steve jacobsen – Page 9 – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

In Praise Of Gracie, My Red Wiggler Compost Worm

This is my friend Gracie. She is a red wiggler worm that lives in our compost bin. She’s a hard worker and important part of our household. Recently I’ve been telling her what she does is a rich metaphor for the spiritual power of grace. I asked her if I could tell you her story. She agreed but wants you to know that all the spiritual talk is not her idea, but stuff I’ve made up.

Her story begins seventeen years ago when I decided to explore organic gardening. I read articles and attended classes. I planted a variety of heirloom tomatoes. I experimented with lettuces, beans and peas. And I created my first worm composting bin. I don’t do much gardening anymore, but I’ve stuck with the worms.

Let me tell you why Gracie and her clan are so amazing:

Unlike other pets, you start with one batch (donated by a friend or purchased at a nursery), and you never have to get new ones; they just keep reproducing.
You never have to take them to the vet or pay for vaccinations or neutering.
They work around the clock in total silence – no barking.
They don’t scratch on your door to get out or damage your furniture.
They don’t poop on your lawn.
You never have to take them to a groomer.
You can leave them at home when you go on vacation – no need to hire a Worm-sitter.
You never have to buy food for them. They survive on scraps and garbage. Here’s a sample of what I give them: coffee grounds, coffee filters, stale bread, expired tortillas, broccoli stems, banana peels, apple cores, asparagus ends, abandoned quesadillas, moldy cheese, watermelon that has exceeded its firm stage of life, and used paper towels.
While Gracie’s clan does much of their work on their own, they do need to be fed and lightly watered occasionally to keep making compost and new worms. And they don’t like food that’s too acidic.
You’ve heard the phrase from computer people, “Garbage in, garbage out?” Not so with compost worms. They take what you give them and turn it into what organic gardeners call “black gold” – a pure, dark organic compost that is full of all kinds of nutrients for plants. You can let the material dry and spread it. Or you can shovel it into a bucket and fill it with water and let it soak; in a day or two, you have “worm tea” that can be sprayed or poured around the base of your flowers, vegetables and fruit trees. Gracie and her gang have their own motto: “Garbage In, Gold Out.”
The #1 most amazing thing to me is that if any of material they are given contains organic toxins or harmful bacteria, the compost they create is free of any undesirable elements. They’re not afraid of anything. “Give that stuff to me,” Gracie says, “I’ll take all the bad stuff out and give it all a second chance to be something worthwhile in the world.”

Here’s a photo of Gracie’s Clan at work:

Now we can turn to the spiritual meaning of composting worms.

When I talk about grace here, I’m thinking of the divine spiritual force known as agape, which transcends all our pettiness; it simultaneously humbles us and fills us with a quiet joy. I’m also thinking of the Buddhist concept of deep compassion, which can help us see, accept and deal with whatever comes our way.

The way spiritual grace works is that it can take all the stuff of your life – the good decisions and the bad, the traits you like about yourself and those you don’t, your victories and defeats – and turn it all into something useful and positive.

Once you first experience it – once you realize you’re forgiven for your mistakes, that you are loved despite your imperfections, and that you’re always being drawn forward into your future and not chained to your past – you find a kind of inner freedom that you didn’t know was possible.
You don’t have to pay for it. It’s free.
If you keep turning to it and trusting, it will work silently within you whether you are awake or are sleep.
It will never leave you…it’s with you forever.
You may forget it’s there, but it will never forget you.
It doesn’t make messes – it cleans them up.
It can do most of its work on its own. But it does become stronger when we engage in certain activities, like long walks in nature, taking time for music and art, quiet time in meditation and contemplation, conversations about life with trusted and caring friends, participating in uplifting worship services, and actively serving others.
When given a chance, the right conditions, and enough time, it can take really bad stuff and take the poison out; “Garbage In, Grace Out.”

There is a legend that St. Francis offered sermons to the birds, and they listened attentively. I tell Gracie all the ways in which I think she symbolizes grace, but I don’t think she’s listening. She’s too busy making all things new.

Gracie’s House (she’s been working at home long before COVID and Zoom)

For a more detailed explanation of what Gracie’s Clan is about, go to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vermicompost

Can Anyone Come Out and Play?

It took me a minute to get the point of this recent New Yorker cover:

…eventually, I figured it out: the cat is immersed in chasing the animated mice in the video game on the tablet. In the background, real mice are having a party. “When the cat’s away, the mice will play.” The cat’s body is not “away” – it’s in the same physical space as the mice — but its attention is not there; it’s captivated by the screen.

Everywhere we turn, people’s attention is on their screens instead of their immediate surroundings. Brilliantly designed digital clickbait has become our culture’s catnip.

My thoughts turn to one of my favorite paintings, “Children’s Games” (Brueghel, 1560):

As I noted in a post three years ago,[i] there are 80 different games portrayed here: playing with dolls, shooting water guns, wearing masks, climbing a fence, doing a handstand, Blind Man’s Bluff, making soap bubbles, walking on stilts, riding a hobby horse made from a stick, playing with balloons (before latex, made from a pig’s bladder), catching insects, climbing a tree, and 68 others. This was almost 500 years ago — before electricity, the microchip, Big Tech, and AI. Kids left alone and unplugged find things and create.

A current bestseller is The Anxious Generation by Jonathan Haidt. Haidt shows how the advent of the digital age has led to increasing isolation among teenagers, which in turn has contributed to a rise in depression and suicide. He notes that many of the tech innovators in Silicon Valley restrict their own children’s screentime, then lead business ventures that will profit from making screens even more addictive. Haidt encourages families and schools to restrict screentime and instead let kids be on their own more often to find out how real life works. He founded “Let Grow,” an organization creating resources for families and schools to nurture kids’ character and self-reliance.

Two afternoons a week we care for our grandsons, ages 6 and 8. They come to our house after school and have a snack. We let them watch 20 minutes of a favorite show (currently a guide to building more complex “Minecraft” structures on their tablets). Then we turn the television off and discuss what’s next: board games, crafts, gardening, or some sport.

Recently my wife had to take the 8-year-old to an early baseball practice, so I had 45 minutes with the 6-year-old. We went out into the backyard to hit whiffle balls. We used to have ten plastic balls, but as the boys have gotten stronger, their hitting prowess has led to nine being lost over the fence and elsewhere. We started playing with the last one, the old savvy veteran pitching tossing to the promising rookie. Soon the ball disappeared over the neighbor’s fence. But I found a partially cracked plastic golf ball buried in the bushes. I asked if he wanted to see if he could hit it. He liked the challenge and got some great whacks. In the process, the crack expanded. We were sure one more solid hit would split it in two. But the time came for me to take him home. Last seen, the little broken ball had fled into the bushes to survive for another day.

We had just spent 20 minutes playing with a whiffle bat and a broken plastic golf ball. What we did was not planned or packaged. It was improvised. It was fun. It was physical and mental. Our bodies, attention, and minds were all present in real time, interacting with each other and the surrounding environment.

Tech marches on. I look forward to the good things that may come our way (maybe from future engineers who became masters at Minecraft). But I worry every day about where AI is going to take our attention. We think we are smart, but tech is getting smarter. I am a constant advocate for putting limits on tech. This week I signed up with “Let Grow” to follow what they are doing. I want to see more kids hitting balls with sticks.

(The bashed-up plastic golf ball may be hiding in this plant.)

[i] The previous post in which I featured Brueghel’s painting is at https://wordpress.com/post/drjsb.com/376

For a more detailed study of “Children’s Games,” go to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Children%27s_Games_(Bruegel)

Is Life Meant to Rival Paradise? Or Be a Vale of Soul-Making?

“The purpose of life is not to rival paradise but to be a vale of soul-making.”

Global religion scholar Huston Smith

I wrote these words in my journal over a decade ago while on retreat with Huston Smith. At the time, I wasn’t certain what this quote meant. I decided to explore it this week.

“The purpose of life is not to rival paradise…”

I thought about the earliest years of my spiritual journey. After a transformative mystical experience in my early twenties, I saw the world as something more than just physical matter — it was infused with divine presence. I found a spiritual community where people were truly caring for each other and seeking to align themselves with a higher purpose. I discovered sacred texts that can possess the power to reveal hidden thoughts and fascinating possibilities. I learned hymns and songs that filled me with joy. I went off to seminary keeping much of this early enthusiasm. Three years later I was ordained and began serving congregations. It felt like the world had become a “paradise.”

As my life and work unfolded, I encountered events that challenged this belief: a mother, standing on the porch of the family’s vacation cabin, watched the private plane carrying her husband and two teenage children crash and burn; a young mom was on her way to work at the local hospital when a semi-truck crossed over the center divider and killed her instantly; parents struggling every day with adult children living with mental illnesses or addiction issues. Life was no longer a “rival to paradise.”

“The purpose of life is not to rival paradise but to be a vale of soul-making.”

Since I first heard these words rather than saw them, I wondered if he meant “veil,” like a fabric that partially hides something. But this week, I realized he meant “vale” rather than “veil:”

Vale: river-land between two ranges of hills, early 14c., from Old French val “valley, vale” (12c.), from Latin vallem…”valley”… Now “little used except in poetry” [Century Dictionary].

So “vale of soul-making” means a “valley of soul-making.”

If you are making your way through a “vale” or valley, your path is bounded on both sides by mountains or hills. If the land formations are steep, you can’t go up or around…you must find a path through, bound by those limits. It’s hard, patient work.

How is navigating life like traveling through a “vale (or valley) of soul-making?”

There is a sense in which our “soul” can evolve as we go through life. We see the suffering of others, and instead of turning away, we grow in empathy. We discover there are situations we cannot fix, but that doesn’t mean we can’t care for the people involved. There is more ambiguity in life, less black-and-white.

As a pastor, I was sometimes asked, “Who are your favorite theologians?” In my early years, I would cite scholars who seemed to have everything figured out – as if they held maps to paradise. But in time I found myself offering a different answer; I would say “Rembrandt, Bach, Wendell Berry, and the older people I’ve known in my congregations.”

Rembrandt chose to paint portraits not of flawlessly attractive people (the kind displayed these days in fashion shows, on red carpets, and at Met Galas). He preferred ordinary people in whom he recognized a quiet integrity deep within; they had a beauty that transcended age, social status, and physical appearance.

“Johann Sebastian Bach lost both of his parents when he was nine and watched ten of his children die young. He was, in other words, well acquainted with death, and may have been uncommonly sensitive to the emotional chaos that it engenders. …Bach possessed a “consciousness of catastrophe”—a feeling for the suddenness and arbitrariness with which suffering descends on unsuspecting souls.”[i] But he took his grief and somehow transformed it into hundreds of pieces of music that miraculously express both the pain of shattered hearts and the joy of sacred knowing.

Wendell Berry left a high-status academic position in New York to return to his family farm in Kentucky. In his novels, poems, and essays, he brings to light the endless miracles hidden in the earth and the rugged dignity of people who work the land and revere it.

And the many older people in my congregations. As I got to know them, I gained great respect for all they had gone through — wars and hard times, hardships and heartaches, sacrifices and disappointments. They had given up on naïve illusions or easy answers. They didn’t have life figured out. Yet they seemed always ready to serve and care for others. These people spent decades finding their way through the “vale of soul-making,” their own possibilities bounded by the steep terrain they traveled through. But they endured. In the process, their souls somehow expanded to silently embrace life with all its tragedies and moments of wonder – moments that can feel like glimpses of paradise.

“Jacob Blessing the Sons of Joseph,” Rembrandt, 1656

[i] “The Book of Bach,” Alex Ross, The New Yorker, April 4, 2011

Letting Your Soul Catch Up With You

Perhaps many of you know this story, but I only heard it recently. Here is one version:

Westerners traveling in a foreign country hired indigenous people as porters to help carry supplies. The porters went at a slower pace than the Westerners desired, so after the first two days, they pushed them to go faster. On day three of the trek, the group went twice as far as day two. Around the campfire that evening, the Westerners congratulated themselves for their leadership abilities. But on day four, the workers would not budge.

“What’s wrong?” asked the Westerner.

“We cannot go any further today,” replied the lead porter.

“Why not? Everyone appears well.”

“Yes,” he said, “but we went so quickly yesterday that we must wait here for our souls to catch up with us.”

An easy place to begin is to affirm how busy we are and our need to slow down. We’ve heard that many times. What makes this story memorable is the spokesman’s reply.

Huston Smith said the difference between our soul and our ego is that our ego always feels a need to control our life, while our soul wants to experience it, whatever comes.

What happens when we slow down and let our soul catch up? Sometimes we become aware of an underlying sadness we’ve been evading. As Psalm 42 says, Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you disquieted within me? (Ps 42:5) The writer then recounts memories of when his life and faith seemed well-aligned and the hope that he will experience that sense of wholeness again. But the first step to a satisfied soul is to acknowledge when it is “disquieted.”

This goes against our culture’s relentless expectation to be “happy.” But who can be “happy” all the time? Sometimes we have experienced hardship, loss, and disappointment.

I once collaborated with an academic colleague who was a psychology professor. She had grown up in Ukraine during the Soviet era. The government was always pressuring people to feel optimistic, despite what they were enduring and the official falsehoods that surrounded them. She grew to resent that pressure. After coming to America, she was annoyed with popular schools of thought that encourage us to be happy all the time. Sometimes we feel “cast down” and our soul is “disquieted.” We do well to let our soul reveal what we need to know.

On the other hand, there are times when we take time to let our soul catch up and we find a fresh awareness of blessings we’ve been too busy to acknowledge. Rabbi Harold Kushner wrote a book on Psalm 23. About the phrase “…surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life…,” he asked why the writer says goodness and mercy shall “follow” us? Because, he said, we are often so busy that we have run out ahead of them. When we take time to let our soul catch up, goodness and mercy can finally find us and climb into our lap.

A few days ago, I realized I did not know where I’d left my iPhone. After looking in the obvious places, I took my iPad and brought up the “Find My” app. From the menu, I touched the “Steve’s iPhone.” I then heard the phone chiming. It turned out it was ten feet away — in the same room as me— but in a place I had never put it before. I wondered if there could be a “Find My Soul” app that would alert us when we are spiritually lost. What tone would capture our attention?

I was in Vienna in 2020. Ubers and taxis were available to get around town, as was the subway system. But there was also an old-fashioned electric streetcar system. You’d often see the trams patiently making their way around the city in a large circle known as the Ringstrasse. A city guide told me that Viennese often prefer to use the streetcars even though it’s not as fast as the other options; she said it helps them slow down between destinations.

In Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, the author and his friend are riding their motorcycles cross country. At one point he thinks about the term “making good time.” When we say, “You made good time!” we usually mean “You made the trip about as fast as possible!” But when we rush somewhere to make “good time” we often arrive stressed out, tired, and oblivious to where we’ve been. Instead of opting for freeways and interstates, he preferred taking country roads and older two-lane highways. That way he could appreciate unexpected vistas and new experiences along the way. That kind of traveling may take more time, but one can enjoy the time while you’re doing it. For Pirsig, this was “making good time.”

“Making good time” means you haven’t left your soul behind in the pursuit of speed and efficiency. Your soul has a chance to be present with you as you travel. And maybe goodness and mercy will join you instead of being left in the dust.

Beethoven and the Barking Dog

A parishioner once posed this question to me: “I like the idea of loving my neighbor. But my neighbor has a dog that barks all night and the owner refuses to do anything about it. How am I supposed to love him?”

I don’t remember if I had a wise answer. But the poet Billy Collins does:

Another Reason I Don’t Keep a Gun in the House

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.

He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark

that he barks every time they leave the house.

They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.

I close all the windows in the house

and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast

but I can still hear him muffled under the music,

barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,

his head raised confidently as if Beethoven

had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,

sitting there in the oboe section barking,

his eyes fixed on the conductor who is

entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful

silence to the famous barking dog solo,

that endless coda that first established

Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Random notes of absolutely no spiritual value:

Beethoven was deaf at the end of his life, so he wouldn’t be bothered by a barking dog.
When I was in Vienna in 2020, I discovered that Beethoven lived in more than 60 places in the city. He left some places to avoid paying rent, and others because he played the piano too loudly.
Leopold Mozart, Wolfgang’s father, wrote a “Hunting Symphony” that includes barking dogs in the third movement. Last year, the Danish Symphony performed it with three dogs who barked on cue. Here’s a video: The Hunting Symphony

Parts Wear Out

A good friend of mine shared words of wisdom he often heard from his father, a cardiologist. When patients would wonder why their heart needed work, he’d simply say, “Miles on the vehicle.” And I’ve heard a similar response at the office of an orthopedist, “Parts wear out.”

We know this is true with cars. With our Honda CRV, we faithfully follow the service schedule, and often it needs nothing more than an oil change and lube. But there are times of “major service” when key parts need to be carefully inspected and possibly replaced. Our mechanic says if we stick to the maintenance schedule, the car can easily reach 200,000 miles and beyond.

The same is true for furnace filters, water filtration systems, and roofs. We want them to last as long as possible but know they will eventually need to be replaced.

What’s true in the realm of mechanics is true of our bodies.

One of the joys of childhood was losing baby teeth. That meant you were getting older. It also meant you could exchange a worn-out part for some hard currency by depositing the tooth under your pillow. (This may be the last time we will show a profit from having parts replaced.)

Life goes on … parts wear out.

For several years, I had pain in my right arm that increased over time. I went through the usual exams and X-rays, and eventually an MRI. I met with a surgeon. He recited a list of what was causing my problem: bone fragments, torn tendons, arthritis, etc. I was surprised at how much wear and tear there was under the surface. But I also thought, “It’s pretty amazing all these moving parts have been functioning without complaint day after day for 70 years.” We scheduled the surgery. He made the repairs. I wore a sling for a month and went through the usual physical therapy. Now I’m pain-free. I can pick up our granddaughter with ease. Parts were wearing out, and I’m grateful for the repairs.

In the meantime, what of our spirit? Does our spirit wear out like our bodies?

One theory is that our inner awareness dies with our body. That may be the case.

Many spiritual traditions assume that the awareness that dwells within us does not die when the body dies. Neither does it wear out. It’s not a part we ever replace.

St. Paul was not only a scholar but also practiced an important trade in the first century: tentmaking. Roman armies required canvas tents, and all the ships that sailed the Mediterranean used canvas sails. Paul earned his income making and repairing them. As he cut and sewed, he must have had plenty of time to think about what wears out and what endures. In one of his letters, he wrote:

¹⁶So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. ¹⁷For our slight, momentary affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, ¹⁸because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen, for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal. For we know that, if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens…⁵The one who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who has given us the Spirit as a down payment.

I’m not quite sure if there are heavenly houses for us out there somewhere. But I get the point: we live in our “tents,” but are not limited by them. Our true essence is this mysterious presence we call spirit or soul which is not subject to the same wear and tear as our bodies.

Native cultures assume that the spirit outlasts our “parts” and is fundamentally connected to our ancestors. In some schools of Buddhism, the practice of meditation can lead us into the limitless field of “open awareness” that is untouched by death. This field can absorb all our fears and pain and give us a sense of profound peace.

As I think about these teachings, I think of the concept of “agape,” a divine love that underlies all life. Our everyday emotional “loves” may ebb and flow, but “agape” is timeless. We do not create it or possess it; we access it through an open heart and mind and can experience a “peace that passes understanding.”

I bought a Prius in 2008. Five years later I used it as a trade-in for the CRV. When it was time to drop it off, I took all my personal possessions out and drove it to the dealer. We finished the paperwork, and I handed the salesman the keys. I started to walk away, then paused and looked back. I thought of how much life I had lived in that car, and now I was leaving it behind. I was struck by how worn and empty it looked. I wondered, ‘Is this what it’s like when we die?”

Parts wear out. But we are not just our parts or the sum of our parts. We are not our thoughts, fears, or feelings. We are something more. Something subtle. Mysterious. Wondrous. And beautiful.

“Eyes Wide Roaming”

Dear Reader:

This week I want to introduce you to a new blog: “Eyes Wide Roaming.” It’s written by a friend, Brad McCarter. Brad is a commercial airline pilot who flies internationally. When he has a 24-hour layover, he finds a spot like a coffee house or a pub and settles in. He studies the environment, the people, and his own thoughts and feelings as they arise. He then captures the essence of his experience in some beautifully crafted words and verses. Every two weeks he shares a new piece from somewhere in the world.

I enjoy seeing how Brad expresses his experience so succinctly. And after I read his posts, I feel like I’ve inhabited that space and time with him. This isn’t Lonely Planet or Rick Steves (both of which I enjoy.) This is soulful, personal, and fascinating. For me, reading his posts is a way to “travel” to places I hope to visit someday. It’s also about the inward journey we can experience when traveling. You can subscribe if you wish. (Like me, Brad isn’t out to “monetize” his work; it comes from a personal desire to observe the world and then share what one finds.)

I encourage you to take a look at his page and sample one of his pieces. Where would you like to go — Hong Kong, Munich, the Lower East Side of New York, London, or Tel Aviv (as it was before October 7?) Think about it — you don’t have to fasten your seatbelt, straighten your seat, or put the tray table back.

Here’s the link: “Eyes Wide Roaming”

Steve

(The top image is a pub in London, the lower a street in Hong Kong.)

We’re Skipping School and Making the Pilgrimage

On Wednesday, May 8, I’m taking our 6 and 8-year-old grandsons out of school for the day. It’s not for academic enrichment or to observe a religious holiday. We’re going to a Dodger game.

I chose this game for three reasons. 1) The game starts at noon, which is ideal for young kids since you’ll get home at a decent time. 2) Unlike the Yankees, Red Sox, Giants, or Cubs – teams with millions of fans all over the country — the Marlins have few fans. As a result, I was able to get terrific seats for a fraction of the usual price, and the traffic should be light. 3) I love the idea of ditching school or work to see a baseball game.

The first time I made the journey to Dodger Stadium was with my father, 62 years ago. I’ll never forget the feeling of coming out of the tunnel and seeing the splendor of the emerald-green grass of the outfield, the red brick dust of the infield, and the perfectly delineated white chalk foul lines. There is seating for 54,000 people and everybody is happy as they find their seats. As a kid who loved baseball, I was in heaven.

We will be retracing those steps on May 8. We’ll take the same “Stadium Way” offramp from Interstate 5. Then, like pilgrims going to a sacred mountain, we will slowly ascend to the sacred site. After parking we will continue heaven-ward on foot, using escalators as needed. Then we’ll take our seats.

But this journey is not just about reliving childhood dreams. The deeper reasons for making this sacrifice of time and treasure were revealed anew to me this week as I read “Ballparking It,” an article in the April 1 New Yorker, by Adam Gopnik.

Gopnik begins by focusing on the history of baseball in New York City. He then gets philosophical, exploring why baseball and sporting events of any kind evoke so much passion in so many. Here is a sampling of his points with my comments:

Referring to the legendary sportswriter Damon Runyan from the last century: Runyan knew that these two things were true: the contests were epic in the enjoyment they provided, and they were miniature in their importance. That makes sense. Why would millions of people watch the Super Bowl, March Madness, or the World Series when the outcome doesn’t make any real difference in the world? Because they can be “epic in enjoyment,”

Sports are an artificial, deliberately narrowed activity that we create, in order to have moralizing stories to tell. I have a weakness for “moralizing stories.” Barry Bonds may have hit more home runs than anyone, but we knew he was a cheater who used steroids. We booed him when he came to LA. It felt great.

We live with our bodies and honor them by admiring ones nimbler than our own. There seems no way out or up from this preoccupation. It gets its grace by becoming common. Have you ever watched Steph Curry of the Golden State Warriors play basketball? He’s as graceful as any ballet dancer, and he’s got five 200-pound guys chasing him. He makes it look easy; “grace becomes common.”

The strength of our moralizing instinct is shown in the vindictive nature of our assessments of right and wrong in sports. See the Barry Bonds comment above and the Houston Astros comment below.

Only in games do we pursue orderly means towards ridiculous goals: touching home plate with your toe is by itself a meaningless purpose, but we learned to do it in ways that are beautifully shaped and orderly and teachable. Both our grandsons play Little League. Every time they come around to score, there is a sense of victory. I know the feeling. You’ve been out in the world exposed to danger and now you’re safe; you’ve come home.

Sports are “an unstructured escape from responsibility…” Some might say it’s irresponsible for a grandfather to take kids out of school for a meaningless sporting event — they might miss some important instruction. But isn’t it important to teach kids that, if you do it well, occasionally escaping responsibility for a few hours can be good for the soul?

The fans regard the game as joyfully ridiculous, and the players regard the fans as deeply ridiculous, and there’s a fluid interchange between the game we see in the play we share. Who cares if a grown man can take a piece of wood and hit a ball 420 feet over a fence? It’s ridiculous. And it’s addictive. I hope we see some rockets.

That’s why diehard fans, on the whole, take losing harder than the players do. Pro athletes can often say, “They just played better than we did, “or, alternately, “That’s just the way it broke,” more serenely than the fans can. When we watch the players congratulate one another after the game and exchange warm words, the social ritual they are enacting is a way of turning a game back into some decent form of play: Hey, we competed, we all did well, see you next year. It’s been seven years since I sat in that stadium to see the Dodgers lose the seventh game of the World Series to the Houston Astros. It turned out the Astros were cheating. When I remember that game, I don’t experience serenity. I feel an emptiness that hasn’t gone away.

Go ahead, baseball, fill me with joy and hope, then break my heart. Coming back year after year is a discipline — one I hope to pass on to my descendants.

“Ballparking It: When America’s Pastime was New York’s.” By Adam Gopnik. New Yorker April 1, 2024

“Ungainly Resurrections”

We’ve had some intense rainstorms in Santa Barbara in recent years which have caused many trees to fall. This eucalyptus fell over San Jose Creek several years ago. I see it every morning when I walk over the bridge near my home. When it fell, one of its branches landed on the ground on the opposite side of the creek and became a support for the rest of the tree:

I’ve been fascinated to watch new growth rising skyward from the fallen branch. I remind myself that this branch began its life going vertical, then fell to its current horizontal position. But that unexpected event did not change its purpose — it’s thick with new growth.

I recently came across this poem from Catherine Abbey Hodges who lives in Springville on the western foothills of the Sierras. She witnessed something similar in her “neck of the woods:”

After the Flood

They looked like goners,

the cottonwoods and alders

downed when the river

went wild. And no wonder:

for two days we’d heard

the boom of boulders

above the water’s roar,

heard the crash and snap

of sturdy trees.

But now they’re sprouting

branches, new green

thrusting skyward

from prone trunks.

It’s a strange sight, hopeful

though not yet beautiful,

this ungainly resurrection,

early days of a miracle

etched in the seed.

I kept rereading the last stanza:

such trees are indeed a “strange sight” – something that defies our everyday expectations.
It’s “hopeful though not yet beautiful” — it’s impressive not because it fits some pre-determined idea of what it should look like, but because it demonstrates the raw power of hope.
It’s an “ungainly resurrection” – it looks more clumsy than graceful, yet the impulse to thrive and be reborn shines.
This “miracle” is manifesting itself day after day, but the power to do so was given long ago when a regenerating life force was “etched in the seed.”

I began to imagine how such trees are metaphors for the lives of many people I’ve known in my life and career.

Most of us begin life full of optimism, confident we will keep growing according to our plan as we reach for the sky. But storms come. Branches break. We fall. It’s tempting to give up. Can we find some new way to live?

The German mystic Meister Eckhart said, “The soul grows by the process of subtraction.” I take this to mean that when we are full of our selves and rigid expectations, there’s no room for soul. But when losses come and we break open — as our illusions are “subtracted” from our sense of self — the divine Spirit comes near to offer us a chance to experience new life that is “etched in the seed” of our soul. We may never stop grieving for what we’ve lost along the way, but shoots of regeneration begin appearing.

In my Goleta congregation, we would have annual retreats called “Crossroads” which would include 15 or 20 people. We’d begin Friday night by sharing a meal and getting to know each other. On Saturday morning we’d study a story from Scripture that I had chosen for its potential to offer insight into the experience of living. I’d then give everyone a large sheet of newsprint and a box of markers and ask them to go off for two hours to create a “life map” — a visual representation of how their life had unfolded. People would often draw a winding pathway with many ups and downs, then draw pictures or choose words to describe key events. (Some of our engineers were more comfortable with bar graphs.) You’d see things like, “depression” or “fell in love” or “divorce” or “new job.” When people were finished with their maps, I’d ask them to go back and mark any places on their road where they encountered God.

We’d regather. Each person had a turn describing their map and journey. They would then tape their map to the wall of the meeting room. When everyone was done, we’d take time in silence to survey the range of life experiences in our group. There was always a sense of awe at what people had been through and how, in many ways, they’d experienced unexpected growth and blessings.

The human spirit is like a seed, and etched into it is the potential to heal, integrate, grow, and adapt.

I once traveled with a group to Ghana. In many cultures, if someone asks, “How are you?” the response is something like “I am well” or “I am fine.” But our host said when someone in Ghana asks, “How are you?” a traditional response is “Yesu Adom,” which means “By the grace of God” or “By the grace of God I am well.”

I imagine standing on the San Jose Creek bridge asking my friend, “How are you doing, Fallen Tree?” I would not be surprised to hear: “By the grace of God, I am well. I have not given up. I am determined to thrive. Join me.”

By the grace of God, I will. May we all.

“After the Flood” by Catherine Abbey Hodges in Empty Me Full. (forthcoming by Gunpowder Press, 2024) Used with permission.

Our “Immemorial Feelings”

A writing teacher once said the difference between prose and poetry is that good prose keeps our attention moving forward, while good poetry causes us to slow down. I recently came across this poem by Wendell Berry. I had to look up a word I did not know, then re-read it several times to appreciate what it offers. It was worth the effort:

It’s the immemorial feelings 

I like the best: hunger, thirst, their satisfaction;

work-weariness, earned rest; the falling again 

from loneliness to love; 

the green growth the mind takes from the pastures in March; 

The gayety in the stride of a good team of Belgian mares 

that seems to shudder from me through all my ancestry.

— “Goods” by Wendell Berry, New Collected Poems, 2012.

What does the word “immemorial” mean? According to the Cambridge Dictionary, it describes something that has been “existing or traditional for an extremely long time;” e.g., “She said it was the immemorial custom of the villagers to have a feast after the harvesting.” So, an “immemorial feeling” is something we can experience that is not new to the human condition but one we share with our ancestors. Wendell says he likes these kinds of feelings more than those that might be new. He then lists five. As I thought about each one, I wondered about my own similar experiences. I invite you to do the same.

… hunger, thirst, their satisfaction…

I think of times in the summer when my wife and I go hiking on a warm day and then stop somewhere for a cold beer. That first sip? Amazing.

…work-weariness, earned rest…

I think of times when I’ve done hours of yard work, completed it, and called it a day. What a good feeling to do the work and know I’ve earned a rest and may sleep well.

…the falling again from loneliness to love…

Maybe he’s thinking primarily of romantic love — one day we think we are isolated and the next day realize another person has captured our heart. Maybe it can also mean finding love in other ways, such as with a devoted pet (“Who rescued whom?”). Or maybe a new hobby or activity. But that feeling of feeling alone one minute, then aware you want to be deeply connected to someone or something else – it’s a kind of “falling” that comes like a gift.

…the green growth the mind takes from the pastures in March… 

I look out my window and see our redbud trees, Chinese Fringe Flowers, and yellow freesias in full bloom. After the generous winter rains, the naturally brown hillsides in Southern California look like Irish meadows. We can’t help but sense a fellow “greenness” in our minds, bringing hope and possibilities.

…The gayety in the stride of a good team of Belgian mares 

that seems to shudder from me through all my ancestry.

Wendell is a fifth-generation farmer in Henry County, Kentucky. His people knew the splendor of strong horses, which he instinctively shares and physically feels.

I do not know horses. What comes to mind for me is the ocean. I recently discovered that one of my family’s ancestral lines goes back to Bornholm, a small Danish Island in the North Sea, where they lived and fished for 400 years. Another line goes back to Halmstad, a fishing village on the Swedish coast. Another line includes one of my great-grandmothers from Denmark. After immigrating to America and spending her life raising her family in Iowa, they moved to Selma, California where she died in 1922. One of her sons wrote that in her last years she kept going back to fond memories of the beach in Copenhagen where she played as a child. Our mother loved the sea, and we scattered her ashes off the beach she loved in San Clemente. I guess it’s in our bones.

The five experiences Wendell names are not new for human beings. They existed before there were factories in China, televisions in our homes, or images on our digital devices. They did not need artificial intelligence programs. They are older than that – they come from “time immemorial.” And we have the privilege of sharing these with our ancestors. What a blessing.

It’s the immemorial feelings 

I like the best: hunger, thirst, their satisfaction;

work-weariness, earned rest; the falling again 

from loneliness to love; 

the green growth the mind takes from the pastures in March; 

The gayety in the stride of a good team of Belgian mares 

that seems to shudder from me through all my ancestry.

Bornholm, Denmark

Lead image: “Wendell Berry and his granddaughter plowing” “https://www.pinterest.com/pin/542613455076383854/ Ediblecommunities.com