How do I measure success? Well, it depends. How high do I think I can jump today? Not too high. How come? Life happens.
I measure success by the little things. Did I get out of bed? There were dark days in my past when I could not answer that affirmatively. Did I shower? Did I shave? Of course I did! And yet there were times when those were great accomplishments.
Did I give a talk or workshop today? Did I do a big thing like that? No, but I was not scheduled to do it. Could I have done it? I am not sure but I think so. I could have done it but I would have paid a price. Thankfully, I did not have to test myself today.
So what did I do today? I did what had to be done. I got up, showered and shaved, made breakfast, met with my clients, sent a few letters, read a little, and wrote my ZIGZAGS. Yes, I did what had to be done. I did what I had agreed to do. Maybe I did not do it filled with joy and humor, but I did it.
The key to all of this is what I demand of myself. I know that these down times happen in my life and so I keep my commitments flexible. Some days I lower the bar, but there always is a bar, a level of performance and commitment which I demand of myself. The trick for me is to keep inching up that bar of performance over time by stretching what I do.
I read of one person who said that a successful day is whenever he wakes up above ground. I am jealous of that attitude, but it is not mine. That attitude denies the tension and paradox of daily life. It denies suffering and growth. It denies the significance of the push, the struggle and the victory.
The danger in viewing success as performance is that performance may become the only measure. A bigger question always runs through my day: How did I love today? If performance pushes me beyond the space in which I can be lovingly present, then it is not worth it. It is a false success, a false measure.
Down times present a challenge. Did I love myself today? Probably not. Did I love others? I hope so, but not as well as I could have.
It is then that I want to scream - Jim, didn’t you do what needed to be done?! Didn’t you get over the damn bar?! Enough already!!! Go to sleep.
April 3, 1998
March 4, 1998
The Dog Artist
I just love stories about people who are doing their own thing. Stephen Huneck, profiled in the Boston Globe Magazine on February 1, 1998, lives way up in St. Johnsbury, Vermont, a place just south of the Canadian border known principally for its truck depots. He landed there in 1978 after a couple of failed attempts at art school.
In the winter of 1984 he was snowed in there for two days He had an idea about carving an angel and he started working with a beautiful piece of pine. Someone saw the finished piece in the back of his pickup and insisted on buying it. It ended up in the hands of an important folk art dealer in Manhattan who asked for more pieces. A career was born and it flourished.
Ten years into his successful career, Huneck was struck with a virulent strain of pneumonia like the one which killed the Muppets’ Jim Henson. He lapsed into a coma for two months, but he made it through. He says he came out a different person: “I also lost a lot of anger during the coma. I’m more mellow now. It also changed my art. My new stuff seems to me more complex: more life-affirming, more playful, and yet more fearless.”
Huneck is known internationally as “the dog artist” for his many sculptures of dogs. He combines his love of canines with whimsy in pieces like a dining room table with four begging Dalmatians holding up a glass top.
His love of dogs and his illness have taken him to a different place: “After my illness, there is no little picture anymore, only the big picture.” His master plan is for a church for dogs, called St. Bernard’s, on a hilltop in St. Johnsbury. “I’ll carve dog pews; the music will be Gregorian chant, mixed with the howling of wolves. I’m going to paint a dog version of the Sistine Chapel, with angel dogs and the hand of God. The church will be lighted with stained-glass windows done with scenes of dogs.”
He knows that he will offend some, but he is just being playful and going with his own truths. “Growing up in a Catholic family didn’t teach me anything about love. It’s dogs who have taught me how to truly love.”
I admire Huneck for sticking to his vision. He has a unique perspective to give to the world. “When you build something, you are creating energy and the releasing it gracefully into the world.” His graceful message, about playful dogs and unconditional love, needs to be out in the world.
In the winter of 1984 he was snowed in there for two days He had an idea about carving an angel and he started working with a beautiful piece of pine. Someone saw the finished piece in the back of his pickup and insisted on buying it. It ended up in the hands of an important folk art dealer in Manhattan who asked for more pieces. A career was born and it flourished.
Ten years into his successful career, Huneck was struck with a virulent strain of pneumonia like the one which killed the Muppets’ Jim Henson. He lapsed into a coma for two months, but he made it through. He says he came out a different person: “I also lost a lot of anger during the coma. I’m more mellow now. It also changed my art. My new stuff seems to me more complex: more life-affirming, more playful, and yet more fearless.”
Huneck is known internationally as “the dog artist” for his many sculptures of dogs. He combines his love of canines with whimsy in pieces like a dining room table with four begging Dalmatians holding up a glass top.
His love of dogs and his illness have taken him to a different place: “After my illness, there is no little picture anymore, only the big picture.” His master plan is for a church for dogs, called St. Bernard’s, on a hilltop in St. Johnsbury. “I’ll carve dog pews; the music will be Gregorian chant, mixed with the howling of wolves. I’m going to paint a dog version of the Sistine Chapel, with angel dogs and the hand of God. The church will be lighted with stained-glass windows done with scenes of dogs.”
He knows that he will offend some, but he is just being playful and going with his own truths. “Growing up in a Catholic family didn’t teach me anything about love. It’s dogs who have taught me how to truly love.”
I admire Huneck for sticking to his vision. He has a unique perspective to give to the world. “When you build something, you are creating energy and the releasing it gracefully into the world.” His graceful message, about playful dogs and unconditional love, needs to be out in the world.
March 3, 1998
Ski Adventures
A new ski mountain can be a terrifying experience. But its ferocity does not have anything to do with the size of the mountain or the difficulty of the terrain. It is terrifying to me because it is new and different.
For months my son had been campaigning to ski Loon Mountain in New Hampshire. I have skied it a few times over the years, but we do most of our skiing at Waterville Valley, New Hampshire. I know that mountain and the facilities like the back of my hand. I am at home there.
My son’s request was a reasonable one, but I fought it for a long time. I came up with many excuses, but eventually I gave in.
My problems began on the highway. I got off one exit too soon. I tried to handle this smoothly, but I knew that I had been caught. I had made a mistake and I looked stupid. I hate to make mistakes. I hate to look stupid. There seems to be no gradations to my mistakes. All mistakes are big ones.
We eventually arrived at the mountain and then the fun really began for me. Where is the correct entrance to the parking lot? Whew, I found it and I did not look too bad. Cars are parking at both ends because there is a lodge at both ends. Which one is the best lodge for us? I chose one. Where is the best entrance to the lodge? I picked the wrong one but we made it in. How do you get to the ticket window from here? I went out the wrong end of the building and ended up wandering around through the service entrance.
Can you just see me through all of this? Can you see how stupid I look? I know that everyone for miles is noticing just how stupid I look. My neck and shoulder muscles are coiling tighter and tighter. We need ski rentals and I finally lower myself to ask where the place is because I cannot find it. Oh yes, it is in the other lodge, of course. I cannot even pick the right lodge!
My son wants a trail map, but I have no interest in one. Carrying one of those is like wearing a big badge that says “STUPID.” I hate to even look at the posted trail maps while we are out on the slopes, because everyone will know that I am stupid and do not belong there.
What is this stuff all about? It seems to be several things rolled into one: perfection, control and the need to always look good. It is about invulnerability.
Real men are invulnerable. Women may not know what I am talking about, but every man does. In our culture, being a man means being strong, being on top of things, and being in control. For me, to take anything less than an invulnerable stance carries powerful shame. It makes me a failure. It makes me a mistake.
Think about the typical male experience of refusing to ask for directions. Is that any different? How can a male admit that he does not know something and ask for help if he is supposed to be invulnerable?
At the mountain there were greeters - men and women whose sole job it was to stand around and answer questions from people like me. But I could not connect with them. Invulnerability exacts a price. It cuts me off from connection and intimacy. People connect better when they expose their weakness, or so I have read.
The solution to getting rid of this requirement of invulnerability is connection and intimacy. However, invulnerability does not allow connection and intimacy. It is one of those Catch-22 things.
I wish that the issues which arose for me during a simple ski trip were isolated to ski trips, but they are not. These issues of culturally conditioned invulnerability, of being unable to ask questions, and of being unable to ask for help, are constant threads that run through my life. Awareness is the first step. The next step is to work slowly at making connections. I hope that over time I can replace these threads of invulnerability with a weave of connection and intimacy. Maybe then I will be ready for another mountain.
For months my son had been campaigning to ski Loon Mountain in New Hampshire. I have skied it a few times over the years, but we do most of our skiing at Waterville Valley, New Hampshire. I know that mountain and the facilities like the back of my hand. I am at home there.
My son’s request was a reasonable one, but I fought it for a long time. I came up with many excuses, but eventually I gave in.
My problems began on the highway. I got off one exit too soon. I tried to handle this smoothly, but I knew that I had been caught. I had made a mistake and I looked stupid. I hate to make mistakes. I hate to look stupid. There seems to be no gradations to my mistakes. All mistakes are big ones.
We eventually arrived at the mountain and then the fun really began for me. Where is the correct entrance to the parking lot? Whew, I found it and I did not look too bad. Cars are parking at both ends because there is a lodge at both ends. Which one is the best lodge for us? I chose one. Where is the best entrance to the lodge? I picked the wrong one but we made it in. How do you get to the ticket window from here? I went out the wrong end of the building and ended up wandering around through the service entrance.
Can you just see me through all of this? Can you see how stupid I look? I know that everyone for miles is noticing just how stupid I look. My neck and shoulder muscles are coiling tighter and tighter. We need ski rentals and I finally lower myself to ask where the place is because I cannot find it. Oh yes, it is in the other lodge, of course. I cannot even pick the right lodge!
My son wants a trail map, but I have no interest in one. Carrying one of those is like wearing a big badge that says “STUPID.” I hate to even look at the posted trail maps while we are out on the slopes, because everyone will know that I am stupid and do not belong there.
What is this stuff all about? It seems to be several things rolled into one: perfection, control and the need to always look good. It is about invulnerability.
Real men are invulnerable. Women may not know what I am talking about, but every man does. In our culture, being a man means being strong, being on top of things, and being in control. For me, to take anything less than an invulnerable stance carries powerful shame. It makes me a failure. It makes me a mistake.
Think about the typical male experience of refusing to ask for directions. Is that any different? How can a male admit that he does not know something and ask for help if he is supposed to be invulnerable?
At the mountain there were greeters - men and women whose sole job it was to stand around and answer questions from people like me. But I could not connect with them. Invulnerability exacts a price. It cuts me off from connection and intimacy. People connect better when they expose their weakness, or so I have read.
The solution to getting rid of this requirement of invulnerability is connection and intimacy. However, invulnerability does not allow connection and intimacy. It is one of those Catch-22 things.
I wish that the issues which arose for me during a simple ski trip were isolated to ski trips, but they are not. These issues of culturally conditioned invulnerability, of being unable to ask questions, and of being unable to ask for help, are constant threads that run through my life. Awareness is the first step. The next step is to work slowly at making connections. I hope that over time I can replace these threads of invulnerability with a weave of connection and intimacy. Maybe then I will be ready for another mountain.
February 24, 1998
Votive Motive
I am lighting candles again and I am surprised. Candle lighting periods appear in my life at infrequent intervals and always out of nowhere. This time it was probably the flu. Shall I blame it on the flu or shall I thank the flu?
Candles were important in my Roman Catholic youth. As an altar boy I would light the two candles on the altar for a regular mass and all six for a high mass. Funerals and weddings would often include a high mass so they would receive the full treatment too. But all of these were just plain white candles. The real action was in the back of the church.
When I was young, all Catholic churches had votive candles. Tiers of red glass containers held candles stationed in front of a statue of a favorite saint. A candle was lit, a prayer of intercession recited and a price paid. Most of the time the donation was monetary. A dime was the going rate.
I am not sure how much time a dime bought you. You did not get the whole candle and my guess is that you probably got to the end of the day. My hope is that the candles were not left burning over night, but they might have. After all, you are talking about linkage to the real higher ups here, so perhaps the feeling was that calamity would not be a threat.
The custom of votive candles waned in the churches, most likely hastened by insurance companies, but it did not die out completely. You can light a candle at the mall. Yes, I said the mall - at the North Shore Mall in Peabody, Massachusetts. For more than thirty years, a Carmelite chapel has been a part of the mall. It is now located in the basement and most mall worshipers do not know that it exists. But the faithful know. And the lovers of votive candles know.
The chapel at the mall has several arrangements of candles to choose from, all honoring different saints. Time has brought a few changes to the custom. Red glass has been replaced by red plastic. And it is no longer a real flame. An electric imitation of a flame suffices. And inflation has arrived in this sector too. It costs a dollar to push the button to light the candle. But there is a bargain on the other side of the chapel. For a smaller light, a quarter can be inserted for a coin activated flame. I love that one. The merger of the commercial and the sacred is complete.
When I was living in Arizona, I was a frequent visitor to the Chapel of the Holy Cross in Sedona. The chapel, a cruciform of stunningly simple design perched on the red rocks, has many visitors from all over the world. It contains racks of the old red glass votive candles, but with no saints hovering nearby. A beatific head of Jesus Christ is gently lit above the altar, but most of the rest of the chapel is bare. As I sit there, and as I think about it now, the sounds, the aromas and the feelings of my youth flood back.
I held a faith in the sacred, a faith that was somehow lost along the way. Back then the faith was tied to a set of complex beliefs about what was sacred and as those beliefs untied, my faith also unraveled.
As my definition of what is sacred has changed, and my faith has returned. My faith is much different now and cornering my idea of faith is difficult, but the sacred takes me to the place of faith. And the sacred is all of the everyday and ordinary things, people and events of life.
Daily life itself is the sacred and my small votive candle reminds me. It sits on my desk as I read or write. It sometimes moves around the room with me. It reminds me of where I have been, where I am going and, most of all, where I am now. And it reminds me that I am not alone.
Candles were important in my Roman Catholic youth. As an altar boy I would light the two candles on the altar for a regular mass and all six for a high mass. Funerals and weddings would often include a high mass so they would receive the full treatment too. But all of these were just plain white candles. The real action was in the back of the church.
When I was young, all Catholic churches had votive candles. Tiers of red glass containers held candles stationed in front of a statue of a favorite saint. A candle was lit, a prayer of intercession recited and a price paid. Most of the time the donation was monetary. A dime was the going rate.
I am not sure how much time a dime bought you. You did not get the whole candle and my guess is that you probably got to the end of the day. My hope is that the candles were not left burning over night, but they might have. After all, you are talking about linkage to the real higher ups here, so perhaps the feeling was that calamity would not be a threat.
The custom of votive candles waned in the churches, most likely hastened by insurance companies, but it did not die out completely. You can light a candle at the mall. Yes, I said the mall - at the North Shore Mall in Peabody, Massachusetts. For more than thirty years, a Carmelite chapel has been a part of the mall. It is now located in the basement and most mall worshipers do not know that it exists. But the faithful know. And the lovers of votive candles know.
The chapel at the mall has several arrangements of candles to choose from, all honoring different saints. Time has brought a few changes to the custom. Red glass has been replaced by red plastic. And it is no longer a real flame. An electric imitation of a flame suffices. And inflation has arrived in this sector too. It costs a dollar to push the button to light the candle. But there is a bargain on the other side of the chapel. For a smaller light, a quarter can be inserted for a coin activated flame. I love that one. The merger of the commercial and the sacred is complete.
When I was living in Arizona, I was a frequent visitor to the Chapel of the Holy Cross in Sedona. The chapel, a cruciform of stunningly simple design perched on the red rocks, has many visitors from all over the world. It contains racks of the old red glass votive candles, but with no saints hovering nearby. A beatific head of Jesus Christ is gently lit above the altar, but most of the rest of the chapel is bare. As I sit there, and as I think about it now, the sounds, the aromas and the feelings of my youth flood back.
I held a faith in the sacred, a faith that was somehow lost along the way. Back then the faith was tied to a set of complex beliefs about what was sacred and as those beliefs untied, my faith also unraveled.
As my definition of what is sacred has changed, and my faith has returned. My faith is much different now and cornering my idea of faith is difficult, but the sacred takes me to the place of faith. And the sacred is all of the everyday and ordinary things, people and events of life.
Daily life itself is the sacred and my small votive candle reminds me. It sits on my desk as I read or write. It sometimes moves around the room with me. It reminds me of where I have been, where I am going and, most of all, where I am now. And it reminds me that I am not alone.
February 22, 1998
Color Bind
An unfamiliar twinge hit me. Maybe she had hit a bad note. Maybe it had nothing to do with me at all. No, the clear and sharp melody of her voice and her guitar had not faltered. The source of the twinge was in me and it was jealousy.
But I do not think that I was really at fault. I think that it was the rug. Yes, it must have been the rug. The rug made me do it.
The voice and guitar belonged to Dar Williams, a favorite singer songwriter of mine. She performed to a sold out, adoring audience at a church in Salem, Massachusetts. The church underwent major renovation a few years ago and it emerged glowing as a classic colonial structure. The interior was vintage New England with simple lines throughout. The walls were off-white and the trim of the quiet fluted columns and the balconies were a pale green.
During the renovation the color of the new carpet in the church became an issue. A red carpet had graced the church for as far back as anyone could remember, but the designer was recommending green. The church, a liberal democratic bunch, would put it to a vote. But who would vote. Members only? Let everyone vote! What about the children? Sure, let the kids vote too.
If you were one of the kids, would you vote for red or green? When did a child ever choose anything green? No, the kids all voted for red, but the parents had learned their decorating lessons and the green rug won a narrow victory.
It was good that green won, because it completed a beautiful design. But it was not good for me. It was the green that did me in. Green is the color of jealousy. I did not have to go to one of those Color Me Beautiful For Men courses to know that. It was like an aroma therapy result without the aroma. The color green wafted through the air and I was changed. I was instantly jealous.
Red would have been so much better for me. We all know that red stands for love. I could have embraced that emotion and joined in the love fest for Dar. Instead, I listened to her chat with the crowd about all the places she had been and the people she had met and I was jealous. After all, I have not been to as many places or met as many people. She has more than I do - more of life.
Oh, to have her life. Traveling all of the time. Going to work at eight thirty on a Saturday night with people you do not know. Singing the same songs night after night after night.
My twinge of jealousy did not last too long. I have more freedom than Dar, and I have chosen a different way of being in the world. Maybe the message is that I am yearning for more different kinds of experiences in my life, but not a different life. I have chosen the life I lead for a reason. It is mine.
As I processed this mini-crisis in my life I saw her purple dress. Purple is for passion and she wears it well. She sings of the love and pain of growing up, loving, separating and going on, with force and conviction. She is passionate about who she is and how she is in the world. A colorful lesson learned.
But I do not think that I was really at fault. I think that it was the rug. Yes, it must have been the rug. The rug made me do it.
The voice and guitar belonged to Dar Williams, a favorite singer songwriter of mine. She performed to a sold out, adoring audience at a church in Salem, Massachusetts. The church underwent major renovation a few years ago and it emerged glowing as a classic colonial structure. The interior was vintage New England with simple lines throughout. The walls were off-white and the trim of the quiet fluted columns and the balconies were a pale green.
During the renovation the color of the new carpet in the church became an issue. A red carpet had graced the church for as far back as anyone could remember, but the designer was recommending green. The church, a liberal democratic bunch, would put it to a vote. But who would vote. Members only? Let everyone vote! What about the children? Sure, let the kids vote too.
If you were one of the kids, would you vote for red or green? When did a child ever choose anything green? No, the kids all voted for red, but the parents had learned their decorating lessons and the green rug won a narrow victory.
It was good that green won, because it completed a beautiful design. But it was not good for me. It was the green that did me in. Green is the color of jealousy. I did not have to go to one of those Color Me Beautiful For Men courses to know that. It was like an aroma therapy result without the aroma. The color green wafted through the air and I was changed. I was instantly jealous.
Red would have been so much better for me. We all know that red stands for love. I could have embraced that emotion and joined in the love fest for Dar. Instead, I listened to her chat with the crowd about all the places she had been and the people she had met and I was jealous. After all, I have not been to as many places or met as many people. She has more than I do - more of life.
Oh, to have her life. Traveling all of the time. Going to work at eight thirty on a Saturday night with people you do not know. Singing the same songs night after night after night.
My twinge of jealousy did not last too long. I have more freedom than Dar, and I have chosen a different way of being in the world. Maybe the message is that I am yearning for more different kinds of experiences in my life, but not a different life. I have chosen the life I lead for a reason. It is mine.
As I processed this mini-crisis in my life I saw her purple dress. Purple is for passion and she wears it well. She sings of the love and pain of growing up, loving, separating and going on, with force and conviction. She is passionate about who she is and how she is in the world. A colorful lesson learned.
February 9, 1998
Feathered Friends
The Olympics have not yet embraced bird watching as an official Olympic sport, but I am sure that the day will soon come. Millions worldwide participate in this activity. Although I would not classify myself as a “bird watcher,” I enjoy watching birds. They can provide great entertainment. My bird watching is pretty much confined to my back yard. I can recognize only the plentiful birds of my region, the chickadees, nuthatches, blue jays, and cardinals. My favorite is the bright red cardinal, the male of course. The female cardinal is just another gray bird. Everyone prefers a flash of color.
My bird watching took on an entirely new dimension when we were living in Arizona, the land of the hummingbirds. Two red feeders hung on our front deck and the hummingbirds, with dazzling colors sparkling in the sunlight, would entertain us. We learned quickly that hummingbirds are territorial. Our porch was owned by “BD,” short for Bad Dude. He waited in the nearby spruce and would attack any other bird who would dare to approach one of the feeders. The others would learn to work in pairs. One would feint an approach to the feeder and BD would chase him off over the rooftops. The other would sneak in for a feed while BD was off on his mission. This went on all day every day.
We were in a new house this Christmas and one of my gifts under the tree was a new bird feeder and a bag of sunflower seeds. Obviously, my wife was ready for the birds again. But why was this a gift to me? I enjoy watching the birds but I do not enjoy feeding the birds. That was a job which she always performed. And sure enough, after many days went by, she put up the nail, hung the feeder and filled it for the birds.
It takes the birds a few days to find a new feeder, but eventually they appeared. We sat on our sun porch as the birds carried off the seeds to devour them in the pine tree nearby. A steady stream of chickadees and nuthatches appeared day after day. Then one day I noticed that the feeder was empty. My wife is working full time and the weekend was a few days away. I thought about filling it, but I was feeling really lousy at the time and I was not in the mood to be entertained by birds. In fact, I new that I was incapable at that time of enjoying the birds, so I left the feeder empty.
As the day and night went on, somewhere in my mind I continued to recall a recent conversation with a friend. His basic philosophy is “life sucks and then you die, so life is about entertaining yourself.” I remember feeling the same way at periods in my life, but now I am in a different place. Life is not about entertaining yourself, I had argued. It is about serving others, thereby being part of the connection of the web of life.
To me, serving others meant serving people. But what about the birds? Why did they deserve less from me? Why were they there solely for my entertainment? The ground was completely snow covered. Their sources of food were diminished. So the next day I fed the birds because they needed food. I did this for them, not for me.
The amazing part is now that I feed the birds for them, I feel more connected and I get even more entertainment from their flights to the feeder. As I was watching them, I lamented that we have not attracted any cardinals. Maybe I am not ready yet. My heart has opened a crack, but there is more work to be done. Perhaps, when I am ready, the web of life will reward me with a flash of red.
My bird watching took on an entirely new dimension when we were living in Arizona, the land of the hummingbirds. Two red feeders hung on our front deck and the hummingbirds, with dazzling colors sparkling in the sunlight, would entertain us. We learned quickly that hummingbirds are territorial. Our porch was owned by “BD,” short for Bad Dude. He waited in the nearby spruce and would attack any other bird who would dare to approach one of the feeders. The others would learn to work in pairs. One would feint an approach to the feeder and BD would chase him off over the rooftops. The other would sneak in for a feed while BD was off on his mission. This went on all day every day.
We were in a new house this Christmas and one of my gifts under the tree was a new bird feeder and a bag of sunflower seeds. Obviously, my wife was ready for the birds again. But why was this a gift to me? I enjoy watching the birds but I do not enjoy feeding the birds. That was a job which she always performed. And sure enough, after many days went by, she put up the nail, hung the feeder and filled it for the birds.
It takes the birds a few days to find a new feeder, but eventually they appeared. We sat on our sun porch as the birds carried off the seeds to devour them in the pine tree nearby. A steady stream of chickadees and nuthatches appeared day after day. Then one day I noticed that the feeder was empty. My wife is working full time and the weekend was a few days away. I thought about filling it, but I was feeling really lousy at the time and I was not in the mood to be entertained by birds. In fact, I new that I was incapable at that time of enjoying the birds, so I left the feeder empty.
As the day and night went on, somewhere in my mind I continued to recall a recent conversation with a friend. His basic philosophy is “life sucks and then you die, so life is about entertaining yourself.” I remember feeling the same way at periods in my life, but now I am in a different place. Life is not about entertaining yourself, I had argued. It is about serving others, thereby being part of the connection of the web of life.
To me, serving others meant serving people. But what about the birds? Why did they deserve less from me? Why were they there solely for my entertainment? The ground was completely snow covered. Their sources of food were diminished. So the next day I fed the birds because they needed food. I did this for them, not for me.
The amazing part is now that I feed the birds for them, I feel more connected and I get even more entertainment from their flights to the feeder. As I was watching them, I lamented that we have not attracted any cardinals. Maybe I am not ready yet. My heart has opened a crack, but there is more work to be done. Perhaps, when I am ready, the web of life will reward me with a flash of red.
February 5, 1998
Time Out
Parallel lines and parallel lives - that is all that I can think about. We talk about different people leading parallel lives. I have two friends from high school, Brian and Kevin, who went to college together, then law school, both did a judicial clerkship, joined the same law firm, were married in the same year, bought houses in the same town and then had two children, the same ages of course. Now that is what I call parallel lives.
But can one person have parallel lives? I am not talking about multiple personality disorder. I am talking about having days or periods of a life which seem to be completely different from other days and periods. You begin to wonder if you are the same person.
On a recent trip to Florida, on a Monday morning I hurtled my body in a car down Interstate 75. I was traveling from Ocala to Fort Myers, about a four and a half hour trip. I started the trip with enthusiasm but after a half hour I began to start looking at the clock to see how long I had been driving. Only a half hour! It felt like two. I was worse than a little kid asking, “Are we almost there?”
The radio had few stations out there in the middle of Florida. And the stations that I could find played lousy music. It was a gray day. Who cared? I had a lot of thinking to do. I had come to Florida to visit some relatives and during my spare time to plan the rest of my life. That is all. But I was not coming up with any answers! The next four hours were repetitive questions and an endless self-induced torturous lack of answers.
Five days later I repeated the same drive but this time headed north, traveling the same highway on a line one hundred feet parallel to Monday’s fiasco. The sun was shining. The one radio station I found was great and I was whistling and singing along. The scenery and signs along the way were interesting. My favorite one was “Construction Next 21.98 Miles.” Those people in Florida are precise.
I stopped for lunch at Reuben’s Eatery in Wesley Chapel, Florida, avoiding the chain restaurants. It did not disappoint. The decor was pizza shop minimalist, the food was great and the waitress called be “baby.” As in, serving my lunch with “There you go, baby.” I had just about become used to being called “honey” every where in Florida, but “baby” was way beyond that and it warmed my heart.
I made some other stops along the way, finding a great gift shop with schlocky Florida souvenirs. The whole trip flew by and was a great success. Why? What had changed from Monday?
The answer is that I changed. The middle three days of the week I had spent alone on a retreat. I knew that I needed some time by myself and for myself. I checked into a hotel on the harbor front and spent some time just crashing and letting my body recover from the stresses of life. But then I ventured out and explored the city on foot.
I did not do anything wildly exciting. I visited coffee shops and a museum. I walked the waterfront and watched the boats. I sat behind the third base dugout in the empty winter ballpark of the Boston Red Sox. I watched the owner of the pizza buffet give harp lessons to her four blonde little daughters behind the cash register. I lived simply and I simply lived.
I take these retreats periodically, usually about twice a year. I wish that I could say that I schedule them in advance, but they happen when I have hit the wall and I need a time out from life. The sites have varied: an inn in Bartlett, New Hampshire, a healing center in Sedona, Arizona, a Holiday Inn Express on the strip in small Payson, Arizona. The nature of the place is not important. The content of the activity need not be planned. Sometimes I read a lot and at other times I walk a lot. What I need is always provided. I somehow always get what I need.
I did not ask myself penetrating questions on my trip back up the highway, because I had discovered that the questioning was not the activity which I needed at this time in my life. For now, I needed to get back to noticing the bounty of the life all around me. My retreat brought me to that place where I needed to be.
It really was not a parallel life. It was more of a three dimensional hologram. I learned from my friend, Jack, that even if you cut a hologram in half, each half still contains the whole. The parallel lines of that interstate contained the whole, the multiple parts of me. As I drove south I contained the seeds of what I needed to change, and as I drove north, with the help of a time out, I embraced the day with a perspective that only the darker days can provide.
But can one person have parallel lives? I am not talking about multiple personality disorder. I am talking about having days or periods of a life which seem to be completely different from other days and periods. You begin to wonder if you are the same person.
On a recent trip to Florida, on a Monday morning I hurtled my body in a car down Interstate 75. I was traveling from Ocala to Fort Myers, about a four and a half hour trip. I started the trip with enthusiasm but after a half hour I began to start looking at the clock to see how long I had been driving. Only a half hour! It felt like two. I was worse than a little kid asking, “Are we almost there?”
The radio had few stations out there in the middle of Florida. And the stations that I could find played lousy music. It was a gray day. Who cared? I had a lot of thinking to do. I had come to Florida to visit some relatives and during my spare time to plan the rest of my life. That is all. But I was not coming up with any answers! The next four hours were repetitive questions and an endless self-induced torturous lack of answers.
Five days later I repeated the same drive but this time headed north, traveling the same highway on a line one hundred feet parallel to Monday’s fiasco. The sun was shining. The one radio station I found was great and I was whistling and singing along. The scenery and signs along the way were interesting. My favorite one was “Construction Next 21.98 Miles.” Those people in Florida are precise.
I stopped for lunch at Reuben’s Eatery in Wesley Chapel, Florida, avoiding the chain restaurants. It did not disappoint. The decor was pizza shop minimalist, the food was great and the waitress called be “baby.” As in, serving my lunch with “There you go, baby.” I had just about become used to being called “honey” every where in Florida, but “baby” was way beyond that and it warmed my heart.
I made some other stops along the way, finding a great gift shop with schlocky Florida souvenirs. The whole trip flew by and was a great success. Why? What had changed from Monday?
The answer is that I changed. The middle three days of the week I had spent alone on a retreat. I knew that I needed some time by myself and for myself. I checked into a hotel on the harbor front and spent some time just crashing and letting my body recover from the stresses of life. But then I ventured out and explored the city on foot.
I did not do anything wildly exciting. I visited coffee shops and a museum. I walked the waterfront and watched the boats. I sat behind the third base dugout in the empty winter ballpark of the Boston Red Sox. I watched the owner of the pizza buffet give harp lessons to her four blonde little daughters behind the cash register. I lived simply and I simply lived.
I take these retreats periodically, usually about twice a year. I wish that I could say that I schedule them in advance, but they happen when I have hit the wall and I need a time out from life. The sites have varied: an inn in Bartlett, New Hampshire, a healing center in Sedona, Arizona, a Holiday Inn Express on the strip in small Payson, Arizona. The nature of the place is not important. The content of the activity need not be planned. Sometimes I read a lot and at other times I walk a lot. What I need is always provided. I somehow always get what I need.
I did not ask myself penetrating questions on my trip back up the highway, because I had discovered that the questioning was not the activity which I needed at this time in my life. For now, I needed to get back to noticing the bounty of the life all around me. My retreat brought me to that place where I needed to be.
It really was not a parallel life. It was more of a three dimensional hologram. I learned from my friend, Jack, that even if you cut a hologram in half, each half still contains the whole. The parallel lines of that interstate contained the whole, the multiple parts of me. As I drove south I contained the seeds of what I needed to change, and as I drove north, with the help of a time out, I embraced the day with a perspective that only the darker days can provide.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)