Uncategorized – Page 7 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

Watching the Ships on Shelter Island

This past week we visited friends in the Point Loma area of San Diego. This being low tourist season, we got a room with a view on Shelter Island, which forms the northern shore of the harbor. I’ve always been fascinated by the variety of vessels that pass through, so several times I took time to find a seat and enjoy the sights. As I watched, I wondered: Why are they here? What are they for? What do they tell us about our life?

Sailboats — These come in all sizes. I’ve taken sailing classes, but don’t know enough to tell a sloop from a sunfish. When I see the smaller ones, I assume the owner uses it for the simple pleasure shared by humans for millennia: moving across water as skillfully as one can, powered only by the presence of wind. Like a hiker in the wilderness, one can get immersed in the moment-to-moment flow of navigation. Larger sailboats require a crew, which means folks sharing a purpose and a task. I have friends who delight in doing so.

Power Boats — These also come in an endless variety of sizes. Some owners simply enjoy the exhilaration of moving on water. Others use them for water skiing. Many use them for sport fishing. From where I was sitting, I could see the Coronado Islands in the distance; twice I’ve been on boats that went into the Mexican waters for yellowtail and albacore. (I’ve yet to bring home a prize but remain a fan of tuna sandwiches.)

Commercial Fishing Boats: One of our friends grew up in a nearby neighborhood populated by Portuguese immigrants who brought their fishing heritage and Catholic faith with them; the area was known as “Tunaville.” I remember attending mass at St. Agnes parish which had a fishing boat in the lap of the Virgin Mary near the altar. Our friend’s father captained large commercial vessels that went around the world on voyages that could last many months. He was prominent enough to be featured in a Chicken of the Sea commercial at the time. Fishing, like farming, has been part of human life from the dawn of human communities; it’s exciting to see these vessels leaving the harbor wondering what their catch will be.

Yachts: We were near three yacht clubs. Such clubs include a large range of boats, some quite modest and others that are like floating mansions. (Jeff Bezos owns one valued at $500 million.) There is an ancient human desire to display one’s wealth and status; here one can see the different ways people satisfy that desire.

Navy Ships: Sometimes, while watching the private boats, you see something like this approaching:

When it comes closer, it looks like this:

Two days earlier, I’d seen the nuclear carrier USS Ronald Reagan leaving port the same way. It brought back memories of when the Reagan had come to Santa Barbara in 2008, and a parishioner active in the Navy League arranged a tour for me.

The tour was eye-opening. The top deck is over 1,000 feet long. The ship is 20 stories high with a crew of 6,000 sailors. It is powered by two nuclear reactors that can operate for 20 years without refueling. It can carry more than 80 combat aircraft. Toward the end, a young officer escorted me up to the bridge to show me the control room. Then we went back down the stairs to the deck.

“So, what’s it like to be on this ship when it is on the move…say, heading up the Persian Gulf?” I asked.

“We wouldn’t be on our own,” she said. “We’d be part of a battle group…accompanied by a guided missile cruiser, two anti-submarine warships, two destroyers, submarines below us and helicopters and fighter jets above.”

I stood there trying to conceive what it would be like to be a fisherman in the Persian Gulf watching such a formation coming my way. I doubt he could conceive of the sophisticated and destructive firepower ready to be unleashed if called upon.

Warships of this magnitude are entering and leaving San Diego harbor every day, headed to all parts of the world. They pass by the little sailboats and outboards and pleasure craft and yachts – as well as people walking their dogs and vacationers sipping margaritas. I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.

There are some whose spiritual convictions lead them to be pacifists. I have deep respect for those traditions and individuals, but I’m not able to share that perspective.

In September my sister and I visited the “Resistance Museum” in Amsterdam, which chronicles the Nazi occupation and the ways in which the Dutch fought back. Towards the end, an exhibit highlights the days when Allied troops set the country free. My sister and I remembered with gratitude that our father had been a soldier in that liberating army that fought its way through Holland.

We know when there have been times when our armed forces have been used irresponsibly and unnecessarily, creating immense suffering. But in the imperfect world we live in, I believe there are times when the use of military force is necessary.

Now I am back in Santa Barbara where one sees all kinds of pleasure boats and an occasional cruise ship, but nothing like the carriers coming and going off Shelter Island. I earnestly hope that those in command of such power will always act with prudence, care, and sober judgement.

Where Were We?

This past Monday I woke up before sunrise. After coffee, I went into our backyard for my morning quiet time. The days are becoming shorter, and it had been a while since I was outside before daybreak. Ten years ago, I could see most of the night sky from my favorite spot. But our oak tree and our neighbor’s sycamore have flourished in recent years, and now only a small section of the heavens is visible. As I settled in and looked up to see beyond the trees, the sky was dark; the moon was half-full and next to it was a bright star. I was captivated.

Ten minutes later, the sun rose in the east, the sky began to brighten, and the star disappeared. But the fascination with seeing light in darkness remained.

I remembered being in a downtown theater in 2011 watching the opening scenes in Terrance Mallick’s film, The Tree of Life. It begins in darkness. Then there’s sound in the background, almost like what you might hear if you are underwater listening to the ocean. These words appear:

A mysterious image appears – like a flame, but not a flame; it moves and grows:

And then a voice whispers: “Brother, mother…it was they who led me to your door.” The image fades.

We see a young red-haired girl looking out a window on a farm, enchanted by what she sees. We hear her voice: “The nuns taught us there are two ways through life…the way of nature, and the way of grace….” The girl becomes a mother (played by Jessica Chastain), and her life unfolds. Over the next two hours, we witness the innocence, joys, struggles, heartbreaks and spiritual searching of her family; interspersed are dreamlike images of nature, evolution, and the mysteries of life. (Given Mallick’s impressionistic style, there are some sequences which make it hard to follow — but it is always entrancing.) What set the stage for it all is the passage from the book of Job. After Job questions God why life is the way it is, the divine voice speaks out of a whirlwind: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?”

Huston Smith once described an important difference between scientific and spiritual knowledge. Both seek to explain truth in everyday terms we can understand, but sometimes that language is not sufficient. With science, when the focus is the smallest scale of quantum reality or the immense scale of cosmology and ordinary language falls short, it turns to math – often very sophisticated math (which few of us can understand). Spirituality, on the other hand, also offers many insights in everyday terms, but when it needs to speak of the deepest realities, it turns not to math but to story, metaphor and imagination.

Some scientists say the Big Bang began with a “disturbance of the quantum field. ”One spiritual story says that in the beginning a divine force moved like wind over a dark void, and said “Let there be light, and there was light.”

I choose to listen to both. I want to understand the science of life as much as I can (though I’m limited by my knowledge of math.) But I also want to accept the gift of spiritual imagination with its stories and metaphors; they speak to my heart and resonate with the feeling of awe I feel when a star in the night sky shines before fading in the presence of a rising sun.

Where were we when that quantum field was disturbed and the universe emerged out of nothingness, bringing into being all the elements of the periodic table, time and space? Where were we when the foundations of the earth were set, and the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted with joy? I don’t know. But what we are began in those moments. As did our capacity for wonder and our desire to understand.

It was still and quiet when I watched the sky that morning. But in my imagination, I could almost hear the morning stars singing and the first living beings shouting for joy.

If you want to get a sense of the mood of the movie, here’s the official trailer

Falling Leaves

Earlier this week, I was up early and sitting quietly in my backyard. I’d been asked to speak for a group on spirituality and “wilderness,” and was mentally reviewing what I was planning to say. Then, ten feet away, a leaf from our Eastern Redbud tree floated to the ground. It looked like this:

I had noticed this tree had been shedding its foliage, but I don’t remember being present to witness one leaf actually making the transition.

My life isn’t as busy as it used to be, and I’m grateful I have more time to just observe events like this.

As I thought about this moment, I remembered times when people found meaning in fallen leaves.

In my time at Hospice of Santa Barbara, we had an extensive program dedicated to children and families following the death of a parent. I asked one of the counselors what she did with young ones. In addition to drawing pictures, stories and conversation, a common activity was to go outdoors and observe the natural world. – noticing things that were alive and those were alive no longer. Then they’d bring their treasures back to the room and talk about the fact that all things that live someday will die.

At Hospice we had quarterly art shows. We choose the work not solely on artistic merit, but primarily on the meaning of what the artist was focusing on and how that related to our mission; common themes were healing, transformation, and personal insights.

One of our presenters was a local artist name Jan Clouse with a show called “Fallen Beauty.” Here’s a description:

Clouse’s artwork honors the beauty that comes from aging and the natural cycle of loss. By focusing on leaves, twigs, branches and other bits of vegetation that have been shed or fallen to the ground, she concentrates on life cycles present in nature to draw connections to the regenerative cycle of life.

“While most botanical artists capture the beauties of living blooms, I concentrate on detritus, such as pods, seeds and leaves starting to lose living color and taking on a broad range of subtler shades,” said Clouse.

Clouse’s drawing helped her come to terms with the loss of her mother. After her mother’s death, Clouse found a spiritual connection to her mother through her artwork, as it made her focus on the larger picture of life. While visiting her mother, father and grandparents’ graves, Clouse gathered some oak leaves and other bits of vegetation that had fallen nearby. She began to paint these leaves, and found the experience to be meditative while she came to terms with the loss of her loved ones.*

I am grateful that I am still in relatively good health and hope to be part of the Tree of Life for some years to come. But the older I get, the more I realize what I have strived to accomplish in my life is becoming less and less visible to me or anyone else. But I also understand that doesn’t diminish the value of our labors. I like to think of our lives as having the honor of gradually becoming compost; the fruits of our labor still give us meaning, but it’s more and more about what we have contributed to the life that’s coming after us.

My leaf reunited with its companions.

*Press release: https://www.independent.com/2011/01/21/jan-clouse-featured-artist-hospice-santa-barbara/

Lead image: “Buckeye,” Jan Clouse

Lost in Thought: Visiting Rembrandt’s House

Like many houses in the old section of Amsterdam, Rembrandt’s overlooks a canal. Not far from his doorstep, ships from all over the world were coming and going, bringing with them a great diversity of people at all stages of life.

Entering on the first floor and progressing upward on narrow stairways, you see what his life was like – how the food was prepared, where his maid slept, where he received guests and where he worked. Here is the room he lived in and his bed:

As you move through the house you relive the different stages of his career – from his early days making a name for himself to the period of his great success, both as an artist and art dealer. But his last years were difficult. As we came towards the end, this sign intrigued me:

I became fascinated with this description:

A new style is taking shape.

Rembrandt now paints many single figures lost in thought.

Movement gives way to rest.

There is inner tension though.

And he works more loosely, with broad brushstrokes.

I was intrigued by the phrase, “lost in thought.” No matter what age we may be when we experience such a state, it doesn’t mean we aren’t thinking; we may in fact be thinking a great deal. In our everyday, routine experience we direct our thoughts where we want them to go but, in these moments, we just aren’t sure where to go, or how the pieces of our life can fit together; it’s as if our thoughts don’t know where to land. Some might say we are “spaced out” – but in fact we may be “reaching in.”

When I returned home, I read more about this period: Rembrandt’s last years were the most difficult of his life. He was effectively declared bankrupt in 1656; a picture commissioned for Amsterdam’s new Town Hall, the largest he ever painted, was installed and then replaced in 1662; his lover, Hendrickye Stoffels, died in 1663, and his son Titus, at the age of 27, in 1668. At one point he was so hard up that he had to raid his daughter Cornelia’s money box.[i]

A friend told me of a conversation he shared with a man who had been a wise spiritual mentor. This man was in his 80s at the time and had outlived his wife and many others. My friend asked him, “Has anything surprised you as you reach this stage of life?”

“I wasn’t prepared for the amount of loss,” he said.

Over time, we lose people we love. Periods of success in our working life can seem far away. We might remember times when life was going well, following a script we were writing in our imagination at the time. But unexpected events occurred that we couldn’t change, and our script had to be rewritten. How did this all happen? Did it have to go that way?

We can become “single figures lost in thought.”

Rembrandt’s specific spiritual beliefs aren’t known. We do know his personal life didn’t conform to the religious establishment of his time: “The artist’s eccentricities and irregular, unwed lifestyle may have put him beyond the pale of Amsterdam’s stuffier and more conservative circles… but his engagement with biblical themes was lifelong and his last years gave rise to some of his most thoughtful and unusual interpretations of them.”

I’m drawn to two of the paintings from this period.

The first is “Jacob Blessing the Sons of Joseph,” created in the 1656, the year he declared bankruptcy. In the Biblical story, two of Jacob’s grandsons are brought to him for the family blessing with the expectation that he will bless the eldest with his right hand. But instead, he blesses the younger:

Here is a close-up of Jacob’s face:

I don’t think he’s looking at the grandsons – he’s looking both beyond them and within himself. What does it feel like to know your life is almost over, wanting to do what you think is right for your family, but realizing you will never know how it will turn out?

“Simeon in the Temple” is his last painting, unfinished at his death in 1669. It is another story of an old man blessing a child. In Luke’s Gospel, Mary and Joseph bring the 8-day old Jesus to the temple for dedication. Simeon believed he would be able to bless such a child before he dies:

The infant child is looking up at the old man and seems to truly “see him.” Simeon is holding the child with tenderness as he gives the blessing, but where is his attention? Like Jacob, he seems “lost in thought.”

Rembrandt didn’t have life figured out. Most likely he was “not prepared for the amount of loss” he had experienced. But these late portraits convey a reverence for these people in their private moments, a tender love and respect. That, to me, can be more “spiritual” than having simplistic answers to life’s challenges.

When we see someone “lost in thought,” may we summon that same reverence for them as Rembrandt did. And when we are in such moments ourselves, may we know that in some mysterious way we are not alone.

[i] https://www.nytimes.com/2014/12/04/arts/international/rembrandts-turbulent-final-years.html

Small Moments to Savor

As I was planning our trip to Europe, I explored the possibility of staying in a hostel instead of a hotel. I knew I was too old to sleep in a dorm room but wanted to experience the open and hospitable spirit I had known as a young backpacker. For the stay in Berlin, we booked a place at the “The Circus Hostel.” It’s a five-story building in the “Mitte” (central) section of the city, close to many points of interest. They had a 2-bedroom apartment on the top floor available. My sister agreed we should try it.

In the basement they have their own pub and small brewery. On the ground floor is a café and reception area. Upper floors are for the bunk beds and apartments. As we settled in, I began noticing the posted signs. On the sliding glass door leading to the balcony:

The notice to set out when you want maid service:

On the wall next to the elevator call button:

A similar playful spirit was on display in nearby cafes. French fries are very popular in Belin, and a busy place across the street had this window:

I didn’t go to Berlin expecting to eat Mexican food, but appreciated this sentiment:

Not far from Sigmund Freud’s Vienna home and office where he probed the hidden recesses of the human psyche, we found a brewery/pub that offered more than two dozen pitas with your choice of pizza-like filings (including tuna, camembert, cranberry jam, turkey, olives, sour cream, onions, hardboiled egg, tomato sauce, etc., etc.). On the wall was this timeless question:

I don’t know if Freud pondered that dilemma – for him a bigger question might have been about how many cigars were enough. But after hours contemplating tragic historical events and staring at modern expressionist paintings, these were “welcome signs.” Small moments to savor along with new tastes and friendly places.

An Unexpected Ending: “The Sound of Music” in Vienna

When we got tickets for a German language production of “The Sound of Music” in Vienna, I was expecting to be amused.

Of course, the songs are familiar. After seeing the 1965 movie starring Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer, my mother bought the LP and played it often. The movie won five academy awards, and by 1971 became the highest grossing film up to that time. The music has become a part of our popular culture.

My sister and I bought tickets for a Sunday night performance at the Volksoper, thinking it would be interesting to see what an American musical by Rodgers and Hammerstein would be like in German.

The play is set in 1938 in Austria as the Nazis are threatening to take over the country. After the overture, the curtain rose with Maria on an imaginary mountain top singing “The hills are alive…” in German. (Some of the dialogue and lyrics were translated into English and projected as “supertitles” above the stage, but not all). We learn Maria is a free-spirited young nun who is assigned to be a nanny to the Von Trapp family. There she meets the seven children and wins them over. After a chilly beginning, her relationship with their widower father blossoms into love and, in the end, she and the Captain marry. The family escapes the Nazis by fleeing to Switzerland. Along the way, we hear familiar songs including “Maria” (‘How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?’),” “I Am Sixteen Going on Seventeen,” “Climb Every Mountain,” “My Favorite Things,” “Do-Re-Mi”, “The Lonely Goatherd,” “Edelweiss,” and “So Long, Farewell.”

I did not realize until this performance how significant “Edelweiss” is in the story. I had assumed that it was a well-known Austrian folk song that was included in the production to give it authenticity. The tune and lyrics are simple:

Edelweiss, Edelweiss

Every morning you greet me

Small and white clean and bright

You look happy to meet me.

Blossom of snow, may you bloom and grow

Bloom and grow forever

Edelweiss, Edelweiss

Bless my homeland forever…

As sung by the Captain, it reflects his deep love for his threatened country; in this production, his anxiety about his country’s future makes it hard for him to complete it.

When the curtain came up for the last act, we were startled to see the set. In the front was the simple stage where the Von Trapp family would be performing in the musical contest. But at the center rear of the stage was a huge red and black Nazi flag – I’m guessing it was 15-20 feet high. My sister and I had just spent five days in Berlin visiting many sites associated with the rise of Hitler and the extent of the terror and suffering he imposed on Europe, including the Holocaust. We had walked down the street where Hitler greeted crowds of admirers and stood at the site of his bunker where he spent his last days before committing suicide. We had been told that it was now illegal in Germany to make the “Heil Hitler” salute. And here we were in Vienna – where Hitler had spent his early years, and later came back as conqueror – and this massive swastika was glaring at us. The terror that Austria had lived through took center stage.

The action unfolds. Two characters greet each other with the Nazi salute, which was also jarring when we imagine there are people in the audience who had lived through that terror. In the contest the family sings “Edelweiss,” then “So Long, Farewell” as they make their escape. The scene shifts and the flag rises from the stage. The Gestapo pursues the family. They hide in a convent and the nuns help them escape. In the final scene they join hands and disappear into the mountains and towards freedom.

The curtain fell and the audience cheered. The cast came back to take their bows. Then the surprising thing happened – the cast led everyone in the theater in singing “Edelweiss.” They stood at the edge of the stage, the audience stood, and full-throated everyone was singiing together. My sister and I couldn’t help but join in, thanks to the lyrics being projected above the stage. This was no longer a charming folk song about a little flower. It was a way to express a love of one’s country, the memory of being liberated from darkness, and the human passion for dignity and freedom. It was one of those moments when you go from looking at something to entering into it; you’re no longer a viewer but a participant.

After the performance, I learned that “Edelweiss” was not a traditional Austrian folk song, but an original number written by Oscar Hammerstein for the production and has gradually gained the affection of the Austrian people. A simple song in the right context can contain a powerful message; a small wildflower on an Alpine Mountain can become an abiding symbol of what we hold dear.

Making Sense of It All in Vienna

After five days in Berlin, we are completing our fifth in Vienna. Yesterday I thought about a surprising thread of meaning.

Beethovens Bed In Baden: One day we went out of the city to visit the famous spa town of Baden, where people have been coming to enjoy the natural sulfur water as a form of relaxation for centuries. Baden was a favorite place for Beethoven to stay and composed in the summer; it was here that he composed his 9th Symphony in 182…I visited the house he had rented which is now a museum. In addition to the dining rand composition room was his bedroom. I was surpirsed the bed was only two feet or so off the ground and it was set in its own enclousure, like a closet. I leadnred at this time in his life, he was not only deaf but suffering from frequent abdominal pains and other ailments that made sleeping difficult. His best creative moments came from long walks in the surrounding countryside. The music he composed when he lived in this house has become one of the most inspiring creations of the human spirit. But I couldn’t help think about his sleepless nights he spent here as he was trying creating timeless music.

The next day I visited the Freud museum, which turns out to be a short walk from our Airbnb. Freud lived here from 1891 – 1938, when he was able to go to London to evade the Nazis. It was here he raised his family, did all his writing, and saw his patients:

Here’s a picture of what the waiting room looks like:

The actual couch where people laid back for analysis is in London, but here’s a photo of what the room looked like then:

Obviously, this was a couch for reclining while you are awake,not for sleeping. But just as Beethoven tossed and turned on his bed, I imagined all the many people who laid back here as Freud helped them explore their inner thoughts, hidden desires, and hope for living a meaningful life.

And here is the bed I’ve been sleeping in at our apartment in Vienna:

I do not think this humble space will have any historical significance. But this is where I lie awake thinking about all the art I’ve seen (medieval to modern) and all the music I’ve heard (from Mozart to jazz to “The Sound of Music” performed in German). I try to integrate it all and what it means to me. This is also where my dreaming has been taking place (though, bone-tired from the day, I’ve been sleeping so soundly that I would not have much to offer Dr. Freud). I think of all the human beings in Vienna who are engaged in the same process every day and night, as are all our fellow humans around the world, including you. How earnestly we are at work trying to live day by day! How grateful we are for the music that inspires us, the art that helps us see in new ways, and the relationships that nurture us. What a grand and glorious mystery.

Today we head to Amsterdam.

Sensing the Angels in Berlin

As I write this, I’ve been in Berlin for three days. I’ve come to explore the city and its complicated history, view great art and listen to great music, taste the food, and walk among the crowds. Being here brings to mind one of my favorite movies that is set in Berlin before the Wall came down: “Wings of Desire” by Wim Wenders.

The movie came out in 1987. It’s a kind of realistic fantasy that depicts a city where angels are present. They don’t look like the angels in famous paintings — they dress like everyone else, often wearing trench coats. Most people can’t see them — only children. They listen in on peoples’ private thoughts, and if someone is troubled or depressed, they come close to them, hoping by their presence to bring feelings of hope and reassurance. They are on the streets, in the library, and at a local circus. They live forever, and have been in the city as long as people have lived there.

But one of the angels, Damiel, is getting restless. He is tired of being purely “spiritual” and not experiencing the complex realities of human life. He and his friend Cassiel are sitting in a car, sharing some of the intimate moments they’d observed in the people they’ve been watching over:

Cassiel: “ˆIn the vineyards, an old man was reading from the Odyssey to a child, and the little listener stopped blinking altogether. And you, what do you have to say?”

Damiel: ”A passerby who folded up her umbrella in the middle of the rain – and got wet.”

“A student who described to his teacher how a fern grows out of the ground. And the amazed teacher.”

“A blind woman who was feeling for her watch when she sensed me.”

“It is wonderful to live only spiritually and to testify to people day after day for eternity about something purely spiritual.”

“But sometimes my eternal mental existence becomes too much for me.”

“I don’t want to float above it all the time. I want to feel a weight on me that will lift the boundlessness around me and make me grounded.”

“I would like to be able to say “now, and now and now” with every step or gust of wind and not “forever and ever” as always. To sit down at the free spot at the card table and be greeted, even if only with a nod.”

“The whole time, whenever we took part, it was only for show.”

“We pretended to dislocate our hips in a night-time wrestling match with one of them, and pretended to catch a fish. We pretended to sit at the tables, and pretended to eat and drink. We had roast lamb and wine served to us outside by the tents in the desert, just for show.”

“Not that I want to father a child or plant a tree right away. But it would be something to come home after a long day and feed the cat like Philip Marlowe.”

“Having a fever, black fingers from reading the newspaper.”

“Not always just getting excited about the mind, but finally about a meal, a neckline, an ear.”

“Lies. As printed.”

“Feel the bone structure moving as you walk.”

“Finally have an inkling instead of always knowing everything.”

“Being able to say `Ah` and `Oh` and `Woe` instead of `Yes and Amen`.”

Cassiel: “Yes. – To be able to get excited about evil for once. To transfer all the demons of the earth to yourself from the passers-by as you walk by and finally chase them out into the world.”

(Damiel makes a strong exhale, as if he is chasing away an unwelcome sprit.)

Cassiel: “Being a savage.”

Damiel: “Or to finally feel what it’s like to take your shoes off under the table – and point out your toes. Barefoot. Like that.” (And he looks toward his feet, imagining what it might feel like to wiggle his toes.)

Soon, Damiel takes the leap. He drops his wings and his invisible presence and enters the complicated daily experience of being a mortal person. He drinks hot coffee, falls in love with a trapeze artist, and begins to find his way.

Being in this city brings to mind not just scenes from the movie, but its theme: day after day, we strive to put our lives in order, wishing for a less complicated existence. Yet sometimes in my private thoughts I reflect on what it’s going to be like to not be alive anymore. I think I will deeply miss some of the fleeting moments when we are aware of the mystery of being alive. This includes moments of spiritual insight and peace, but also those moments when we are feeding a pet, enjoying a meal, feeling our “bone structure moving” as we walk, and, just for fun, stretching out our toes under the table. Tasting a sausage covered in catsup and curry. Looking at the people in a crowded subway car and wondering what their lives are like. Having a cold Pilsner at the end of a day.

“Do What You Can, With What You Have, Where You Are”

The great tennis player Arthur Ashe was headed to a speaking engagement and wasn’t sure what his theme should be. Then he saw this quote on the side of a bus: “Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.”He used it to give an effective presentation.

I heard this story at a nonprofit conference some years ago.

Apparently it’s been around for a long time –it’s often attributed to Teddy Roosevelt. And it does seem to hold some wisdom. We can get into situations when we feel we don’t have enough to face a problem and get lost in naming all the things that would make the situation easier. But the idea is to take stock of what resources we do have where we are and find a way to do something.

When I lived in rural Washington for several years, I learned farmers are used to being self-reliant, coming up with solutions that don’t require an outside expert. I grew to admire that attitude.

My father was a real estate broker and called his favorite tradespeople when a house needed repairs or upgrades. In addition to licensed plumbers, carpenters and electricians, he had people who were known as true “handymen.” Such folks could fix a problem in standard ways, but also could improvise solutions with the elements at hand. One of his favorite was a guy named “Orville” – I never heard a last name. My dad never hesitated to call on Orville to fix something and was often amazed at his creativity. In our family, “Orville” became not just a person’s name, but a word to describe coming up with innovative solutions – “Let’s put The Orville to it!” dad would say.

This perspective can be useful in areas of our life beyond things.

The rural town we lived in had a high poverty rate and parts of town were a mess in terms of litter and trash. One time the community organized a clean-up day. I showed up along with other neighbors. We were given surgical gloves and trash bags, and each assigned a part of town to cover. I remember coming up to a cigarette butt on the ground. Before that day, I would have passed it by with a sense of indignation. Instead, I reached down, picked it up, and dropped it in the bag. I felt a sense of liberation – instead of just complaining about it, I was “doing something with what I had where I was.” When we regathered, we all felt less helpless and more empowered.

This theme is also visible in the improvisational play of children. One of my congregations had a camping weekend. Our youngest daughter was concerned that “there would be nothing to do” away from the usual devices. But soon other families arrived. She met a friend from school. They came across an empty aluminum can that had some pebbles in it. They started kicking it back and forth in creative ways, creating different sounds, laughing all the way. It continued for 45 minutes. Do what you “can” with what you have, where you are.

I also think of this perspective when dealing with people who are ill or aged. It is easy to want to leave all personal needs to a nurse or an aide, but sometimes we can do simple things for someone. Crossing that invisible barrier between what our normal social conventions expect us to do can be freeing. People who are ill or aging often feel self-conscious and “untouchable,” but a simple and unexpected act by someone who is not paid to help them conveys honor and dignity as well as care.

There are many stories in spiritual traditions in which teachers make use of what is available in the moment to meet a need and make a point. In one story, Jesus encounters a blind man, “spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man’s eyes, saying to him, “Go, wash in the pool of Siloam” (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see.” The winning formula: common saliva, available soil and a dose of spiritual energy. And I remember a wedding meditation in which the celebrant read the story of the “Feeding of 5,000” (also known as the “Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes”). He said there will be times in any marriage when you don’t think you have enough to meet your needs. But look at what you have, give thanks, and see how to make the most of it.

Clearly there are times when we need professional help, experts, and the specially engineered part. But other times, we can take a deep breath and say, “What can I do right now with what I have in this place?”

Sculpture: “Dutch, Found Object, Junk Art,” Laurie Schnurer, 2014

The Parable of the Poisoned Arrow

Several years ago, I was listening to a series of lectures on Buddhism and heard “The Parable of the Poisoned Arrow.” It exists in several versions. Here’s a simple one:

“Suppose a man is struck by a poisoned arrow and the doctor wishes to take out the arrow immediately. Suppose the man does not want the arrow removed until he knows who shot it, his age, his parents, and why he shot it. What would happen? If he were to wait until all these questions have been answered, the man might die first.” The point: “Life is so short. It must not be spent in endless metaphysical speculation that does not bring us any closer to the truth.”

In some versions, the wounded man’s questions include the social class of the archer, his physical appearance, his hometown, what the bow was made of, what bird had supplied the feathers, etc. The questions are endless — but our time is limited.

When we are suffering physical pain, it is reassuring if the doctors can confidently identify and treat it. But sometimes they can’t. Years ago, I had a parishioner whose lungs were thickening and the tissues becoming increasingly stiff. After many tests, the doctors gave it a name: “Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.” It took me a minute to grasp the meaning of that first word: “Idio-pathic.” There is a pathology going on, but we are “idiots” in terms of knowing exactly why. It’s a disease having no known cause. Not having a definitive name for it made the situation more difficult.

Our predecessors have tried to understand the source of our suffering and came up with many explanations. Maybe it’s karma – the mysterious burden of our ancestor’s behavior in past lives. Maybe it’s divine judgement – God does not let people get away with anything, so if we are suffering, we must have done something wrong. St. Augustine came up with the idea of “Original Sin,” claiming that death and suffering are a result of some act of disobedience in our ancient past.

In our modern age, we can seek the reasons for our emotional pain by exploring our family of origin: when you were a child, you adapted your behavior in response to what was going on in your family, and those behaviors have stuck with you ever since. Sometimes the insights are illuminating and liberating. Working with insightful counselors over the years, I can see how many of my behaviors are explainable based on my family’s dynamics. But I’ve also known families with six children, all of whom turn out very differently. And sometimes knowing the source doesn’t improve our lives at all.

When we are suffering, do we need to know every reason behind our condition? Or is it enough to pull the arrow out as quickly as possible so we can move forward?

I know a woman who suffered from panic attacks. She had seen counselors and talked to friends, but nothing helped. She went to see someone who specialized in anxiety. At the first session, she was surprised that he did not delve very much into her past or her emotions. Instead, he focused on the thought processes she experienced when she began to feel anxious. She came back for more sessions and soon she was experiencing some relief. She was still “wired” as she’d always been, and the causes for that may never be known. But he helped her focus on the runaway train of her thinking patterns and ways to redirect it; the aim was to get the arrow out, rather than knowing why it was there in the first place.

Buddhism does not focus on mystical speculation as to why our suffering is here. It focuses on ways to alleviate it.

In many of the Gospel stories, someone comes to Jesus with a problem. He seems to understand what they need in that moment and offers a shift in their focus. Maybe it’s being assured of divine forgiveness apart from social prejudices and self-doubt. Maybe it’s with a healing touch. Maybe it is by inspiring them to go beyond themselves to love and care for others. There’s no interest in speculation – the focus is redirecting each person in ways they can live their life with grace and freedom in the here and now.

Looking back on my life, I see that many people who have died in peace have given up trying to understand the deep reasons for anything. They just live life as best they can and help others as much as they are able.

The questions about the deeper causes of our suffering can be endless — but our time is limited.