spirituality – Page 11 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

Rewriting Our Life Stories

This from the 1984 film, The Natural:

Iris: You know, I believe we have two lives.

Roy: What do you mean?

Iris: The life we learn with and the life we live with after that.

And this from David Brooks’ recent column in the New York Times:

“I believe most of us tell a story about our lives and then come to live within that story. You can’t know who you are unless you know how to tell a coherent story about yourself. You can know what to do next only if you know what story you are a part of. “A man is always a teller of tales,” the philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre observed. “He lives surrounded by his stories and the stories of others, he sees everything that happens to him through them, and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story.”[i]

When I was young, I imagined my life story would be a hero’s tale. I was going to play shortstop for the Dodgers. After watching Star Trek episodes, I decided I’d be an astrophysicist. Later I knew I was destined to be a successful lawyer in San Francisco.

I loved sports but my career peaked in Little League.

I loved the idea of being a space scientist but wasn’t good enough at math.

I did do a year of law school. Meanwhile, I fell in love, took a leave of absence, got married, became a father, had a spiritual awakening, and went in a career direction I would have never imagined.

Life happens.

I certainly have had some successes along the way. I have also learned I could overestimate my abilities. I learned that some experiences in life can almost break you. I learned that some of life’s blessings must be gained through hard work, discipline and endurance. At the same time, unearned and unexpected blessings can come out of the blue and become signs of grace.

I have often thought of what Iris said: “We have two lives…the life we learn with and the life we live with after that.”

For years I’ve been privileged to listen to people share at what point they recognized that the heroic, storybook lives they envisioned when they were younger were no longer valid, and how they have been rewriting their life story ever since.

I have heard David Brooks speak about his own two-lives journey. In his 50s, he was at the peak of his professional career in journalism. He had power and influence. But he went through a divorce and found himself feeling lost and empty. He realized the life of the rich and powerful in New York and D.C., which had seemed so exciting for so long, now seemed empty and dull. He began seeking a new direction and new narrative for his life story. He started going to small towns and neighborhoods throughout America, looking for people who have found meaning in life. He met such people from all walks of life and all kinds of neighborhoods. Their lives were modest by the standards of the rich and powerful. But these people had a humility that gave them a sense of peace. They had also found ways to serve other people – troubled teens, children caught in rough neighborhoods, and isolated neighbors. He discovered these people have an inner light, something he did not have. His “second life” began.

Life keeps going and our stories keep evolving.

When we are composing our life stories, we may be tempted to go back and erase what’s happened to us. But there’s no “delete” key for our past. We can, however, decide how to incorporate our past into the story we are creating every day.

The Natural begins with Roy and Iris as naïve teenagers in Nebraska who expect to marry after he begins his baseball career. He leaves for Chicago for his big chance. But he misjudges the intentions of a woman on a train and never makes it to the tryout. Roy and Iris lose contact. Years later they find each other. He has returned to baseball for one last chance and becomes a star. She is a single mom. The “two-lives’ conversation takes place in a hospital room where Roy is recovering from an injury, hoping to be strong enough to play in one last playoff game. As it turns out, Roy does play and has his moment of glory. They reunite and return to Nebraska to raise their son and live happily ever after.

Some peoples’ stories turn out like that. But often our lives become something more complicated, and don’t fit the pattern of story-book endings. Instead, they become stories that are far richer.

[i] https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/21/opinion/elon-musk-ambition.html

Lead image courtesy of originalfilmart.com

The scene can be viewed at https://youtu.be/2UpNJlx0EF0?feature=shared.

David Brooks created “Weavers,” a nonprofit dedicated to sharing the stories of the people who are living the kind of lives that inspired him: https://weavers.org

Holding On

Recently I have found trees and plants enticing me to behold them. First it was an oak tree in my backyard … then a nasturtium on a golf course. It happened again this week.

I was taking a stroll in Los Osos near Morro Bay and noticed these plants. I stopped to look. What struck me is how they have had to adapt to what must be frequent, strong winds off the bay. They have had to grow off-center, leaning inland; but they have endured.

As I stood there, a memory arose. More than thirty years ago I was in the living room of a parishioner in rural Washington. She and her husband had come from Germany after World War 2 to make a new life in America. They had purchased a farm and worked hard to make it productive. Then tragedy struck – at age 12, their only son died in a tractor accident on their farm. This happened several years before I came to town.

On the day I came for a routine visit, the Desert Storm campaign had begun in Iraq. People across town were transfixed by news coverage which showed constant flashes of light and explosions over Bagdhad. As I sat down in the living room and began to make conversation, I asked, “So what do you think about what’s going on in Iraq?”

“Oh, Pastor Steve, when I tried to watch the news, I began to cry,” she said. “I was five years old in Germany when the bombing of our city began. I remember the ground shaking and buildings falling and running through the streets holding my mother’s hand and crying… I know people are cheering…but…Pastor Steve…they don’t know what it’s like to be a child and have your city bombed.”

I think this story came to me as a reminder that some people endure great hardship – far beyond anything I’ve known; their life has been shaped by constant forces pushing them away from what they hoped their life would be. But somehow they survive — they hang on.

Father Gregory Boyle, who has become a legend working in the barrios of East Los Angeles, 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.”

We never know what hardships people may be bearing.

Prior Posts:

Seeing People Like Trees

The Intrinsic Power of Veriditas

Learning from the Redwoods

A Time to Reset and Renew

In 2008, I started a new chapter in my professional life when I became Executive Director of Hospice of Santa Barbara. One of my new duties was to build relationships with various groups, organizations, and spiritual communities to let them know about our mission and services.

Another responsibility was to make presentations that would encourage people to discuss and complete their Advanced Directives for Healthcare. This not only makes it easier for our families in case of an emergency but also helps us reflect on what is important in life. That is not always an easy conversation to enter – it brings up thoughts that we often tend to avoid.

During my second year, a rabbi who led a small Jewish congregation in nearby Montecito invited me to attend their Rosh Hashana services. As the service unfolded, I was stunned by the ancient prayers and readings – they were calling us to ponder the fact that any one of us might die in the coming year and, if that is true, how should we reorder our life in the time remaining? I thought, “This is exactly what those of us in hospice work try to do.”

This experience came to mind as I read an article this week in the New York Times, “Rosh Hashana Can Change Your Life (Even if You’re Not Jewish).”[i] The author is a professor of psychology, Dave DeSteno, who teaches at Northeastern University. Here’s it is:

Celebrating a new year — as Jews the world over will do this week, when Rosh Hashana begins on Friday at sunset — is all about making changes. It’s a time for new beginnings, for wiping the slate clean and starting over from scratch. In that spirit, on Rosh Hashana Jews say prayers and listen to readings that celebrate the creation of the world and of human life.

But Rosh Hashana also strikes a different, seemingly discordant note. Unlike so many other New Year’s traditions, the Jewish holiday asks those who observe it to contemplate death. The liturgy includes the recitation of a poem, the Unetaneh Tokef, part of which is meant to remind Jews that their lives might not last as long as they’d hope or expect. “Who will live and who will die?” the poem asks. “Who will live out their allotted time and who will depart before their time?”[ii]

And we’re not talking about a gentle death at the end of a reasonably long life; we’re talking about misfortunes and tragedies that can cut any of our lives short. “Who shall perish by water and who by fire,” the poem continues, “Who by sword and who by wild beast / Who by famine and who by thirst / Who by earthquake and who by plague?”

This focus on death might seem misplaced, bringing gloom to the party. But as a research scientist who studies the psychological effects of spiritual practices, I believe there is a good reason for it: Contemplating death helps people make decisions about their future that bring them more happiness. This is an insight about human nature that the rites of Rosh Hashana capture especially well, but it’s one that people of any faith (or no faith at all) can benefit from.

When planning for the future, people typically focus on things that they think will make them happy. But there’s a problem: Most people don’t usually know what will truly make them happy — at least not until they are older. Across the globe, research shows, people’s happiness tends to follow a U-shaped pattern through life: Happiness starts decreasing in one’s 20s, hits its nadir around age 50 and then slowly rises through one’s 70s and 80s, until and unless significant health issues set in.

Why the turnaround at 50? That’s when people typically start to feel their mortality. Bones and joints begin to creak. Skin starts to sag. And visits to the doctor become more frequent and pressing. Death, hopefully, is still a good ways off, but it’s visible on the horizon.

You might think this morbid prospect would further decrease contentment, but it ends up having the opposite effect. Why? Because it forces us to focus on the things in life that actually bring us more happiness. Research by the Stanford psychologist Laura Carstensen has shown that as we age, we move from caring most about our careers, status and material possessions to caring most about connecting with those we love, finding meaning in life and performing service to others.

That’s a wise move. When people in the Western world want to be happier, research shows, they tend to focus on individual pursuits. But that same research confirms that this strategy doesn’t work well: Pursuing happiness through social connection and service to others is a more reliable route.

Of course, you don’t have to be old to confront death. During the SARS outbreak and the Covid pandemic, younger adults changed what they valued, research showed. When death suddenly seemed possible for anyone, even those in the prime of their lives, younger people’s opinions about how best to live suddenly began to look like those of seniors: They turned toward family and friends, finding purpose in social connection and helping others.

You don’t even need to face something as drastic as a pandemic to experience some version of these changes. Research shows that simply asking people to imagine that they have less time left, as congregants do on Rosh Hashana, is sufficient.

Rosh Hashana hardly has a monopoly on this insight. Christian thinkers such as Thomas à Kempis and St. Ignatius of Loyola urged people to contemplate death before making important choices. Stoics like Marcus Aurelius argued that meditating on mortality helped people find more joy in daily life.

But the particular brilliance of Rosh Hashana is that it combines thoughts of death with a new year’s focus on a fresh start. As work by the behavioral scientist Katy Milkman and her colleagues has shown, temporal landmarks like New Year’s Day offer an effective opportunity for a psychological reset. They allow us to separate ourselves from past failures and imperfections — a break that not only prods us to consider new directions in life but also helps us make any changes more effectively.

There is a lesson and an opportunity here for everyone. Contemplate death next Jan. 1 (or whenever you celebrate the start of a new year). Any brief moments of unease will be well worth the payoff.

If you took such a time of reflection now, what would you leave behind and what new direction would you set?

Art work by Marc Chagall

[i] https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/13/opinion/rosh-hashana-death.html

[ii] Leonard Cohen created a very moving contemporary version of the poem, “Who By Fire?”, which can be found at https://youtu.be/251Blni2AE4?feature=shared

Learning from the Redwoods

This summer we were driving south on the 101 along the coast of Oregon and Northern California. We were passing through the “Avenue of the Giants” in the Humboldt Redwoods State Park and decided to stop for a break and view the trees. We came across this plaque:

Given a Chance, the Forest Will Endure

A natural coast Redwood forest is preserving itself through a nearly perfect recycling system. Most of the nutrients in the forest consist of living, then decaying plant and animal material.

As this material decomposes it provides nutrients for other living organisms.

Fallen trees account for as much as 40% of all organic material on the forest floor and many plants benefit from growing on these decaying nurse logs. Because redwood is an extremely long-lasting wood, the decay process may take centuries before all of a nurse log’s nutrients have re-entered the forest system.

Today this enduring forest will continue only if we as good land stewards allow it to.

Being uneducated in the way of forests, I never knew that fallen trees are a critical part of the redwood “nursery,” and that some trees may take centuries to patiently pass on the organic material that made their lives possible. The more I thought about it, the more I thought of parallels to our own human life cycle.

When we are young, we are nourished by those who are caring for us in the way of food, shelter, love, and guidance. We are unaware of our dependence on the “nursery” that supports us.

We grow into our teen years. We may find ourselves looking up at the adult trees around us and become determined to find our own way upward. We may think it will be easy to do.

We launch out on our own, finding a path to the sunlight that’s not blocked by the older trees. There’s lots of sap flowing, and we can be fearless in our ambitions and expectations.

Adulthood comes. We find times of satisfaction and accomplishment. We also experience storms or fires; we learn life is not without risk. At some point, we may begin to be as concerned about the younger saplings below us as the unconquered space above us.

Years pass. We realize we are approaching the age and height of our ancestors. We appreciate for the first time the hard work of becoming an elder. We now identify with all those older trees that were invisible to us when we were young. We are now one of them.

Maybe we survive and thrive for a long time. But at some point, we will fall to the forest floor. We’ve lost the lofty, open-sky perspective that we took for granted and now lie close to the ground where our life began. We realize we are part of a life cycle and our role is shifting – now it’s more about releasing our energy to the next generations than holding it just for ourselves. We may wonder: Will the saplings remember what we are doing for them, or will they, like us when we were young, take it all for granted?

A long period of time has passed, but it can seem like an instant. Did we appreciate it while we were living it?

We worry about the future of the forest. Will it survive the challenges to come?

Older redwoods pass on their organic material. Humans don’t have much carbon and nitrogen to offer. We can be nurtured by the lives and stories of our parents, mentors, and ancestors. We in turn try to pass on our awareness, hard-learned lessons, and love to the emerging generations. We want the best for the forest and are grateful to play our part, yet we also realize we are not masters of its fate.

“For everything, there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven…” (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

Photo from Dreamstime.com

Is Spiritual Discernment Like Listening to a Crystal Radio?

Recently I was in our backyard taking some early morning quiet time. In such moments, I try to be attentive to whatever may arise. At one point a phrase appeared unexpectedly: “crystal radios.” My first thought was images of ads from my childhood where someone is wearing antique headphones connected to a little device on a table — leaning forward and listening carefully.

I turned to Wikipedia and found this description:

A crystal radio receiver, also called a crystal set, is a simple radio receiver, popular in the early days of radio. It uses only the power of the received radio signal to produce sound, needing no external power. It is named for its most important component, a crystal detector, originally made from a piece of crystalline mineral such as galena. This component is now called a diode.

Crystal radios are the simplest type of radio receiver and can be made with a few inexpensive parts, such as a wire for an antenna, a coil of wire, a capacitor, a crystal detector, and earphones (because a crystal set has insufficient power for a loudspeaker). However, they are passive receivers, while other radios use an amplifier powered by current from a battery or wall outlet to make the radio signal louder. Thus, crystal sets produce rather weak sound and must be listened to with sensitive earphones, and can receive stations only within a limited range of the transmitter.^[4][i]

As I pondered this, I wondered if listening to a crystal radio is a metaphor for spiritual discernment…times when we are hoping for some guidance in a situation we are facing. I came up with some similarities:

You are seeking something that is present in the environment but invisible.
You don’t need external power. A crystal radio doesn’t depend on batteries, electrical power in your house, or your Wi-Fi router. With spiritual direction, it’s all within you and in your environment.
The most important element is the detector. When I am seeking inner guidance, I’m like a detective, searching for clues and hints.
A crystal radio doesn’t require expensive parts. When we are seeking out spiritual direction, we don’t need anything but humility, curiosity and awareness.
You need to listen carefully because the sound is faint. The nudges and hints we find when we are looking for answers in life require a calm and receptive mind.
In the beginning, you need instructions on how to build and use the radio. In the spiritual journey, friends or guides help us learn how to listen and interpret what we may experience.

Other ideas came to mind…

I’ve always appreciated Parker Palmer’s idea that your soul is shy, like a wild animal. If you want to encounter a deer in a forest and go crashing through the brush, the deer will flee. But if you find a place to be still where you can wait patiently, like sitting on the porch of a cabin in the woods, deer may come to you. For most of us, everyday life can include a lot of noise and commotion – from our devices, or others, or our busy inner life with its impulses, anxieties, and chatter. We need to do something like waiting respectfully in a forest.

I thought of the story involving the prophet Elijah. In a time of personal crisis, he retreated to a cave. After 40 days, he sensed the divine voice would speak to him. His initial expectation was that he would hear it as part of some dramatic events: a great wind, an earthquake, a fire. But instead, it came to him – as described by different translators — as “a still small voice,” “a sound of minute stillness,” “the sound of sheer silence,” or “a gentle and quiet whisper.” I love each variation. A voice that is small and still. A sound that is very close to silence. Silence all by itself that nevertheless communicates something. Or a barely audible whisper. I know many people who have experienced moments like this.[ii]

I also thought of my years at La Casa de Maria retreat center. People would come looking for personal guidance. But epiphanies and insights rarely came right away. It often took several days of being unplugged, resting, relaxing, and seeking out contemplative settings — on a solo hike, browsing our library, sitting under an oak tree, or meditating in one of the chapels.

I was also reminded of Paul Simon’s new album Seven Psalms, which originated several years ago when he was awakened at 3:30 in the morning feeling as if he was being summoned. He describes his creative process as more like receiving prompts from beyond his awareness than coming from his own intentions.[iii]

If our crystal set picks up a local radio station, we can expect it to identify itself from time to time. With spiritual direction, how do we know any message we receive might have a divine origin? We may never know for certain. But a simple test is this: is it pointing us in a direction of ethical action, personal responsibility, and loving our neighbor? That may be a positive indicator.

I recently went online and bought a crystal radio kit for $12. It’s being shipped to me. I’m uncertain whether I’ll be able to build it – concentrating carefully on building small mechanical things has never been my gift. But I’ll give it a try. In the meantime, I plan to keep taking that morning quiet time and listen carefully for any message that may be coming my way.

A devout seeker.

“A Family Listening to a Crystal Radio in the 20s”[iv] Possibly an early example of crystal aided group spiritual direction

[i] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crystal_radio

[ii] 1 Kings 19:12; translations from The King James Bible, Robert Alter’s The Prophets, the NRSV, and The Message

[iii] My blog post on his album is at https://drjsb.com/2023/07/08/paul-simons-seven-psalms/

[iv] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crystal_radio

The “Barbie” Movie and Our Search for Meaning in Life

When I first heard there was a “Barbie” movie coming this summer, I had zero interest in seeing it. But then I started reading reviews and heard positive reports from friends. My wife and I saw it yesterday.

We raised three daughters with a 13-year span between the oldest and the youngest. We experienced different fads in toys: Beanie Babies, My Little Pony, and Cabbage Patch dolls among others. Each of these had a season of popularity. But one doll held pride of place over time: Barbie. Our oldest daughter passed down her collection to the younger two, and they added to it. We ended up with an extensive collection. As our youngest went off to college, we stored the “Barbie Box” in the garage. Several times we debated giving them away. But hearing the news we were going to have a granddaughter led us to keep it.

When we got home from the theater, I went to the garage to retrieve the Barbie Box. I brought it in, dusted it off, and opened it. Then I arranged the full cast of characters for a group reunion portrait. I sent it to our daughters — now 45, 36, and 33 years old. A string of text messages sharing memories followed.

While our girls enjoyed dressing the dolls, having Barbies was more than that. They would spend hours improvising stories involving the characters, and sometimes I would eavesdrop. I was struck by how therapeutic it was. These plastic figures became actors in real-life situations. They would say something like, “Barbie got mad at Ken and they divorced,” then pop Ken’s head off of his beach-ready body and toss it across the room. (“When I used to ask Dad to put Ken’s head back on his body, Dad would say, ‘Did Ken lose his head over Barbie again?’” one of our girls recalled.) One day I was doing yard work and unearthed a Ken-head beneath a hedge. I took a picture and reunited him with his body and friends, much to the acclaim of his former caretakers.

Which brings me back to the movie.

I hope I’m not revealing too much to say it is about Barbies and Kens becoming aware that they are something more than their surface identities. They embark on a journey of enlightenment to discover who they really are.

Watching the movie, I was struck with how its theme resonates with some daily meditations I happened to be reading this week from Richard Rohr’s The Immortal Diamond: The Search for Our True Self:

“Various false selves (temporary costumes) are necessary to get us all started, and they show their limitations when they stay around too long. If a person keeps growing, their various false selves usually die in exposure to greater light.

Our false self, which we might also call our “small self” or “separate self,” is our launching pad: our body image, our job, our education, our clothes, our money, our car, our success, and so on. These are the functional trappings of ego that we all use to get through an ordinary day. They are largely projections of our self-image and our attachment to it.

When we are able to move beyond our separate or false self—as we are invited to do over the course of our lives – it will eventually feel as if we have lost nothing. In fact, it will feel like freedom and liberation. When we are connected to the Whole, we no longer need to protect or defend the mere part. We no longer need to compare and compete. We are now connected to something inexhaustible.”[i]

Can it be that Barbie has a spiritual message?

A recent article about the movie and its creator, Greta Gerwig, ends with this:

It’s a testament to Gerwig’s singular earnestness — a level of sincerity unavailable to many of us — that using Barbie to affirm the worth of ordinary women feels, to her, quasi religious. She told me that when she was growing up, her Christian family’s closest friends were observant Jews; they vacationed together and constantly tore around each other’s homes. She would also eat with them on Friday nights for Shabbat dinner, where blessings were sung in Hebrew, including over the children at the table. May God bless you and protect you. May God show you favor and be gracious to you. May God show you kindness and grant you peace. Every Friday the family’s father would rest his hand on Gerwig’s head, just as he did on his own children’s, and bless her too.

“I remember feeling the sense of, ‘Whatever your wins and losses were for the week, whatever you did or you didn’t do, when you come to this table, your value has nothing to do with that,’” Gerwig told me. “‘You are a child of God. I put my hand over you, and I bless you as a child of God at this table. And that’s your value.” I remember feeling so safe in that and feeling so, like, enough.” She imagines people going to the temple of the movies to see “Barbie” on a hot summer day, sitting in the air-conditioned dark, feeling transported, laughing, maybe crying, and then coming out into the bright heat. “I want people to feel like I did at Shabbat dinner,” she said. “I want them to get blessed.”[ii]

Today I stood before our recently liberated collection of Barbies and Kens on our couch. I expressed gratitude for what they had endured. I encourage all of us to find the blessing that arises from being connected to something “inexhaustible.”

[i] Richard Rohr, Letting Go of the False Self

[ii] Greta Gerwig’s ‘Barbie’ Dream Job, New York Times Magazine, July 11, 2023

“The Field Is Tilled and Left to Grace

A poem by Wendell Berry, “Whatever Is Forseen In Joy”:

Whatever is foreseen in joy
Must be lived out from day to day.
Vision held open in the dark
By our ten thousand days of work.
Harvest will fill the barn; for that
The hand must ache, the face must sweat.
And yet no leaf or grain is filled
By work of ours; the field is tilled
And left to grace. That we may reap,
Great work is done while we’re asleep.

When we work well, a Sabbath mood
Rests on our day, and finds it good.

Wendell Berry works his own plot of land in a community that has sustained his family and neighbors for generations. They know the weariness that comes from “ten thousand days of work” but are sustained by having the vision of a plentiful harvest that has been “forseen in joy.”

I have known farmers and their families and have come to appreciate the skill and tenacity they bring to their labors. After all their best efforts, they are always subject to unexpected events, severe weather, and price fluctuations.

But most of the people I know are not farmers — we are people who have worked in education, health care, businesses and religious organizations. For us, it can be hard to see or measure the harvest of our labors that we hope will “fill our barns.”

Over the 30 years of being a parish pastor, I worked hard to develop healthy spiritual communities. Of the 3 congregations I served, every one has declined in membership in recent years. I sometimes have asked myself, “What was it all for?”

I once attended a clergy retreat where the leader said he has found many pastors will privately acknowledge that they experience depression. He felt it arose from the feeling that you have failed to achieve what you had envisioned when you started. But, he said, clergy accomplish more good than they realize — the results are not easily measured, but are present in peoples’ lives.

So I look back at the “fields” I have labored in and can see how many relationships were nurtured, how much hope, joy and mutual support was shared, and how much grace was experienced. The buildings may have emptied, but not the lives of those of the people who were part of it all.

And what of your work? Does it feel as if your “ten thousand days of work” filled the barn?

And what of our personal lives — our families and relationships? Lives we have been responsible for may or may not have met our expectations when we began parenting. We may have planted and watered as best we can, but we are not the ones who create the growth.

My mother used to say, “I want to live until I’m a hundred and see how it all turns out.” But she died suddenly at age 75, and all our stories were still unfolding. Thirty years later, they still are. I would love to know what happens to our kids and grandkids in the years to come, but I know my time will be completed when their lives are still being made.

So “the field is tilled and left to grace.” All the people we love and care for are seeking to do their best in this life. We may not know what the ultimate harvest will be of our life’s work, but “when we work well, a Sabbath mood rests on our day, and finds it good.”

May we be grateful for the opportunity to labor in the fields of our lives, as well as the grace that will outlive us.

Clarifying Our Intentions: Fear or Curiosity? Worrying or Caring?

I’m skeptical about self-help books. They always sound like they are going to lead us to endless happiness if we just set the right goals and remember a few principles, but over time life turns out to be more complicated.

I remember reading a bestseller in 1989: Do What You Love, The Money Will Follow. I tried following the advice. It didn’t work. I think many poets, musicians, athletes, spiritual seekers, and artists eventually realize they need to find a real job to pay the bills while making time to do the creative and imaginative things that bring joy and satisfaction. I’m a skeptic when it comes to simplistic formulas for negotiating life.

However, I have found two suggestions that seem to be worth sharing.

The first comes from my hospice experience: “The opposite of fear is curiosity.” When faced with unwelcome news or unwanted challenges, we may naturally respond with fear. We may choose to be defiant or in denial about whatever is happening. When we are fearful, our ability to think creatively shrinks. (I have a friend and professional leadership coach who tells his clients and his teenagers, “Remember, when you get angry or emotional, your IQ shrinks.”) It’s interesting to consider choosing curiosity instead. Becoming curious feels different. We become calm. Our mind is open. Our mental state and awareness expand rather than contract.

I remember Hank, a parishioner and mentor. He had a Ph.D. in chemistry and spent his career in higher ed and international education. He was also a strong Mennonite, a tradition that seeks to live out the Sermon on the Mount including the principle of nonviolence. He contracted a serious form of cancer that began in his lower spine. He decided to learn all he could and employ multiple approaches toward healing. He worked with his oncologist in planning his chemotherapy and radiation treatments. He asked people he knew who were gifted in prayer to visualize his healing. He began to practice a form of meditation in which he saw the chemotherapy chemicals as bottom-feeding catfish, slowly gobbling up the unwanted cancer cells in his bloodstream.

Hank’s cancer went into remission, and he lived another 25 years. His spine was damaged, and his walking was impaired, but his spirit was not. Even if he had not had such a good outcome, I believe he would have died with a calm mind and strong heart. He chose curiosity over fear.

The second insight comes from a book on golf:

“Dave, an instructor at a golf school, asked me for advice about his own game. He wanted to know how to ‘putt without caring.’ He said, ‘How do I not care? I do care! Otherwise I wouldn’t be out there playing golf.’ I told him his problem was with the word ‘care.’ Of course you care about making the putt. The point is not to worry about whether you will make it or not. I then asked him to pay close attention to how each of the next sentences made him feel: ‘Dave, I care about you.’…’Dave, I worry about you.’”

— Dr Joe Parent, Zen Golf: Mastering the Mental Game, 2002

We don’t have to have any interest in golf to get the point. So much of our time is spent wanting life to meet our expectations. We press, fret, strategize, and — loaded with anxiety — act. If we don’t get what we want, we blame others or ourselves.

Joe’s point is instead of worrying about an upcoming action, we focus on caring about it. That feels different. He also believes shifting our approach to caring increases our chances of being effective.

Imagine standing in front of a mirror and making an expression that conveys worry. Our brow wrinkles. Our eyes narrow. Our breathing may become shorter. We tense up. It’s a drag.

Then imagine shifting your expression to one expressing care. Our face relaxes, our eyes open. Our pulse probably slows down. It’s a nice way to be in these bodies of ours.

Would you rather have someone worry about you or care about you?

Would you rather be afraid or curious?

Spiritual traditions offer us alternatives to fear and worry.

Buddhism teaches we can live more compassionately and freely when we let go of rigid expectations. We still formulate clear intentions with whatever we are facing – including being present and compassionate with ourselves and others – but that is different from giving into anxiety.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says, “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” As an adult who’s personally and economically responsible for myself and others, I need to be vigilant, informed, and careful as I manage our resources and plan for the future. But I try to do so from a place of caring, not worry.

In 1999 I visited the “Tomb of the Patriarchs” mosque in Hebron, Israel. I remember seeing two people. One man was sitting on the floor with his back to a wall, reading. Another was lying on the floor taking a nap. While there was tension at the security checkpoints we passed through on our way there, the mood inside the mosque was spacious and peaceful.

When we are in challenging situations, we may want to observe how we are approaching them. Are we being driven by fear or curiosity? And do we want to be filled with worry, or instead, focus on simply caring for ourselves and others?

Image:

“Feeling Light Within, I Walk,” Navajo Night Chant/Native American sculpture, Vancouver, The Quiet Eye: A Way of Looking at Pictures

Note: in a prior post, I shared a similar reflection drawn from training sessions I used to lead, and included some points from a grief counselor about how “companioning” can be a distinct form of caring: “Is Your Intention to Cure or to Care?”

The Intrinsic Power of Veriditas

Early this past Monday morning, I set out for a short round of golf. When I play on my own I use it as a form of walking meditation.

I went to ”Twin Lakes,” a modest 9-hole course five minutes from my house. Some private country clubs in Santa Barbara charge $250,000 to join and $1,000/monthly dues; Twin Lakes has no joining fee and I pay $59/month. Of course, it’s not quite the same feel. Where some local courses are set alongside coastal bluffs with stunning views of the Pacific Ocean, Twin Lakes is bounded by a tire store, a lumber yard, a drainage ditch, and railroad tracks. That may be why you do not see photos of Twin Lakes on Santa Barbara tourism websites.

However, wherever we are, there can be wonders to behold.

The 8^th hole is bounded on the north by a rickety fence running parallel to the train tracks. As I was walking down the fairway, I sensed something bright to my left. I turned to see what it was. I was surprised to see the moist leaf of a nasturtium plant reflecting the morning sun more brightly than I have ever witnessed. Like Moses at the burning bush, I turned aside to look more closely. I’ve always admired nasturtiums for their flowers, but had never appreciated how a leaf can hold and reflect sunlight like this one.

As I stood there, an ancient word came to mind: “veriditas.” This Latin word was a favorite of Hildegard of Bingen, the 12^TH century abbess, mystic, prophet, philosopher, composer, and expert in the medical practices of her time. In her last major writing, “Book of Divine Works,” she begins with a vision of divine love wearing a robe as bright as the sun, speaking with the voice of nature:

“I am the supreme and fiery force who sets all living sparks alight and breathes forth no mortal things, but judges them as they are.

Circling above the circumscribing circle with my superior wings, which is to say circling with wisdom, I have ordered the cosmos rightly.

But I am also the fiery life of divine essence: I blaze above the beauty of the fields, I shine in the waters, I burn in the sun and the moon and the stars. And with the airy wind I quicken all things to life, as with an invisible life that sustains them all.

For the air lives in viriditas and in the flowers, and the waters flow as if alive, and the sun lives within its own light, and when the moon has waned it is rekindled by the light of the sun and thereby lives anew, and the stars shine forth in their own light as though alive.

Exploring how “viriditas” is being newly appreciated in our time, I came across a reference to a 2003 dissertation by physician Victoria Sweet in the History of Health Sciences Department at UCSF:

“… Sweet draws special attention to Hildegard’s use of the word viriditas. It comes from the Latin word for “green,” and was used to refer to the color of plants, as well as meaning “vigor” and “youthfulness.” Sweet points out how Hildegard also used the word viriditas in the broader sense of the power of plants to put forth leaves and fruit, and the analogous intrinsic power of human beings to grow and to heal. Inspired by Hildegard, Sweet began to ask herself as she was treating her patients whether anything was interfering with the viriditas or the intrinsic power to heal—to relate to healing like being a gardener who removes impediments and nourishes, in a sanctuary-like setting.

All this may seem a long way from the illuminated nasturtium leaf that stopped me in my tracks on the 8^th hole at Twin Lakes. But it’s not. What I saw was a glimpse of the viriditas that permeates and surrounds us, an inner force we share. “Veriditas” — it’s a great word — take it with you as you go through your day.

Paul Simon’s “Seven Psalms”

When I saw a review of a new Paul Simon album in a recent New Yorker, I was mildly interested. But then I began reading:

“On January 15^th, 2019, Paul Simon dreamed that he was working on a piece called “Seven Psalms.” He got out of bed and scribbled the phrase — alliterative, ancient feeling — into a spiral notebook. From then on Simon periodically woke between 3:30 and 5:00 AM to jot down bits of language. Songwriters often speak about their work as a kind of channeling- the job is to be a steady antenna prepared to receive strange signals. Some messages are more urgent than others. Simon started trying to make sense of what he was being told.

This month, Simon, who is 81, released “Seven Psalms,” his 15th solo album. It’s a beautiful mysterious record composed of a single thirty-three-minute acoustic track divided into seven movements…”[i]

The article itself is so well-written – and full of fascinating comments about Paul Simon’s lifelong spiritual journey – that I’ve reread it several times. (“Pleasant Sorrows’ review) I ordered the CD, and when it came, began listening. (Streaming options can be found on PaulSimon.com) There is that unmistakable voice – a voice many of us have known for decades. At 81, it sounds strong and humble, quiet and clear; he’s not trying to get us up dancing or score a #1 hit, but simply sharing the evocative thoughts, phrases, and questions that have come to him.

I alerted several friends. After repeated listening, one described it as “mesmerizing.” Another sent a link to a recent interview with Simon on CBS Sunday Morning.[ii]

It begins:

I’ve been thinking about the great migration
Noon and night, they leave the flock
And I imagine their destination
Nettle grass, jagged rock

He’s exploring this great mystery of life and death and what might lie beyond.

He begins to sing about “the Lord:”

The Lord is my engineer
The Lord is the earth I ride on
The Lord is a face in the atmosphere
The path I slip and I slide on

And a bit later:

The Lord is a virgin forest
The Lord is a forest ranger
The Lord is a meal for the poorest of the poor
A welcome door to the stranger

Some verses echo familiar religious images, while others are contemporary:

The Covid virus is The Lord
The Lord is the ocean rising
The Lord is a terrible swift sword
A simple truth, surviving

“The Lord” is one of the most common titles for God in English – it is used 6,753 times in the King James Bible. There are dozens of names for God in Hebrew, and “the Lord” has been used to cover many of them; no doubt English translators wanted to convey a sense of higher authority, and “Lord” fit. But the most evocative definition is found in Exodus 3. Moses is alone in the wilderness and is addressed by a voice from a “bush that was blazing, but not consumed.” A dialogue with this mysterious voice ensues, and at one point Moses asks what name he should use for this one who is speaking to him. He’s given a name that is also a riddle; it has been translated as “I am that I am,” or “I will be who I will be,” or “He who brings things into being.”[iii] This sense of “the Lord” comes to my mind as I listen to Seven Psalms – the name for a presence that goes beyond everyday language and expectations; close enough to whisper to us, but forever elusive.

Simon describes a turning point in his own “migration:”

I lived a life of pleasant sorrows
Until the real deal came
Broke me like a twig in a winter gale
Call me by my name
And in that time of prayer and waiting
Where doubt and reason dwell
A jury sat deliberating
All is lost
Or all is well

He refers to one who, 3,000 years ago, also shaped feelings into sounds:

The sacred harp
That David played to make his songs of praise
We long to hear those strains
That set his heart ablaze

Toward the end, he sings:
Life is a meteor
Let your eyes roam
Heaven is beautiful
It’s almost like home
Children, get ready
It’s time to come home

When asked, Simon refuses to let his current perspective be defined by any particular religious tradition or spiritual identity. He is simply passing on what he was given.

As I listen to Seven Psalms, I keep thinking about that first dream that woke him, and the times before daybreak when he was “receiving” these prompts and words. Where were they coming from? What is on the other side of our ordinary awareness? Just our personal unconscious, always stirring and searching? Or a shared, collective unconscious, where, like a grove of aspen trees, we are all connected in ways we can’t conceive and from which we create art for the benefit of one another? What is that spiritual force that seems to exist within and beyond all of it, which, at unexpected times, offers us gifts of insight and mysteries to ponder?

[i] “Pleasant Sorrows: The mysticism of Paul Simon,” Amanda Petrusich, New Yorker, June 5, 2023, (“Pleasant Sorrows’ review)

[ii] https://www.cbsnews.com/video/paul-simon-on-seven-psalms-and-dreams/

[iii] The JPS Torah Commentary: Exodus, Jewish Publication Society, pg. 17; The Hebrew Bible, Volume 1: The Five Books of Moses, pg. 222, translated and commentary by Robert Alter.

Lead image: Paul Simon, Seven Psalms

Lower image: David a la Harpe, Marc Chagall, 1stdibs.com