puedo salir ahora?" (Can I leave now?) I smiled, because I know the feeling. I told him, "Tenemos que esperar solamente dos minutos." (We only need to wait a couple of minutes.) (Hoping that it was true.)

I'm not much for pain, so in the chair I had one mantra to get me through, "Vicodin."

Someone said (help me if you know), that if you feel down, the best medicine is to cross the street and help someone else.

I'm not going to tell people who feel bad that they don't feel bad. That is cruel and manipulative. And often done in God's name.

But here's the deal: when the lens for my world is only my pain, it is easy to be disconnected. It is easy to be myopic.

Until.

There is a crease, or a crack in our protective armor. When that happens, we feel, understandably, our weakness and vulnerability and fragility. . .our humanity.

Often, this can turn us inward.

Or, we see that we are not really alone in a bigger world. Living fully-alive comes in our ability to pause, to be present even in this vulnerability; the vulnerability that connects us all.

One of the reasons we don't have peace
is that we have forgotten
that we belong to one another. Mother Teresa

Note: I have many friends who live and work here in Guatemala. Here are some of the ways they help to connect us.

www.kiva.org

www.bridgebuilders.org

www.child-aid.org

www.ecofiltro.org

www.behrhorst.org

Note about making comments: Some people are having difficulty posting their comment. In a previous post Suchin added this helpful tip, "If you're using Firefox, you have to click "preview" and it will take you to a word you have to type in, one of those "no, I am not a spam robot" confirmations. If you don't hit preview and just hit post, your comment will vanish never to be seen again"

Two worlds collide

2010-01-06T07:55:00.000-08:00

(Photo by friend, Ron Noecker, January 2010)

I love this photo. In the village of Santa Maria de Jesus, two Guatemalan girls -- in indigenous dress -- texting. I believe they are leaving a comment on my blog. Or Twittering. So. What happens when two worlds collide? We want speed. To be able to accomplish and produce and eliminate aggravation. So we buy toys that promise such benefits. And then, we come undone when our toys don't work. (It's easy to be in a Luddite mood in Antigua, Guatemala, where the streets are 500 year old cobbled stones. But I am just as bothered as anyone by this technological balancing act.)

I guess I wonder what it is we hope these toys will bestow upon our well-being that is not already there.

My friend here has a car that he talks to. Literally. And it has to be loud, as if his car is deaf. He tells his car where he wants to go. The car (a woman's voice) talks to him, giving him directions. He tells the car he want to make a phone call. The car (the same woman's voice) talks to him, and makes the phone call. He tells the car he wants to listen to music. He says, "Play Lady Ga-Ga." The car says, "Playing Lady Ga-Ga," and music fills the air. (I think the experience would be more memorable and true to reality if the voice had an exasperated edge and said, "What is your problem? Is your CD player broken? Find the CD and play it yourself!")

When I ask people, I am told that these features in our car help us "save time." Okay, I'll bite. But save time in order to do what?

I can still here my mother's voice, "Slow down. Where are we going, to a fire?"

That's the great thing about these modern cars. I can just tell the kind car lady (I assume, anyway, since her voice sounds kind, but you never know), "Please take me to the nearest fire." And she would give me directions, and with that information I would be able to drive to that fire at a more leisurely pace.

But, I digress. We seem to be allergic to any sense of "wasted time." Which means, time spent "waiting." So we avoid it at all costs.

But then, it kind of depends on what we are waiting for, doesn't it. Sunday night Mass at the Cathedral (in Antigua) begins at 6:30. The chairs are filled with people a little after 5 p.m. Waiting. For Mass. And they don't seem to mind. (Maybe they take a book to read. You know, to have something to do while they wait.) (I have had pastors in the States tell me -- where I am guest homilist -- "don't worry, the pews will be filled by the second reading.")

In contrast to people waiting over an hour for Mass, if I have trouble getting an internet connection, or if that connection is delayed or slow, my day can be completely unraveled. I had to wait, like ten minutes!

Waiting is on my mind because I've been in a dentist's office (and chair) for over 6 hours the past three days. (And there will be more tomorrow.) Oh. And get this. In one of my botched root canals -- done a few years ago -- my new dentist found three broken drill tips. Three. They had been broken during the procedure, and left in my mouth, buried under a crown. I'm not making this up. (Like the pastor said, "I'm not preaching now. This part is true.") (I'm thinking it was a plot. Implanted antenna by an evil empire. And somewhere in an airless, windowless room, an intern types every banal but crucial nuance of my daily conversations. Well. It's not John le Carre, but you've got to ponder something while you're sitting in that chair.)

I guess it all depends on what we are waiting for doesn't it? Here's what I know for sure: As long as waiting has been downgraded to an undertaking or duty to be checked off a list, we will never allow ourselves the permission to be present during the wait.

Tonight is a single malt scotch night (it helps the gums, I am told). I on a rooftop looking at Volcano Agua. The air is fresh and cool on the skin. The clouds give the mountain a backdrop, as if a set for an about-to-happen stage show. And now, just before dusk, the mountain is the color of umber.

Do you have the patience to wait
Til the mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving
Til the right action arises by itself?
Lao - Tzu

Inconvenience in paradise

2010-01-05T06:44:00.000-08:00

One recent email. "Your Sabbath Moment and your blogs are too long. Could you shorten them a little?"

Okay.

I am in Antigua, Guatemala.

Yesterday I went to the dentist for a check-up.

Yesterday I had two root canals.

Yes, two.

Yes, on purpose.

Today I go back so he can work on my crowns and make some periodontal recommendations.

No, this was not my plan.

I will try to take Chesterton's advice. But then, I don't know how many root canals he has enjoyed. So let the adventure begin.

End of blog.

An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered.
An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.
GK Chesterton

New Year's Eve

2009-12-31T08:03:00.000-08:00

Zach and snow angels

I'm still jotting notes in my All Weather Memo Book.

Here's our quote to begin 2010.

The truths of the spirit are proved not by reasoning about them,
Or finding explanation of them, but only by acting upon them.
Their life is dependent upon what we do about them.
Mercy, gentleness, forgiveness, patience;
if we do not show them they will cease to be.
Upon us depends the reality of God here on Earth today.
Edith Hamilton (1867 - 1963)

New Year Resolutions.

1. Make a snow angel (if you live in a city, make one on the sidewalk of a major street)

2. In the middle of a meeting, stand up and laugh out loud. When people ask why, say, "Doctor's orders."

There will be more resolutions in the days to come.

Speaking of resolutions. Here a great New Year idea. Starting January 10 and continuing for 30 days, Loyola Press will send you an email pause reminder -- a powerful pause for each day. Gentle reminders as a way to trigger those parts of our soul that can stop and listen and pay attention.

Book list for the new year: beliefnet -- Fifteen books from 2009 to nourish the soul. (Oh yes, the list includes The Power of Pause. Fancy that. What a fine list it must be. . .)

There's a light in this world, a healing spirit more powerful than any darkness we may encounter.

We sometimes lose sight of this force when there is suffering, too much pain.

Then suddenly the spirit will emerge through the lives of ordinary people who hear a call,

and answer in extraordinary ways. Mother Teresa

New Year Resolutions

2009-12-28T15:25:00.000-08:00

For Christmas Zach bought me a notebook. A 3" x 5"--All-Weather Memo Book--vivid in sunflower yellow. With it a Pentel Pencil (with requisite #9 lead).

"Dad," he tells me. "Carry this notebook with you. It's for when you have ideas that come to you for your new book."

It so happens, some ideas came my way today. I was talking with a friend whose family gets tied up into knots over the Christmas season. The stress, the hectic, the in-laws, the need to please, the strain of it all. So I decided on a couple more New Year Resolutions. (And yes, they were written with my new #9 pencil, in my All-Weather Memo Book, and transcribed to this blog.)

1. Be gentle with yourself. Don't pay attention to the consumer myth that tells you that there is something else to be added to your life before you are okay.

2. Savor the day. This day. Knowing that savoring is not about addition. It may be about subtraction. It may mean removing the armor I wear to keep from letting life in. When I do remove the armor, even for a moment, there is an extraordinary liberty I find in paying attention.

3. To help the process, ask yourself this question every day, "What did I notice today that surprised me?"

4. To help yourself remember what surprised you, buy a reliable pencil, and a notebook that will let your mind wander and celebrate and take delight.

Call it transcendent or call is spectral or call it holy; it is the same. You don't have to be Catholic or Christian or even particularly religious to understand it. You don't have to understand it. You recognize early on, that your understanding is not what is needed. The willingness to embrace this humility is what becomes our petition. Our prayer.

Christmas Eve

2009-12-24T09:38:00.000-08:00

Stella. Christmas 2008.

It is the day before Christmas (2009), and I am shopping, absorbed in the more pragmatic war associated with Christmas, you know, fighting with a young woman in an SUV, over an available parking space. I was distracted because I saw Santa step out of a parked Ford Taurus. That's fine, maybe it's a buy-American Christmas Message. But I couldn't help but think about the trickle down relative to reindeer unemployment. Santa waved, and wished me a Merry Christmas, and it made me smile and I felt warm on the inside. "Thank you," I shouted out my window. "Nice sled, by the way." And while I was distracted, the woman in the SUV seized MY parking space. But that's okay. I was still in an uncharacteristic good mood. It's not often you get to see Santa drive a Ford.
On the ferry, crossing the Puget Sound this morning, the Olympic Mountains stood, vivid, snow mantled, substantial and reassuring in their grandeur. I snapped a picture with my cell phone, and took a deep breath, and allowed the moment to be my prayer. Earlier this morning I worked in my garden. We don't have a farm, but it is certainly a garden far to big for my ability to tend it. That doesn't concern me like it used to. Tidiness is not really a virtue in a great garden. Anyone who says so is hankering for a photo opportunity, and not a garden. This morning I cut spent stalks of Rudbeckia, Miscanthus, Buddleia, Astrantia and Aster. They are all bundled (it makes me feel like a character in a Winslow Homer painting), and hauled to the compost heap. Each part of this annual ritual is visceral and gratifying, and helps our economy by boosting the sales of BenGay.
Back to my shopping mission. I know it's late, but for me, deadline means time to get started. I pass a home that may win the excessive-ornamentation-rewriting -of-history-contest. There is a nativity scene--Mary, Joseph and Jesus (each character of the plastic blow-up variety, and wrapped in lights.). Requisite animals (there is one cow, one sheep and one donkey), and one lone shepherd. Three wise men and their camels flank the manger. Nearby, Santa has landed on the lawn pulled by only five reindeer. And just beyond the creche stands Mickey Mouse, a clown unfamiliar to me and a snowman smoking a pipe. They are dancing with two angels. The entire scene is surrounded by five-foot candy canes. Someone, it all made sense to me. If I had a Christmas wish it would be this: let us set aside our need for theological purity, and quit haranguing one another just because our greetings and well-wishes contain the word holiday instead of Christmas (we end up looking like two irate shoppers fighting for a parking space). Here's the deal: Unto us a child is born. And the power of that simple sentence means that the season of peace and good will toward all, will transcend any of the petty ways we muck it up, with our language, or "inadequate" belief systems. And the seed planted in every heart by the in-flesh-ment of God on earth, well, that's the kind of thing that spreads peace and light and dollops of Grace in a world that can desperately use it. So peace to each and every one of us. On this silent, holy night. I'll leave the singing to Sarah McLachlan.
Enjoy. And pass it on.