Tag Archives: pocket epiphanies

Time for Pictures!

Our family just celebrated a wedding. The bride and groom wanted a simple gathering, so we did not hire a professional photographer. Instead, many of us took photos and videos with our phones.  We are in the process of sharing the best ones with each other and posting several on social media.  Undoubtedly, some will become treasured reminders of the love and joy we felt as we celebrated. 

In my lifetime, we’ve gone from Brownies to Polaroids to Instamatics to cell phones to Smartphones. The taking, editing, and storing of photographs and movies have never been easier.  I recently checked how many I have stored on my computer: 2,940 photos and 422 videos.  I have reviewed them more than once, wanting to delete as many as possible. But it’s not easy.  For one thing, digital files do not take up physical space – quite a contrast to the boxes and boxes of old albums, prints, and negatives many of our parents left behind.  And the photos are often of a family member or friend; as I gaze at them, I cherish the moment the picture was taken and what it means — a moment in my life I’m not yet ready to release.

All this has led me to reflect on the evolution of photography in our personal lives.

As you may know, the first practical process for creating “photographs” was developed in the late 1820s by the French painter and physicist, Louis Daguerre: 

The daguerreotype was best suited for still objects, but people nonetheless lined up to have their portraits taken. This was not for the faint of heart: subjects had to sit in blazing sunlight for up to half an hour, trying not to blink, with their heads clamped in place to keep them still. It’s not surprising that most of the early daguerreotype portraits feature grim, slightly desperate faces.”[i]

(The last comment is comforting.  When someone is taking my photograph and asks me to smile, I can summon a natural smile quickly, but alas, after five or ten seconds, it melts into just such a grimace.)

Here are two of the earliest existing daguerreotypes:[ii]

Even with such serious “I’ve-been-holding-this-pose-for-thirty-minutes” expressions, don’t you still feel like you can sense something about each one’s character?

An original daguerreotype is a small picture, generally smaller than the palm of one’s hand, and exists on a surface of highly polished silver. The image, though infinitely detailed and subtle, is elusive. The picture should be looked at with its case not fully opened, preferably in private and by lamplight, as one would approach a secret.[iii] 

Perhaps looking at an image “as one would approach a secret” increases the experience of awe. Maybe we should always hold them in such reverence to remind us that, in many ways, we will always be an elusive mystery to ourselves and each other.

An early professional daguerreotype photographer remarked on people’s reaction to their portraits: “People were afraid at first to look for any length of time at the pictures he produced. They were embarrassed by the clarity of these figures and believed that the little, tiny faces of the people in the pictures could see out at them, so amazing did the unaccustomed detail and the unaccustomed truth to nature of the first daguerreotypes appear to everyone.”[iv]

My mother has been gone for almost thirty years, but when one of my sisters recently discovered an old Super 8 home movie of her dancing on a beach, I felt like I was reexperiencing her spirit.  And when I see certain photos or videos of our children when they were young, I am often surprised as I’m reminded that their unique personalities have not changed as they’ve become adults.  It feels like the “people in the pictures” can “see out” at me – it’s uncanny, and it’s a wonder.

For every photo or video we keep, there are many we delete. We want to remember ourselves and our loved ones in our “best” moments, not when we may look awkward, unhappy, or off-guard.  “Smile!” is what we say when taking a picture.  But we are all a collection of moods and moments — noble and charming ones, and ones we’d rather forget.  If we truly love someone, it’s not just for the best moments, but the not-so-great ones as well.  That’s what love in the truest spiritual sense means.

[i]  https://www.garrisonkeillor.com/radio/twa-the-writers-almanac-for-august-19-2022/

[ii] https://www.vintag.es/2016/01/the-very-first-photographs-of-world-21.html

[iii] Looking at Photographs: 100 Pictures from the Collection of the Museum of Modern Art, John Szarkowski, pg. 14

[iv] https://www.garrisonkeillor.com/radio/twa-the-writers-almanac-for-august-19-2022/

Top Image: “Earliest Known Photos of People Smiling,”  https://petapixel.com/2015/04/15/the-earliest-known-photos-of-people-smiling/

Do You Have a Portable Paradise?

         I recently gave a sermon focusing on the famous verse from Psalm 23 in which the writer compares God to a shepherd who “… makes me lie down in green pastures…leads me beside still waters…(and) restores my soul.” 

The next day, a parishioner sent me this poet by Trinidadian writer, Roger Robinson:

“A Portable Paradise”

“And if I speak of Paradise,


then I’m speaking of my grandmother


who told me to carry it always


on my person, concealed, so


no one else would know but me.


That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.


And if life puts you under pressure,


trace its ridges in your pocket,


smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,


hum its anthem under your breath.


And if your stresses are sustained and daily,


get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,


hostel or hovel – find a lamp


and empty your paradise onto a desk:


your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.


Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope


of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.”

We seem to have inherited a strong imprint of such places from our hunting and gathering ancestors. If we live in a desert climate, “green pastures” and “still waters” give us a sense of safety and hope; if we live on a Caribbean island, it may be “white sands, green hills and fresh fish.”  Such places speak to us of life, rest, and restoration.

This past week, I asked friends where they go when they want to have such an experience.  Some say it’s a quiet place in their backyard.  Others say it’s a specific beach, park, or trail.  Many people will name places in Hawaii or the Sierras.  

We can carry such places with us in our imaginations.  As the poet says, such a place can become our own “portable paradise.”  We can go there in times of anxiety and uncertainty, when we are facing an important decision, or when we simply want to remember who we are.

Hospice counselors I know encourage their clients to identify and carry such “safe places” with them so they can imagine being there when feeling worn down by grief. One bilingual counselor told me that some of her Latino clients have never been to places like Hawaii or the Sierras, nor could they identify a safe place from personal experience.  She would encourage them to choose a color that might work, and they often chose blue.

For more than a decade, we’ve spent time every summer in the town of McCloud at the foot of Mt. Shasta.  There’s an old 9-hole golf course there at the edge of the pine forest.  I’ve played it many times by myself in the late afternoon and early evening when it’s just the course, the creek, the mountain, the deer, and me.  During COVID, if I was having a hard time sleeping, I’d play a round in my imagination. I would see myself preparing for and executing each shot, then walking patiently to the next one.  I didn’t keep score, and often fell asleep before finishing the round.

Calling such places to mind is like tasting delicious food – we can take our time, savoring each aspect of the image as it speaks to us.  Our egos may get impatient, nagging us about the urgent things we need to do.  But we can tell our busy minds we’ll be right back after a break.  When we take time to let our imagination become a servant to our soul, we can find those “paradise places” within that bring us back to life.

Top image: “Picnic in Paradise,” by Steve Barton; Lower image, “Deer Finding Lost Ball,” McCloud Golf Club

Lest We Forget

         This week our grandson’s Little League practice was at the neighborhood school.  Besides 5-year-old boys playing baseball, girls’ basketball and boys’ soccer teams were practicing.  Kids, parents, and grandparents were meandering around, chatting, and watching. Toddlers were on the playground equipment.  It felt normal.

And then it came to me: not too long ago, this scene would not have been possible. 

I remember I’d posted a piece about the playground and checked when I got home.  I found this from March 14, 2021:

This past Monday, I was driving past our neighborhood school at lunchtime and saw something I had not seen in a year: children playing.  Outdoors. On the school property. Lots of them.  On their own. They were chasing balls and chasing each other. Some were sitting in pairs on the grass, some were walking around on their own, and some were involved with games on the blacktop. In the 27 years we have lived in this neighborhood, I’ve gone by the school almost every day, but it’s been a year since I’ve seen children playing at recess…

COVID had shut down schools, playgrounds, and parks all over the world for a year.  When I saw that scene last year and realized we were getting back to “normal” I vowed to never take such “normal” scenes for granted again.

COVID is still out there, but almost no one is dying from it.  A few places still recommend masks.  Much of our life is “back to normal.” I have often forgotten what we went through.  But perhaps we should not forget too quickly how different our lives were.

         Just now, I opened my wallet and took out my battered vaccination card. In early February, 2021, a friend and I were able to get online appointments for some of the first vaccines being offered. On our scheduled Saturday, we drove two hours to Dodger Stadium.  We then spent four hours inching along in a long line of cars into the vast parking lot where the shots were being administered. Finally, we arrived at the place where a masked and gloved nurse approached us.  I rolled down my window and offered her my left arm. She gave me the injection and said, “Sir, you have been vaccinated.” I’ll never forget those words or what it felt like. I guess I don’t need to carry the card with me anymore, but I’m going to keep it as a reminder.

I remember reading David Brooks’ comment in the New York Times as COVID was ending in New York. He pledged he would never again let himself be impatient at a crowded bar while waiting to order a drink.  He is scheduled to speak in Santa Barbara this spring, and if I get a chance, I want to ask him if he’s been able to honor that commitment.

         I remember a column from the conservative commentator Peggy Noonan in the Wall Street Journal during the most desperate days of COVID.  At that point, we were all dependent on the “front-line workers” in fields, stores, delivery trucks, and hospitals who were keeping us alive at serious risk to themselves.  She said when the pandemic was over, any undocumented worker who had been on those front lines should be given a guaranteed path to citizenship.  I have not seen her or anyone mention that issue since.  If I ever bump into her – maybe at a crowded bar in New York? — I will ask her if she still favors that position. 

In many ways, life is back to normal. But I don’t want to forget what we went through. I don’t want to forget how grateful we can be for where we are now.  I don’t want to forget those who risked their lives to keep us safe, nor ever lose our gratitude for those who developed the vaccine. 

It’s a beautiful thing to see kids playing baseball outdoors.

“The Six Things that Matter Most”

(Dear Reader: I’ve been involved in a situation recently that reminded me of this post I published two years ago. I’ve revised it a bit and am sharing it with you now in the hope you find it useful.)

There often comes a time when a family is told their loved one has just a few hours or days left before dying.  It can be an agonizing time of not knowing what to do other than wait.   The loved one may still be able to communicate or, more often, is sleeping much of time.  What do you do when “there’s nothing more to be done”? Ira Byock, a leading physician in contemporary hospice and palliative medicine, came up with a helpful resource for such times.  He would take his prescription notepad and write four phrases: “Please forgive me. I forgive you. I love you. Thank you.” He would give that to a family member and invite them to consider if any of those statements would be appropriate to say to their loved one.  He wrote an influential book on the transformative and healing experiences he witnessed arising from people using these simple statements.  As the book became popular, two more were added: “Goodbye” and “I am proud of you.” The values represented in these statements — forgiveness, love, gratitude, and acknowledging the cycles of life — are universally present in the great spiritual traditions. When I was at Hospice of Santa Barbara, we took those six statements and had them printed on business cards.  Our staff and volunteers could then give them to families when appropriate.  I began to carry some in my wallet, a practice I’ve continued for more than a decade. Six Things I was grateful to have the card when my father was dying. He was in his last days at a nursing home. My two sisters and I used the list as a prompt for talking to him. He was no longer responsive, but it felt like the right thing to do. Maybe he heard us or maybe not.  Maybe he could sense what we meant through tone or feeling. Or maybe it was just for us. “Dad, please forgive me for the sleepless nights I gave you as a teenager.” “There were times when I was growing up when I was afraid of your anger.  I knew you were under a lot of pressure and loved us, but it was still scary. I forgive you.” “Thank you for providing for us, encouraging us and believing in us.” “For the way you worked so hard to honor mom and provide for us, for the integrity and honesty with which you lived your life, and for your service to our country during the war – we are proud of you.”  Dad wasn’t from a generation when many men would say “I love you.”  But we knew he loved us.  It was easy for each of us to say, “I love you, Dad.” The “Goodbye” statement can be tricky.  It can be tempting to say it to have some closure, but it may be too early.  (I remember one family had asked a harpist to play in the room; the patient woke up and said, “Get that music out of here…I’m not ready for the angels yet!”) But if, say, a family member is leaving town or death is clearly imminent, then “Goodbye” can be fitting. As I did presentations on hospice in the community, I would pass these cards out.  People would later tell me how helpful they were. But I also knew what everyone who works in hospice knows…the work is not just about the dying, but also about the living.  Whether dad was fully aware of what we were saying, it gave us closure. The list can also be helpful after a death when we didn’t have an opportunity to speak the words in person. We can write a letter to the person using the list as possible prompts.  We can then save the letter just for ourselves. Or we can take it to a place we associate with the person, including a gravesite, and read it.  When it’s served its purpose, we can keep it or create a simple ritual and burn it. “Six Things” can also be valuable when death is not on the horizon. Roughly half of Americans die with some form of hospice care, which means there may be time for meaningful bedside moments.  It also means the other half of us will die without such an opportunity – heart attacks, strokes, accidents, etc.  If these are the six things that matter most, why wait for a moment that we may never have?  Why not use them when we are alive and well? As time went on, I’ve found the “Six Things” a good way to take inventory from time to time in my own life on occasions like anniversaries and birthdays. Is there someone I want to say these words to now since there’s no guarantee I’ll have a chance in the future?  Or maybe take one each day, and say it to someone during the day if the time feels right? It doesn’t have to be a dramatic act, just a sincere one.  What do we have to lose? Once we do it, we often experience a sense of freedom.

Photo: UCSB lagoon

.

The Mysteries of Prayer

Last year I visited the Getty Villa in Malibu. This is Mr. Getty’s effort to recreate his own lavish Roman residence on the California coast. I spent two hours there. I read about the effort and expense used to create the buildings, gardens, and galleries. But it left me feeling empty. I’ve lost interest in seeing monuments emperors and billionaires build to celebrate themselves and their accomplishments. 

But in one of the gardens, I came across this statue, “Woman Praying”:

I took note of the posture, then looked closely at the face:

I was fascinated.  And puzzled.  Why would this interest me?  There’s nothing remarkable in her expression – it seems almost blank. But after standing there a while, I realized I wasn’t drawn to the sculpture itself.  Instead, I found it raised questions for me: What would this anonymous Roman woman’s inner experience have been like?  What was she thinking? What was she feeling? Was she using a formula she had been taught or was she improvising?  Was her prayer about some critical decision, or just an ordinary part of her day?

            I could Google around and probably get specific answers to my questions.  But I didn’t want to answer the questions as much as tend them – letting them draw me into my own reflections on the experience of prayer.

            Some might think I should be an expert.  For over 40 years I have been studying, reading, reciting, hearing, and composing prayers drawn from 3,000 years of Western traditions.  I’ve been at Buddhist retreats focusing on meditation and “Metta” prayers. I’ve attended Native American ceremonies, where ancestors and the Creator are honored.  I had no clue as to what might have been in this woman’s mind and heart. Yet somehow, I felt a kinship.

            This statue came back to me recently after reading, “When I Prayed to Buddha, God was Listening,” an article by a woman named Sida Lei.  Ms. Lei was raised as a Buddhist in Cambodia. At age 10, the Khmer Rouge came into her city and expelled the residents. She writes, “When the Khmer Rouge split my family apart, sending me away to a child labor camp, my mother knelt over me and whispered, “If ever you are in trouble, Sida, pray to God. He will help you.” Of course, the god I pictured was the great stone statue of Buddha. There were no other gods I knew.” Her mother died of starvation and her father was taken away, never to be seen again.  She became responsible for her four siblings, and they were incarcerated in the countryside.

            Eventually, she and her siblings decided to attempt an escape. They fled into the jungle and came across an abandoned temple with a broken statue of Buddha. Drawn to the statue, she prayed for guidance. She felt prompted to flee to Vietnam with her siblings. So began a perilous journey. Eventually, they arrived at a refugee camp in Thailand and she was filled with gratitude. 

That first night she heard a song in the distance, “Amazing Grace.”  The next day she went into town to discover where the music had come from.  She was directed to a church.  She asked some women there if they had been the ones singing and they said they were.  They told her they sang praises to God daily. She began attending.  Eventually, she and her siblings were able to come to the U.S., sponsored by a Catholic church in upstate New York.  She is now a clinical microbiologist in Virginia.

            Sida Lei prayed for guidance to Buddha, who was the divine image her culture and mother had given her. Time and again she felt she received guidance.  The focus of her prayer changed when she found herself in another culture, [i]but she did not feel she had to disown one to embrace the other.  She had been in a time of desperate need, reached out as best as she could, and eventually experienced deliverance.

A deep tenet in Western traditions is a conviction that there is one God, and no other images or concepts should be worshipped.  One should be very careful to pray for appropriate things in an appropriate way.  I understand the context of this belief.  But if a human being of any culture is reaching out to an unseen presence with all their heart — might that be enough?

My spiritual awakening began in my early 20s in a time of crisis.  At that age, I didn’t believe in anything beyond what I could see and understand rationally. But I was desperate.  I decided to pray.  What did I pray? I don’t remember.   Maybe I made it up or maybe I tried to recite something I’d heard as a child.  Three days later I became aware that I wasn’t as desperately afraid as I had been that night, and something like a calm point of light had entered my darkness. No claims were made on me to take a specific action or adopt a particular belief – what I’d been given was a pure gift.  Several years later I began attending a church and learning all the different words, images, forms, and experiences one can use in praying.  I am aware of the countless questions raised over the centuries, like “Why are some prayers answered and some not?” And I understand why many people are skeptical about prayer.  But I don’t let my lack of understanding stop me from praying.

I don’t know what this Roman woman experienced, what forces were at play in Sida Lei’s escape, or what exactly happened to me many years ago.  It’s a mystery. But I have a feeling that it’s more about sincerity and an open heart than having the right form.  And I know the outcome can be amazing.

(Prior posts on prayer include Turning Toward the Serene Light and ACTS: A Simple Form for Personal Prayer)

NOTE: This piece was written without assistance from any Chatbots or A.I. programs. The author has been tempted by emails encouraging him to let a computer “write your blog for you,’ but so far, he has refused to accept such help. He’d rather do the work himself and create something flawed than have a “superior product” created by a sophisticated device.

[i] When I Prayed to Buddha, God was Listening

Ways to Greet the Morning

On a recent morning walk, I came upon a neighbor who was patiently waiting for his small dog to finish a thorough sniffing-inventory of a strip of ground cover along a popular sidewalk.

“There must be so much vital information there,” I said.

“They say it’s the equivalent of reading a morning newspaper,” he said.

Dogs know it’s wise to start your day by focusing on what’s important.

I’ve heard that generations ago, the Bible was the only book many people had in their house, which they would read every morning.  In time, that was replaced by newspapers.  Then television.  Then email. Now, for many of us, it’s social media.

As we’ve become more attached to our devices as our first focus of attention, some thoughtful people have encouraged us to consider alternatives.  “Sky before screens” is one suggested mantra…go outside and gaze at the stars before picking up a phone or tablet. 

Sometimes, before we arise, we can just say, “Thank you” for the miracle of being alive.

One colleague said if he wakes up while it is still dark, he listens for the first bird song outside his window.  Once some brave soul breaks the silence, others join in. He likes paying respects to the one who had the courage to start the concert.

I have a Jewish friend who begins each day doing yoga while reciting ancient morning prayers.

The first Muslim city I ever visited was Fez, Morocco.  I wasn’t used to hearing Arabic, so when the local muezzin called the faithful to morning prayers from the tower as the sun rose, it sounded a bit jarring. But I became fond of it. There’s a melancholy beauty in the recitation, a soulful invitation to begin our day with gratitude and focus.

I’ve attended numerous retreats at St. Andrew’s Abbey, a Benedictine monastery south of Lancaster.  The chapel bell rings at 6 AM to call everyone to the first service, known as Vigils (Type-A early risers like the Trappists begin at 3:15 AM). Sometimes I’ve heard the bell and gone back to sleep.  But other times I’ve gotten dressed and made my way out the door. Walking in silence to a chapel in the desert as evening gives way to daylight while being summoned by chanted praise is always worth the effort.

I knew a mother of young children so desperate to start her day with prayer that she would lock herself in the bathroom at 5 AM, leaving her husband to manage the chaos for just enough time so she could center herself.

Maybe the instinct to start the day with a meaningful focus lies deep within us.

I’ve always been fascinated by the Gelada Baboons in Africa.  They wake up before dawn and find a place to greet the sun in silence.  As described by photographer Simone Sbaraglia, they do it “just to wallow in the sun’s golden light.”

Photos: Simone Sbaraglia, Caters News Agency, https://www.slrlounge.com/golden-hour-worshipped-photographers-gelada-baboons-alike/

Seeing People Like Trees

Dr. Michael Kearney is a skilled hospice physician, gifted writer, former colleague, and treasured friend.[i]  He recently posted this:

“Answering a question about how we can judge ourselves less harshly, Ram Dass writes:  Part of it is observing oneself more impersonally… When you go into the woods and look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent, and some are straight, and some of them are evergreens, and some of them are whatever. And you look at the tree and you allow it. You see why it is the way it is. You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way. And you don’t get all emotional about it. You just allow it. You appreciate the tree.

The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying, “ You’re too this, or I’m too this.” That judging mind comes in.  And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are.”

I find this a helpful metaphor.  It is common to look at how someone appears, how they present themselves, and how they behave and put them in categories of good or bad, respectable or not.  We do this to ourselves as well. Our inner critic can be fierce in judging who we are, what we’ve done, and what we should have done.

Thinking of people like trees can give us an alternative.

Look at this Eastern Redbud tree in our backyard:

Somebody looking at it will assume that the trunk is curved to the right because that is the direction in which the sun shines into our yard.  That is correct. But I know more about its history.   

We planted it ten years ago and it had a hard time getting established. The top of the trunk was often bending so far following the sun that it was in danger of falling over and having its roots upended. We tried bracing with different methods — vertical stakes and ground anchors — but the growing center branch was always veering perilously to the right.  One day a gardener pointed out that the bracing was no longer helping. The tree had become dependent on external support and was not developing its own root system. We removed the bracing.  After one strong windstorm, the tree bent completely over, and the tip was touching the ground – we didn’t know if it would recover. But it did.  In time, the roots became established and created the strong support it needed. It now reaches in two directions: one continues orienting toward the sun while the other grows vertically, adding balance to the whole. It may not win “Best of Show” in a horticultural contest, but when I look at it, I see a living presence that has had to struggle to survive and has succeeded.

So it is with many of our fellow human beings.

Early in my ministry, I felt a calling to do memorial services, regardless of whether I had known the person or if they had any religious affiliation. 

We were living in the small, rural community of Wapato, Washington, when I got a call from the local mortician.  He asked me to do a graveside service for a man who had no known family and just a few friends.   I agreed.  I met with the friends to gain a sense of the man’s life, chose a few relevant Scripture passages, then led the service.  A half-dozen people were present.  No impressive obituaries were published, nor were any soaring eulogies given. But like a tree that had faced many challenges, this man had endured a great deal.  I remember feeling a sacred presence as we honored him.

We know trees benefit from skillful pruning.  A good arborist sees each tree in its unique environment and shapes it to help it flourish.  The same is true for loving parents, dedicated teachers, insightful mentors, and caring friends.

Following a spiritual path can be an act in which we open ourselves to being pruned by the wisdom and practices that a tradition gives us. As the saying goes, “God meets us where we are but doesn’t leave us there.” 

A friend of mine is a retired police captain.  He told me that a turning point in his career was when he began seeing people with compassion instead of judgment.  And his life was profoundly influenced by Father Gregory Boyle, the founder of Homeboy Industries, who has spent decades working with at-risk youth, convicted felons, gang members, and their families.[ii]  Father Boyle has said, “I choose to stand in awe at the burdens carried by the poor rather than standing in judgment about how they carry them.”

Take a close look at the oak that Michael photographed while hiking the San Ysidro Creek:

How many twists and turns has it made while seeking the life-giving sun?  What a story it could tell.

Oak Photo: Dr. Kearney

[i] To see Michael’s writings and meditations, go to https://www.michaelkearneymd.com  Michael’s wife, Radhule Weineger, is a popular mindfulness teacher whose work can be seen at https://www.radhuleweiningerphd.com

[ii] https://homeboyindustries.org

Do Your Best and Let It Go

            Let’s talk about pressure and responsibility.

            Last year I was listening to a baseball broadcast on the radio.  The announcer told a story about perhaps the greatest “closer” of all time, Mariano Rivera of the Yankees.  In baseball, the job of a “closer” is to come in to pitch toward the end of the game when his team is ahead by a narrow margin and not let the other team score, “saving” the game.  Between 1995 and 2013, Rivera was asked to do that 1,115 times. He succeeded 734 times and failed only 80.[i] He was selected for the All-Star team 13 times and elected to the Hall of Fame in an unanimous vote. Rivera was once asked how he could live with the intense pressure of being a closer day after day, year after year. He said he did everything he could to throw each pitch to the best of his ability, but once it left his hand, he assumed he’d done his part – what happened next was beyond his control.

            I find this perspective to be valuable when thinking about how we live our lives.

            Take parenting.  You want the best for your children.  You provide for them, guide them, lose sleep over them, and do all you can to prepare them for life.  You will always love them and be concerned for them. But once they go out the door, they face a world beyond your control. Free will, chance happenings, and unexpected events will shape them. 

            Or how about work?  Every time I’ve left a job I cared about, I hoped the organization and people would do well.  Sometimes that happened and sometimes it did not.  I felt sadness when things did not go well, but, taking Rivera’s advice, I remind myself I gave it my best when I was there and what happened after that is beyond my control.

            The same can be true for many decisions we make, including deciding to move to someplace new or what we do with our money.  As Kierkegaard said, we tend to evaluate our lives by looking backward at the decisions we have made – after we know how it all turned out. But we did not know then what we know now.  We have to live life forward, without knowing all the facts.

            In spiritual traditions, we can find similar stories.

            Moses takes his people from bondage to within sight of the promised land, yet dies before they cross over.  But he had done all he was asked to do.

            One of Jesus’ last recorded words was, “It is finished.” How could that be, a retreat leader once asked — if he came to feed the hungry, give sight to the blind, and liberate the oppressed, so much suffering was still present in the world when he died; how can he say, “It is finished?”  The leader concluded: because the specific task God had given him to do was finished. It would be up to his followers to take the work forward.

            One of the stories about the death of Buddha describes how, in his 80s, he fell ill after eating spoiled pork.  The man who cooked the food was overcome with sorrow. But Buddha told him not to feel that way.  What had happened was a gift, because Buddha was ready to die and move into the next realm.  He left behind a vast treasury of teaching, and that was enough.

            Let’s do our best with the responsibilities we’ve been given. But let’s also recognize there is only so much we can do.  Once the ball leaves our hand, we can be at peace.

[i] For folks who care about baseball statistics, Rivera had 652 saves and 82 wins for a total of 734.  He had 80 “blown saves” and the rest were no decisions.

Are Natural Disasters Sending Us a Message?

Earlier this week an intense storm moved through California. My community experienced historic levels of intense rainfall, much as it had five years ago; roads were closed, creeks overflowed, and thousands of people had to evacuate.  As I followed the news reports, I couldn’t help but notice a pattern in the language used to describe it. Here are some examples (italics added):

  • “Southern California faces another day of punishing rains…” (LA Times)[i]
  • “…the latest in a series of atmospheric rivers to pound the state…” (LA Times)[ii]
  • “The string of storms pummeling California has proved catastrophic…” (NYTimes)[iii]
  • “In Los Angeles, four people escaped after a sinkhole swallowed two cars on Monday night…” (NPR)[iv]
  • “We need to be nicer with Mother Nature, because Mother Nature is not happy with us…”  (Ellen de Generes’ tweet cited in NPR Online.)[v]

What does this language suggest?  Does rain “punish” people like an angry parent?  Does a storm “pound” an entire state as if it’s in a rage?  A boxer “pummels” an opponent to subdue, demoralize and defeat him – was that why this atmospheric river came our way?  Whales “swallow” people in the Pinocchio and Jonah stories — but does asphalt do that?  And does “Mother Nature” send an intense torrent of muddy water down a hillside to show us that she is “not happy”?

Of course, the rational answer to these questions is “no.”  The language expresses in dramatic terms what severe weather can feel like when we experience it – it’s our human imagination at work. Weather events are not personal acts of cosmic vengeance but are explainable by the laws of physics. 

And yet I understand why such language feels appropriate.

I vividly remember in January of 2018 when, for the first time, three of us were allowed to pass through police barricades and evacuated neighborhoods to view the impact of the debris flow on our 26-acre retreat center in Montecito just days before.  The mud was deep, viscous, and dangerous — it would pull your rubber knee boots off your leg if you stepped in the wrong spot.  Boulders, mud, crunched lumber and twisted oak trees were everywhere. Some of our large buildings had completely disappeared.  It was stunning, hard to fathom, and an unforgettable reminder of how fragile life is. Somewhere deep in my primal instincts, it felt personal – like a mighty, conscious force was displaying its power to make a point.

After returning home, I began thinking about stories our ancestors told to make sense of such destruction.  Noah’s ark came to mind.  I reread it. 

Now the earth was corrupt in God’s sight, and the earth was filled with violence. And God saw that the earth was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted its ways upon the earth. And God said to Noah, “I have determined to make an end of all flesh, for the earth is filled with violence because of them; now I am going to destroy them along with the earth.[vi]

Sounds like the reason the flood happened is that the divine force felt a need to “punish,” “pound,” and “pummel” the corrupt and violent human race, letting the seas “swallow” them all up –because the Holy One was not exactly “happy with us.”

I thought about that.  I understood it made sense generations long ago in a prescientific world, but it doesn’t seem plausible to me today.  Indeed, the more we learned about debris flows, it became clear that these are routine geological occurrences that have been going on for thousands of years, long before people were living here.  Besides, I don’t believe in a punishing God. The storm was not a moral or spiritual event but a phenomenon explainable through the natural sciences. 

But I kept pondering the issue. I wondered: “Was human behavior a contributing cause to the severity of this event due to our complicity in global warming?”  We can’t blame a Creator or Mother Nature or physics for climate change – that’s on us, on our ignorance, willfulness, stubbornness, and greed.  The dramatic intensity of the storm was not an expression of divine judgment but, to some degree, a natural consequence of our past actions. So, if there is a moral lesson carried in the increasing intensity of severe weather events and fires, it’s not about divine intent or a weather system with emotional issues – it’s our selfish behavior coming back to haunt us.  We need to be humbled.  And we need to take responsibility for our mistakes.

Several weeks later, I was able to return to the property and walk it again.  Bulldozers, backhoes, trucks, and work crews were clearing the wreckage of the buildings and trees.  The magnitude of what had happened was still astounding.  But in many places, green shoots were coming up from the ground. Life was regenerating.  Let’s hope the lessons being offered us are not forgotten.

Art work: Noah and the Dove, 13th century, Monreale Cathedral, Sicily

[i] https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2023-01-10/storm-southern-california-los-angeles

[ii] https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2023-01-10/storm-southern-california-los-angeles

[iii] NY Times. Online, Jan 10, 2023

[iv] NPR Online, January 10, 2023

[v] Degeneres Tweet, NPR Online, January 10, 2023

[vi] Genesis 6: 11-13

Friction, Character and Home-Cooked Meals

            Some years ago, I heard of one family’s coming-of-age ritual for children on their 12th birthday: prepare and serve a multi-course dinner for the family. Not by micro-waving or Grub-hubbing but by doing it all from scratch.  Deciding on a menu. Making a list of ingredients and buying them.  Setting the table.  Prepping and cooking each dish. Planning it all so everything would be ready at the right time.  Announcing, “Dinner is ready” and calling everyone to the table.  Then doing the clean-up after everyone is done.

            This was expected of each child, regardless of gender.

            I doubt if I would have wanted to do that when I was a kid.  It would involve giving up highly productive activities I preferred – like watching cartoons and sitcoms.  It would require listening, observing, experimenting, and being patient.  I might very well experience what we can call “friction”– the discomfort we experience when we are doing something difficult.

            My use of the word “friction” comes from a philosopher of technology, Albert Borgmann.  I encountered him and his work twenty years ago when I did a sabbatical project exploring how digital technology was changing personal life and spiritual practices.  Borgmann observed how digital devices often reduce friction in our life.  Instead of getting up and having to do something that may take effort and skill, a device invites us to avoid the effort – the friction — and instead, we tap a button or give a voice command.   Borgmann’s point is that the more and more we expect a friction-free life as the way things are supposed to be, our capacity to deal with friction when we encounter it diminishes.  He also believes the way in which we handle friction in daily tasks carries over to the formation of our character and capacity for nurturing interpersonal relationships.

            I remember a time when our family was practicing having a “digital sabbath day” – one day a week when we would not turn the computer on.  (This was long long ago in a galaxy far far away — before smartphones and tablets competed with oxygen and water as essential for moment-by-moment survival.)  My six-year-old daughter was bored. She begged me to let her turn on the computer and play a game. I told her we were taking a day off from using the computer.  Why not, instead, play with a favorite neighborhood friend of hers?

“We had a fight on Friday”, she said.

“Well, you could call her and try to get over it,” I said.  She fumed.  But after minutes and minutes of misery, she decided to call.  They got together, cautiously at first. But soon they became lost in play which continued for two hours. They faced the friction of interpersonal issues and got through them.  It would have been easier to be digitally distracted — and alone.  But working through the friction led to a renewed relationship.

Whether it’s marriage, family, or the workplace, dealing with other people often involves some discomfort – some friction – and it takes patience and determination to see if things can be worked out. The more digital technology leads us to expect a friction-free life, the less and less able we will be to deal with other people — those pesky humans just don’t seem to respond to our desires as quickly and easily as our beloved devices.

            My wife spent many years teaching first graders, who can become frustrated learning a new skill. She would tell them to say to themselves: “I can do difficult things.”  In a sense, it’s saying, “I can bear the friction I experience as I learn to master something new or challenging.”  And developing our will and stamina to do that strengthens our character.

            Huston Smith said that one of the shortcomings of our contemporary culture’s understanding of “spirituality” is that we often make it too easy and self-serving.  Spirituality becomes something like a buffet table – we walk by displays of various ideas and practices and put on our plates what appeals to us at the moment.  In doing so, we may avoid anything that is difficult.  But the great global traditions include practices (Ramadan, High Holy Days, Lent, vision quests, etc.)  that ask us to take on difficult things, like fasting, repentance, and acts of service.  Our ego may resist, but our soul welcomes the challenges as the means to a more personal strength and maturity. The traditions, Smith said, “have traction.”   

            I’ve often thought of that family’s dinner preparation ritual. Imagine turning 12 and, for the rest of your life, having the confidence and skill to feed yourself and others. How strong and free you would feel.

Image: “Mickey Mouse and Goofy: Thanksgiving Dinner,” #776, Children’s Book Illustration, Whitman, c. 1970s (apparently the guest on the right is a turkey who’s been invited to share in a vegetarian banquet instead of being the main dish.)