Tag Archives: wisdom

Letting the Sea Speak

What is it about the sea that stirs our imaginations?

What is it about taking a walk on the beach that helps us see life more clearly?

Why is it many of us ask that our ashes be scattered on the ocean?

Many facets of nature can stir our imaginations, offering us metaphors for life and spirituality.  Recently I decided to turn my attention to the sea, searching for what it might teach me. Here’s my emerging list…

Like life, the sea is big, mysterious and wonderful.  The ocean covers 70% of the earth’s surface and holds 97% of the earth’s water.  More than 80% of it has yet to be mapped or seen by humans.  Just as a scientific reality, it’s amazing.  Isn’t life like that?  The millions of years of life evolving into so many forms including us?  Looking out on the sea, we are reminded of how small we are and how much we don’t know.

Both the ocean and the divine creating Spirit were here before us and will be here long after we are gone. But here we are in this moment.  In the big picture, we may be just “a drop in the ocean.” But here we are.  In the time we have we can learn what makes life worthwhile.  The Indian mystic Tagore said, “The butterfly counts not months but moments, yet has time enough.”

We walk on the edge.  When we take a walk on a beach, we can see what is close to us.  But beyond the horizon, the ocean reaches out far beyond our sight.  In our own lives, we “walk” through each day based on what is near us, what we can see and understand.  But at times we are reminded that so much more of life lies beyond our day-to-day living. 

It’s exciting to be on open water.  Two years ago, I took a beginning sailing class at the local harbor.  I remember the thrill the first time I steered the ship past the breakwater into the open water.  It was exhilarating.  Sometimes in life, we make a move or start a new chapter, and it feels like that.

In open water we navigate as best we can, but sometimes strong currents come upon us, pulling us in directions we do not want to go.  When I was a teenager, our family had a small house in San Clemente where we spent many summers.  Every chance I had, I would grab my Duckfeet fins to go bodysurfing.  I became confident enough that when distant storms in Mexican waters sent swells up the coast, I could join the veterans who went out to catch the large waves.  On one such occasion, I was with a group watching the horizon for the next set.  I happened to look back at the shore.  The beach looked like it was rapidly moving southward, which seemed strange since I was treading water.  Then I the realized the shore was not moving – I was.  A strong underwater current had developed and was taking me northward.  The next thing I knew a lifeguard came alongside and pulled me up into a boat, ferrying me and others to the pier. I was grateful someone was looking out for us.  Unforeseen events in life arise and take us with them; it’s not easy to regain control on our own.  It can be frightening.  It’s a gift to discover someone sees us and can help.

It’s vital to know how to find a safe harbor when we need it.  We can find a safe harbor in life in many ways, including having people we can turn to when we feel “out to sea,” confused or overwhelmed.  From a spiritual perspective, it’s a deep blessing to know we have a divine source of courage and wisdom that comes from beyond us.  We can access it in prayer, contemplation, Scripture, music, art and community.  Countless times I’ve seen a spiritual community reaching out and rescuing someone who’s being overwhelmed by life. It’s a beautiful process to see and reassuring to know.

Every time I ride my bike to the local beach, I feel renewed.  Every time we take our grandkids to the beach, they become lost in play.  Every time I’ve been part of a committal service which includes casting a loved one’s ashes on the sea, I feel a sense of peace. I’m grateful for all the ways the sea speaks to us.

“A Voice in My Mind Said: I Feel Awe”

Dacher Keltner is a psychology professor at UC Berkeley.  For more than 20 years, his research has focused on answering the question, “What makes a good life?”  At one point, he felt he had the answer.  To test it, he and his team conducted thousands of interviews with people around the world and analyzed the results.  What they discovered was also reflected in Keltner’s personal life experiences, including being at the bedside of his dying brother in 2019.

Rolf had been dealing with colon cancer for several years and had decided it was time to take the “cocktail” of prescribed medication that would peacefully bring about his death.  After receiving this news, Dacher drove from Berkeley with his wife and daughters, picked up his mother in Sacramento, and arrived at his brother’s house in the foothills of the Sierras at 10 PM, joining other family members at the bedside. Here are excerpts from his account:

Rolf’s face was full and flushed. The sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks caused by colon cancer were gone; the tightened, sagging skin around his mouth smoothed. His lips curled upward at the corners.

I rested my right hand on his left shoulder, a rounded protrusion of bone. I held it the way I would the smooth granite stones we used to find near the rivers we swam in as young brothers.

“Rolf this is Dach.”

“You are the best brother in the world.”

My daughter Natalie laid her hand lightly on his shoulder blades: “We love you Ralf.”

The cycle of his breathing slowed. He was listening.  Aware.

Listening to Rolf’s breath, I sensed the vast expense of 55 years of our brotherhood… (at this point, Dach’s mind fills with memories of their many shared adventures including skateboarding, playing on the same Little League team, traveling in Mexico, and being the best man at each other’s wedding) …

I sensed a light radiating from Rolf’s face. It pulsated in concentric circles, spreading outward, touching us as we leaned in with slightly bowed heads. The chatter in my mind, clasping words about the stages of colon cancer, new treatments, lymph nodes, and survival rates, faded. I could sense a force around his body pulling him away. And questions in my mind.

What is Rolf thinking?

What is he feeling?

What does it mean for him to die?

A voice in my mind said: I feel awe.

…Watching Rolf pass, I felt small. Quiet.  Humble. Pure. The boundaries that separated me from the outside world faded. I felt surrounded by something vast and warm. My mind was open, curious, aware, wondering.[i]

“A voice in my mind said: I feel awe.” The feeling of awe, Dacher believes, is the most important human emotion we can experience.  He and his team concluded there are eight primary ways we can encounter awe; one of them is being at the boundary of life and death.[ii] 

I experience awe attending memorial services.

This week I attended a celebration of the life of a legendary local building contractor, John Carter, who lived to be 96.  Family, friends and employees shared many stories of his ingenuity, accomplishments, innovations and integrity.  One story in particular has lingered in my mind. John was born on a farm in the San Fernando Valley. One day he and his brother decided to dig their way to China using an empty coffee can.  They dug for days; the hole became deep enough that they could stand in it.  Eventually they gave up. That was the early hint of a life filled with ambitious plans, determination and a love of moving earth and making things.  All those qualities were already present when he was a child and had a vision in his mind and a coffee can in his hand.  Where do such qualities come from?

A few months ago, I attended a private family graveside service for Joe Jowell, who died at 93. His children and grandchildren recounted highlights of his life. Joe was born and raised in Hawaii.  He was a ten-year-old riding his bike on Sunday morning, December 7 when he looked up and wondered why a large group of planes were flying overhead; moments later he saw them dropping bombs on Pearl Harbor.  After finishing high school, he moved to San Francisco.  He served in the Navy during the Korean War. He then spent five years preparing to become a priest in the Boston Maryknoll Brotherhood.  He decided to leave that order to marry and raise a family in Long Beach.  Joe became a certified Appliance Repair Technician and worked for Sears for many years.   He and his wife were raising five children when she died, leaving him on his own. Later one of his sons took his own life.  Joe learned to endure these losses and wanted to help others experiencing grief. He became a Hospice volunteer and served our community for 35 years. I met Joe when I became Director at Hospice of Santa Barbara in 2008 – I was told he was known by his colleagues as “St. Joe.” Sixteen years later I had privilege of hearing his family’s stories at his graveside.  If we had seen Joe at Costco or in a hospital hallway, could we have imagined all he’d experienced and how many people he had cared for?

Watching his brother take his last breath, Derik Keltner said: “My mind was open, curious, aware, wondering.”  He believes experiencing awe puts us in touch with the mysteries of life.  It both humbles and inspires us.

When someone’s life ends, we begin to see what mattered and what it meant.  Time and again, I have been filled with awe.

[i] Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life, Dacher Keltner, 2023, pages xxi-xxiii

[ii] The eight categories: moral beauty, collective effervescence, nature, music, visual design, spiritual and religious, awe, life and death, and epiphanies (moments in which a new and grand understanding dawns).

I first came across Keltner’s work as cited by Jonathan Haidt in his book, The Anxious Generation: How the Great Rewiring of Childhood is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness,  which was the subject of my recent post, Rising Above the Phone-Based Culture.  I expect to share more of Keltner’s findings in the weeks to come.

Photo: Late Afternoon, Goleta Beach, January, 2025

Letting Life Speak Through Us

Sitting quietly in my backyard early on a recent morning, I noticed the roses and shrubs near me.  They’d changed since the last time I had seen them.  For months they’ve been showing the same dark leaves. But now bright green growth is emerging.  They have been waiting for signs the season is changing and now sense the time is right.  I wondered: if plants have any level of self-awareness, what’s it like to be so calm and still for so long and then begin to make your move into spring?

Several months ago, I arrived early for mass at the Santa Barbara Mission. I appreciate the respect for privacy and silence which is the norm in Catholic churches. I found a seat in the middle of an empty pew near the rear. Seven or eight others were in solitude, some sitting, others kneeling. I closed my eyes and centered myself, then mentally named blessings and concerns, as well as my wish to be open to new possibilities. Then I opened my eyes and looked around. I thought about the others with whom I was sharing this space and time. I wondered what their own private thoughts and prayers were like.  Did their “inner voice” sound like mine?  What were they saying or asking for?  Here we were, this random group of human beings, each in our own private world of thoughts and feelings.  But all wanting to be open to something more.

Recently I gave a presentation to a local men’s group.  My topic was how spirituality can be expressed in our everyday work.  I shared stories about people who have found meaning in their labor.  Afterwards, one of the men came up and handed me a note. He told me it was a question he had used many times to help people find direction: “What is Life trying to express through you?” 

I believe the roses and shrubs know: “Our reason is to blossom, flourish and pass Life on.” 

At times in my life, I’ve felt clarity about what I am being called to do.  Now is a time when I’m not sure what season it is for me.  The seasons of our life don’t always follow a set calendar – we must figure them out as we go.

What is Life trying to express through you this season?

George Washington Died a Worried Man

How many times have we held a quarter in our hand and seen his profile? There he is: calm, strong and confident. 

Every February, teachers would tell us the story of how young George went to his father and confessed he could not tell a lie – he was the one who had chopped down the cherry tree.  We were encouraged to follow his example of honesty.

History books often include the painting of him standing in the middle of a rowboat full of soldiers crossing the icy Delaware River on a winter’s night.  They won a daring victory which became a turning point in the Revolutionary War.  We were encouraged to be inspired by his courageous leadership.

After winning the war, he was elected our first president, then reelected, then peacefully stepped down.  He was honored as “First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen.” We were taught to revere his life and example.

But nobody told us he died a worried man.

After the 2016 election, the historian Thomas Hicks wrote First Principles: What American Founders Learned from the Greeks and Romans and How That Shaped Our Country.  He wanted to know what values guided and inspired our first four Presidents: Washington, Adams, Jefferson, and Madison. 

I learned Washington was not as well educated as the other three – they could read Greek and Latin and speak French; he spoke only English. They had spent extensive time in Europe, he never left America. They read books on philosophy and political theory while he preferred books on farming. 

He believed you can always learn from your mistakes, which served him well as a military commander.  He believed in the importance of personal and civic virtue, which he saw embodied in the great leaders of Classical Rome.  He sought to be honest in all his dealings and respected the opinions of those who didn’t agree with him, refusing to be dragged into political factions.  Personal integrity and selfless service to his country were of utmost importance. 

These ideals served him well in his 45 years of leadership.  But after he left office, he saw the rise of political parties which seemed to disregard all he stood for.

A month before he died, he wrote, “I have for some time past viewed the political concerns of the United States with an anxious and painful eye. They appear to me to be moving by hasty strides to some awful crisis…”[i] 

“He would die a worried man. On Thursday December 12th, 1799 and the following day, Friday the 13th, he did farm oversight work on horseback, even though the weather was an atrocious mix of rain snow and sleet. That evening he was hoarse. Between two and three in the morning of Saturday December 14th, he woke Martha to tell her he felt ill and that his throat was painfully sore. Doctors came and during the course of the day bled him four times, which probably sped him toward his demise that evening. His secretary Tobias Lear reported to President Adams that Washington went out like a Roman: ‘His last scene corresponded with the whole tenor of his life — not a groan nor a complaint escaped him in extreme distress — with perfect resignation and in full possession of his reason he closed his well spent life.’”[ii]

Hicks’ book gave me a new respect for the complexities of George Washington. It also cast a light on one of his closest followers, James Madison. 

Madison had a different view of humanity than his mentor. He did not believe you can count on political leaders being virtuous.  (“…it’s not saying that humans are wicked and have no virtue, just that virtue alone is not sufficient.”[iii])  People will be motivated by self-interest and gravitate to others who share their interests, forming factions and parties to advance their aims. We need a system of government with checks and balances that assumes and sets boundaries on such behavior.  Madison became the primary architect of our Constitution.

The book was published in 2020, and in the closing chapter Hicks asks: “What would the founders say about the America of today? Is our nation what it was supposed to be, or what they hoped it would be?  He answers, “The picture is mixed.”[iv]  That was in 2020. I’m guessing he’d give the same answer this year.

George Washington has been called the “Father or Our Country.”  Many fathers and mothers come to their last days looking back and wondering what they could have done differently.  They are often deeply concerned about how life will go for the people and institutions they have loved and served.  They worry.  But they’ve done their best. What happens after them depends on the action of those who follow.

Washington Crossing the Delaware, Emanuel Leutze, 1851

Postscript: In light of recent debates regarding the history of American slavery, I found this worth noting: “In his will Washington tried to free as many of the enslaved people on his plantation as legally possible. Some were the property of Martha and her heirs. Others were married to those owned by Martha. He was the only founder involved in human bondage who tried to emancipate so many enslaved people.”[v]

[i] Hicks, pg. 243

[ii] Hicks, pg. 243

[iii] Hicks, pg. 207

[iv] Hicks, pg. 285

[v] Hicks, pg. 243

The Way of Nature and the Way of Grace

I’ve been ruminating over these words for fourteen years:

Τhe nuns taught us there are two ways through life- 

the way of nature… and the way of grace.

You have to choose which one you’ll follow.

Grace doesn’t try to please itself.

Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked.

Accepts insults and injuries.

Nature only wants to please itself…

– Get others to please it too.

Likes to lord it over them…

To have its own way.

It finds reasons to be unhappy… 

when all the world is shining around it, 

when love is smiling through all things.

Τhey taught us that no one who loves the way of grace

ever comes to a bad end.

We hear this in the voice the mother of the O’Brien family (Jessica Chastain) at the opening of The Tree of Life. As she recites the first six lines, we see dream-like images of her with her young sons in 1950s suburban Texas. At the line, “Nature only wants to please itself…” the camera shifts to the father (played by Brad Pitt) at their dinner table.  After several viewings, I realized the shift in focus suggests the mother embodies the grace the nuns talked about while the father embodies “the way of nature.”

“The way of grace:” self-less, tolerant, forgiving.  The “way of nature:” self-centered, willful, domineering.  Those living “the way of grace” experience a world shining with love; those living the way of nature are blind to all that shines, and instead “finds reasons to be unhappy.”

From the beginning of my spiritual awakening in my twenties, I wanted to “live in the way of grace.”

As a pastor, living “in the way of grace” felt like the ideal job requirement. I strived to lift that up and live that out with the people I was serving. It brought me joy.

As time has passed, I am less certain one can always live in the way of grace.

As Malick uses the phrase “way of nature,” it feels selfish, insensitive, and destructive.  But we can think of it another way. I am going to interpret it as our biological and evolutionary history.  We carry primal instincts within us that recognize our need to survive.  We can draw on a stubborn stamina that enables us to endure hard times with grit and determination.  If we lose at something and it hurts, we may resolve to recover instead of giving up. Winning and accomplishing a goal feels good. We find ourselves in a position of power and appreciate what that offers – not only for ourselves, but for others.  Are these moments we want to run from?

I once organized and participated in an Earth Day retreat at the La Casa de Maria Retreat Center.  We had invited a local trail guide to lead a tour of our property.  He had an interest in both the natural world and ways we can listen to our ancestors.  Our group took an hour to make a slow walk around the 26-acre property, stopping along the way.

We came to the organic garden and paused.  He reminded us human beings have been farming for several thousand years.  He asked us to close our eyes and visualize our own ancestors farming and what their life was like. Most of my ancestors came from Scandinavia. I found myself traveling back in time, watching them work in the cold climate and bare soil.

We came alongside the San Ysidro Creek.  Before agriculture, our ancestors were hunters and gatherers.  We closed our eyes and imagined their life.  I realized my ancestors survived by learning to fish the North Sea and hunt elk.  A hard life.

Living “the way of nature” involves cunning and a strong will.  That can get messy when it demeans other people.  But those instincts in themselves are not bad.

In 2008 I transitioned from parish work to leading nonprofit organizations.  I discovered I could not be, in the eyes of everyone, always “full of grace.” Sometimes I had to make unpopular decisions.  We had to let some people go, and as they left they didn’t feel like “love was smiling through all things.”  But these actions had to be done.  Looking back, I don’t regret them. It was part of my job.

The spiritual life is not an unending experience of grace and beauty.  Jesus was more a lion than a lamb.  Many of his conversations comforted, healed and renewed.  But other times he confronted people with their self-righteousness, and they walked away dejected or angry.  He told people what they needed to hear.

Trying to be gracious every moment doesn’t guarantee ideal outcomes. Sometimes things just go badly.  But we do the best we can.

Is it true — “…there are two ways through life – the way of nature… and the way of grace.  You have to choose which one you’ll follow?” I’m not so sure it’s that simple.  I believe there is a third way, one which draws on both nature and grace.  There are times when we need instincts for survival that nature has given us so we can protect ourselves and others and do the right thing.  But that doesn’t exclude “the way of grace.”  Grace is always worth striving for, and when it emerges it comes with a radiant awareness.

Images: The Tree of Life, Terrence Mallick


Last October I wrote another post inspired by Tree of Life: Where Were We?

Taking Care of Your Gyroscope and Your Compass

I follow different weekly columnists looking for useful insights.  I recently saw a comment by Peggy Noonan giving advice to fellow commentators as we face what might be a chaotic year: “Keep your tools, compass and gyroscope, clean, dry and level.”[i]

I liked this statement.  The metaphors weren’t new, but I appreciated putting them together: “Keeping your…compass and gyroscope, clean, dry and level.”

I take our personal gyroscope to be what keeps us balanced when our life gets topsy-turvy – what keeps us in touch with our deepest values and best thinking.

A compass helps locate where we are at any one moment.  It gives us trustworthy information with which we can decide on the best direction to go.

It is common for us to start our day, our year and any new chapter in our life with certain assumptions about what’s going to happen and how we will respond. Sometimes things unfold like we expect. But often unforeseen events happen – events that we did not see coming — and we can feel like we’ve been knocked off balance and are lost. Time to check our navigational instruments.

I have previously written about a scene from the movie Lincoln. [ii] In the winter of 1865, Lincoln wants to have Congress pass the 13th amendment (abolishing slavery) before the Civil War ends.  He needs the support of Thaddeus Stevens, an abolitionist who wants an amendment that goes beyond just the abolition of slavery to declare the total equality of the races.  Lincoln and Stevens have the same inner conviction that equality is the ultimate goal – they share a similar gyroscope.  But Lincoln knows Steven’s amendment won’t pass. Lincoln grew up on the frontier and has been in wilderness. He says, “The compass points you true north but does not warn you of obstacles and swamps along the way.”  Where we want to end up may be clear but the way to get there may not be; we must forge ahead as best we can.  Stevens reluctantly agrees to compromise and with his support the amendment passes.

I’ve performed many weddings in my ministry. Early on, I wanted couples to have a good experience in premarital counseling, but knew I was not equipped to provide it. I found marriage and family counselors whom I trusted and arranged with them to see couples for three sessions.  I would tell the couples that an added benefit would be becoming familiar with someone in town they could always go back to for support and advice as time went on – people who could help them get in touch with their “compass and gyroscope” when needed.

One topic I did personally discussed with couples was the vows.  Sometimes people wanted to write their own vows, which I could support. But I would also have them consider the traditional vows:

I, ____, take you, ____, to be my lawfully wedded (husband/wife), to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

I would tell them to consider the three couplets: “for better/for worse, for richer/for poorer, in sickness/in health.”  When events in life are going for the “better,” if we are feeling “richer,” and if we are in good health, loving another person is easy.  But consider what might happen when life events are becoming “worse.”  Or circumstances mean you are getting “poorer.”  Or one person becomes seriously ill.  These vows mean that you will not turn away in hard times but promise to dig in and deepen your commitment.  “Hollywood movies show how wonderful falling in love is,” I would say, “but over the years I’ve learned to look at the couples who hang together in hard times.  They develop a love deeper than just emotions – they create a bond that is lasting and profound.”

I would add that spiritual beliefs and practices become particularly valuable in disorienting times.  There is wisdom beyond just ourselves that can be found in prayer and contemplation, in timeless teachings about what makes life worth living, and what our ultimate purpose can be.  Calling on these resources is turning to our spiritual gyroscope.  Then we can check our compass to see if we are headed in the best direction and not get stuck in an egocentric wilderness.

Sometimes we need to find an environment which helps us tune in to our gyroscope and compass.  For three decades, I was involved at the La Casa de Maria Retreat Center as a board member and director.  Individuals and groups would come for a day or several days for retreats.  There were no televisions or newspapers, and we enjoyed limited cell phone service.  People were free to wander our 26-acre oak forest, orchard and spiritual gardens.  They could enjoy good food, leisure time and opportunities for meaningful contemplation and conversation.  This was our mission statement:

The mission of La Casa de Maria

is to be a sanctuary of peace

Where groups and individuals

Can renew their purpose

Strengthen their community

And increase their effectiveness in the world.

La Casa was a place where 12,000 people every year people could tune into their gyroscopes and compasses.  It was inspiring to see what a difference the right environment could make and what it means for people to find a direction in life they know to be right.

In the days to come, may we each make good use of our gyroscopes and compasses.

[i] https://www.wsj.com/opinion/what-is-your-attitude-toward-trump-2-0-f3f8532c

[ii] “Faith and Sight,” Dec 9, 2023,  https://wordpress.com/post/drjsb.com/2925

Lead image: La Casa de Maria, givinglistsantabarbara.com;

Waking The Dead

The documentary filmmaker Ken Burns was raised in a small, 2-bedroom home in Ann Arbor, Michigan.  A recent article[i] describes his personal journey, which began with a traumatic childhood:

Ken was 11 and his brother, Ric, was 10, when their mother was on her deathbed. Their father, Robert Kyle Burns Jr., an anthropologist, was mentally ill.

As his mother’s cancer metastasized, Ken overheard conversations — his mother pleading with relatives, asking for someone, anyone, to take her boys in the event of her death. “I remember being scared — scared all the time,” he said.

With their mother in the hospital, the boys were left to wait at home for the inevitable. On the night of April 28, 1965, Ken went to bed with one of the worst stomachaches he had ever had — his body registering what none of the adults would speak about.

The pain disappeared suddenly. The phone rang. His mother was gone.

Following his mother’s death, his father would disappear “for hours and then days at a time” and sometimes be gone for months.

There is a saying I learned when I was at Hospice of Santa Barbara: “Pain that is not transformed is often transferred” — meaning if we don’t’ find a way to channel personal hurt and anguish into something positive, we can end up inflicting that pain on ourselves or others.  In his grief and confusion, Burns found such a path:

The filmmaker remembers the exact moment when he decided what he wanted to do with his life: He had never seen his father cry — not in all the years his mother had fought an excruciating illness, not even at the funeral — until one night after her death. His family was in the living room in front of their black-and-white TV, watching a movie, and suddenly his father began weeping.

“I just understood that nothing gave him any safe harbor — nothing,” Ken Burns said, except the film, which had created the space for a bereaved widower to express the fraught emotions he had suppressed.

Burns began creating historical films that would present the past as something much more personal than just a series of facts. Through stories, letters, photographs, and music, he has been able to bring real people to life, whether the topic is baseball, music (jazz and country), war (World War 2 and Vietnam) or any other topic.

The article ends with this:

Years ago, a psychologist finally gave him an answer to the meaning of his work. “Look what you do for a living — you wake the dead,” the psychologist told him.

When I finished the article, I realized much of my life has been about “waking the dead.”   I’ve been reading history and biographies since grammar school, constantly looking for how real people endured hardship and crises.  I love listening to music that can seem to bring the composer’s lived experience accross time and directly into my heart and mind.  I gaze at works of art hoping to time-travel into someone else’s world and imagination. I turn to the great spiritual traditions to listen to their wisdom and insights. I never thought of it as “waking the dead” but maybe that’s what I’m seeking – and not just to “wake” them but to be in a living and learning relationship with them.

Some years ago, I heard the writer, activist and defender of rural values Wendell Berry speak at UCSB as part of a series on environmental poets.  In the question-and-answer period, someone asked if, given his dedication to family farms, gardening should be a required subject in high school.  Berry paused for a minute, then said, “No, students should read Homer and the Bible, because they need to know they problems they are facing are not new.”  Our world has changed a great deal in terms of technology and science, but the challenges of being a responsible and resilient human being have not. I’m grateful for those who can wake the dead so we can learn from them.

“As a baby, Ken Burns appeared in this photo showing his mother spoon feeding him.” (NY Times)

[i] “The Land That Allowed Ken Burns to Raise the Dead,” New York Times, Nov 27, 2024

Lead image: “Burns in the mid-1970s, just as he was starting to create his film studio”  (from the Times article.)

Wherever You Go, There You Are

                  “Wherever you go, there you are” is a quote that has been around for many years.[i] It’s been nudging me recently.

                  This past week I decided to go through some old files.  They included a selection of my academic papers, published articles, old sermons, early courtship letters from our marriage, and family Christmas letters we’d sent to friends over the years.  I was surprised at some things – I didn’t remember taking that particular class or having that specific experience. It felt like I was watching my life go by and also sensing I’m the same person as when it all began.  It’s like being on a train, passing through unknown places and having unexpected experiences, but realizing it’s an unchanged “me” looking out the window the entire trip. Wherever I went, there I was.

                  What I see now in the mirror looks different than what I’ve seen the past but it’s the same me that’s looking.

                  What will eventually happen to this “me” that seems to be the ongoing observer of my life?

A good friend of mine has been a hospice volunteer for many years and at the bedside of many dying people.  Given the right care and support, he tells me people coming close to having their “me” leave their body feel no fear but experience a calm trust in the unknown. 

                  Some say “dust to dust, ashes to ashes” … period.  We are made of eleven basic elements, mostly carbon, oxygen and hydrogen.  How amazing that eleven elements could come together in just the right way to create a space for a “me” that looks out at this world, tries to make sense of it, lives for decades, then dissipates and disappears. 

                  Some say, “dust to dust, ashes to ashes, yet in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life.”  The me that was carried along by the material elements doesn’t disappear when those elements cease functioning but continues in some form, and it all comes as a gift.

                  I remember someone asking Huston Smith, the great scholar of world spiritual traditions, what happens when we die.  He said the spiritual traditions assume one of two possibilities.  The first possibility is that we keep our self-awareness and become witnesses of something awe-inspiring like an eternal sunrise.  The second possibility is our awareness simply dissolves into the sunrise.  Then he smiled and said, “I like to think I might have a choice. If so, I’d choose to first witness the divine sunrise. But after a while – maybe after a thousand years — I’d decide that was enough. Then I’d let go and become part of it all.”

                  Back to sorting files.  Happy New Year.

[i] There are numerous possible sources of this quote, but it gained popularity in 1994 as the title to a book by Jon Kabat-Zinn: Wherever You Go, There You Are: Mindfulness Meditation in Everyday Life.

Where’s Your Axis Mundi?

It’s a word I liked the first time I heard it:  axis mundi. 

I encountered it in graduate school reading The Sacred and Profane, a study of world religion and mythology by Mircea Eliade.  It means the “axis” around which the earth “turns” — not physically, but spiritually and psychologically.  It’s a place where people believe heaven and earth meet.

Jerusalem has long been seen as an axis mundi, a city sacred to Jews, Christians and Muslims.  For traditional Japan, it has been Mt. Fuji.   For Catholics it’s Rome.

Some indigenous tribes in Australia are always on the move, and they carry a sacred pole with them which they erect each place they stay – a portable axis mundi. 

In 2000, I had a 3-month sabbatical project that focused on how digital technology was beginning to affect everyday life.  I visited and conducted interviews in two locations.   

Silicon Valley was already becoming the axis mundi of the tech age. In my interviews and observations, one could already sense that digital tech was becoming something close to a religion.  In the Tech Museum in San Jose, I purchased a computer mouse pad made to look like a Muslim prayer rug.  I visited one of the largest Fry’s stores (in the pre-internet retail era, Fry’s was a “Mecca” for electronic parts and gadgets.)  Some were designed to look like Mayan temples:

One month later I went to India, which was becoming part of that revolution.  After interviewing tech professionals and academics in Bangalore, I spent time in the ancient city of Varanasi on the banks of the Ganges River.  In Hindu belief, there is no place on earth where heaven and earth come closer, and therefore no better place to bathe, die, be cremated and have your ashes scattered.

                  By 2006, I had realized the most sacred religious site in the Western Hemisphere was the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City. Growing up in California, I had seen the Guadalupe image all my life but knew nothing about what it meant.  I learned that, in Catholic tradition, the Virgin Mary appeared to an indigenous peasant, Juan Diego, in December,1531.  She looked more like a native woman than a European and spoke to him in his own dialect: “Am I not here, I who am your mother?” She gave Juan Diego her robe or tilma.   When he took it to a skeptical archbishop and unfurled it, pink roses fell to the floor and her image had become imprinted on the garment.  The tilma is preserved in a glass case in the cathedral.  I spent a week in the city that summer, making several visits to the Basilica.   I watched thousands of faithful pilgrims arrive to worship and celebrate, and was moved by their joy and devotion.

Mt. Shasta is just south of the Oregon border. We’d driven by it many times over the years as we traveled between Washington state and California, but I hadn’t considered it anything more than an impressive volcanic formation. In 2009, we spent a week at a yoga/hiking retreat in the town of McCloud at the base of the mountain. We could see the peak every morning from our window.  As we hiked during the week, we saw it from many angles.   On the last day of the retreat, our group hiked to Squaw Meadows, an alpine meadow on the side of mountain at an elevation of 7,900 feet. I felt smaller and increasingly insignificant in the presence of the mountain’s mystery and majesty; I began to appreciate why both native people and contemporary spiritual seekers from around the world consider it an axis mundi.  We’ve returned to the area every summer for 15 years.

In 1233, St. Francis returned to Italy from the Holy Land where he had visited a cave that was the traditional site of Jesus’ birth. Wanting people to appreciate the setting of the Christmas story, he created the first outdoor nativity scene including live animals.  Nativity scenes have become a familiar axis mundi in countless households and sanctuaries ever since.  When viewed with reverence, candlelight and song, a nativity scene affirms that divine presence can be sensed not only on mountaintops, but also in the lives of humble people in unexpected places.

Some traditions have steered away from emphasizing any particular physical place where we encounter the divine and instead look within our individual awareness.  Quakers affirm that every person has within them an “inward light” or spark of divine energy.  By practicing silent introspection, we can access and experience that light and find guidance from it.

I have visited many sacred sites in my life.  I always try to understand and appreciate the beliefs and imagination of the faithful who are drawn there.

 At the same time, the purpose of visiting such places doesn’t end with the personal encounter. Recent studies have established a powerful connection between experiences of awe and an increased capacity to care for others.[i] Coming into the presence of axis mundi sites can have that effect.  The purpose of spiritual life is not to have a specific experience, but to discover within us a deep reverence for life and others and let that form our character.  As Huston Smith said, “Spirituality is not about altered states but altered traits.”

[i] https://drjsb.com/2022/09/03/starstruck-the-relationship-between-awe-and-caring/

Pocket Epiphanies #200: A Buffet of Past Posts

On December 17, 2020, I posted my first piece for this “PocketEpiphanies” blog. It’s hard to believe, but this week marks my 200th. I went back and picked out a dozen that may be worth reposting. Think of this as a “blog buffet” — see if any particular one interests you and put it on your plate. And thank you for being part of this project.

Narcissim of Small Differences  We prize attention to detail in many areas of life.  But we can easily fall prey to the “narcissism of small differences.”   We can make choices about things that have little relation to their actual value.

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Silver Keys, Mean Moms and Compassion in the Workplace  The right thing to do was not to simply feel compassion for everyone involved, but to find a solution to the problem. That took “art and skill.”

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Starstruck: The Relationship Between Awe and Caring Gazing at the heavens may help us make a better world on earth.”

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Two Questions, Two Art Works, One Life to Live  Maybe the best way to find ourselves is to give ourselves away.

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Seeing People Like Trees  And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are.

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I Hope I’m Wrong  Dear friends, I hope I’m wrong about all this. I know there may be some very positive uses for AI, especially in medicine. But I’m worried. 

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The Intrinsic Power of Veriditas What I saw was a glimpse of the viriditas that permeates and surrounds us, an inner force we share.

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My Plan for Dementia Care  …one of my constant themes is my sense of awe at the miracle of life, and gratitude for all the opportunities and experiences I’ve had. But I don’t want to live “beyond my time,” and I don’t want my family to be emotionally or financially burdened caring for me when I don’t have a life I can appreciate. 

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“Mind Proposes, Soul Disposes”  “This may be important. I need to be attentive.”

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GRACE: A Focusing Practice   We are embodied human beings who have been gifted with this amazing multisensory life-form and a miraculous mind which, when they are working together, can open us to a rich awareness of where we are and what is possible.

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Private Thoughts  I can’t believe a light that burned so brightly in my life has disappeared from my sight.

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Letting Your Soul Catch Up With You  “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.