No Pie in the Sky

I mentioned the other day that the essence of spirituality consists in orbiting someone or something other than oneself. By that I didn't mean we make our lives revolve around someone else in the sense that we begin to live for them exclusively. We all know that can lead to co-dependence and the loss or misplacement of self. Rather, spirituality is about relocating one's essential center so we can achieve balance and perspective in our lives.

If you're a regular reader, you know I rarely venture into obvious discussions about religion or spirituality. I'm more intrigued by the ways we respond to little things, the subtle encounters that help us establish a sense of personal meaning and purpose. Life is pregnant with possibilities and we don't have to wait for something to hit us over the head in order to experience grace, though I have plenty of lumps that prove I've done just that.

For instance, it's difficult for us doctor types to relinquish control. We're accustomed, or in the case of students, we'd like to become accustomed, to writing orders and "leading the charge" against illness and disease. One of the things that made General George S. Patton so successful in the North Africa campaign during World War II was the fact that he didn't direct the action from the safety of headquarters a hundred miles away. He was there, in the thick of it, and we aspire to a similar kind of involvement.

But, the thing is, there are so many things in medicine (as in life) that you can't control. Even the best of treatments may fail and when we fail to recognize this, we can get over-invested, as though our ego is at stake. We become exhausted, burned out, of no use to anyone, not even ourselves. That's why relocating our center and allowing ourselves to be human is such a spiritual enterprise. By recognizing the element of mystery and the ultimacy of the unknown, we are freed to work effectively with what is known.

While spirituality for some may seem like "pie in the sky, by and by," for me it's emminently practical. Whatever the outward expression, whether Sabbath observance or simply spending an afternoon cutting firewood in the forest, it's about letting go of the notion that I am the center of the universe. As such, it can be experienced even (or especially) in those situations where we meet up with limitations to our knowledge, ability, or capability. Asking for help, opening the window to humility, and experiencing connectedness can be among the most profoundly spiritual things we do, if you think about it.

(Creative Commons image of Lt. Gen. George S. Patton and his dog, Willie, by ♪_Lisa_♪ via Flickr)

The Tom and Jerry Exchange

I was lying in bed this morning, trying to persuade myself to abandon the comfortable warmth of goose down blanket combined with Yellow Labrador, when I heard scuffling next to the bed. I'd shed my long sleeve T-shirt during the night because it was too warm and thought, Oh no, the cat's got it. He went through a chewing stage at one point, not unlike a puppy, and I figured he was at it again. I reached down to relieve him of temptation, and "Oh, my God!" plopped out of my mouth at the same time a mouse plopped out of the shirt onto the bed.

If that doesn't get your heart racing, it's time to get an implanted defibrillator. Microseconds passed and I realized it was dead, despite no evidence of trauma. The little guy likely had a heart attack while being the unwitting accomplice in a game of "Your Mother Warned You There Might Be Days Like This." Well-fed, my cat has no need of supplementing his diet with rodent a la sushi. He just wants to play, and for all I know, was trying to revive his companion with the feline version of CPR. I wonder what the ratio of breaths to compressions is for a mouse?

Anyway, sufficiently roused, shall we say, I deposited the mouse in the trash, dressed, and took the dog out into the first snow of the season. It's quite lovely, as you can tell from the photo. We got about five inches of the light, powdery variety that is easy to shovel and will probably melt quickly, much to the chagrin of the fellow who plows my driveway and barnyard.

I'd like to say winter arrived in a "startling" fashion, but as you know, the cat has been monitoring the price of mice on the Tom and Jerry exchange for several months. A thoughtful investor, he never misses a "buying opportunity" when he can get one. At the moment he's in the upstairs bedroom, intently inspecting the closet door, as though trying to send a subliminal message to whomever he smells within. I'm sure he's using a carefully contrived deception like, "The cat's asleep, the cat's asleep." Gary Larson (The Far Side) would be impressed.


(Photo by the author)

Getting Off the Elevator

The other day a friend of mine posed the question, "How does the ability or desire to love fade?" My first inclination was to go up into my head and intellectualize. Then it occurred to me I should "get off the elevator" and see what the heart had to say, so I switched off the computer and decided to sleep on it. With a cup of Whole Foods Holiday Blend at the ready, I'd like to give it a try this morning.

Desire and ability are two different things. I'm not sure everyone has the ability though most of us have the desire at some point. For me, loving involves placing someone (or something), along with their best interests, above my own. To do that, Planet Beggar has to be willing to orbit someone other than himself. This is the essence of spirituality.

Those who are narcissistically-impaired have no center other than themselves. The intention of their attention is to draw others into orbit around them. How you feel and what is important to you is ultimately of no consequence because you can never possess greater value than that which they claim for themselves. Whatever it's called, by my definition, this isn't love.

The desire to love fades as we discover, sometimes imperceptibly, that it has been misdirected. I have nothing to base this on except my own beliefs, but I think even animals shift their loyalty when love is denied them. Speaking as a person of faith, the only entity capable of, and willing to, love unreservedly and without at least a little bit of reciprocation, is God. And if there's anything I've learned as a minister, it's that there is a God and I'm not him. I'll bang my head against a door until it hurts, but sooner or later, even I can get the message there's nobody home.

Love seeks its own kind. And, by the way, I'm not talking specifically about romance. Love is unrelenting in its efforts to find itself in others, whether we call them friend, father, sister, or sweetheart. Loving once we wish to love again, and again, all the while our capacity growing in proportion to our giving. This is the essence of generosity.

There is an ebb and flow to love. As it eases away from what has proven unfruitful, it flows toward that which is. This is the essence of hope. Love seeking, love reaching, love laying hold of another, one after the other, this is the essence of love.


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The Maine Chain Saw Massacre

For the record, let me begin by assuring you that I didn't cut my leg off with the chain saw -- I didn't even come close. Nor did I hack, chew, or mangle anything resembling human tissue. But I thought about it. What I mean is, I was aware of the possibility and did all I could to avoid it. Whew, that started to sound weird, didn't it?

This all came about because there's snow in the forecast tomorrow evening, and it's uncertain how much we'll get. Cutting firewood is easier when you can see where you're going and my forest floor resembles an opened package of straight pretzels strewn across the counter. Add a little snow and walking gets downright tricky. So, on this last reliably sunny day, I headed out with my trusty chain saw intent on menace and mayhem with some standing dead trees.

Luckily, there were several near the boundary of the yard and I didn't have to spend a lot of time tramping around. This is especially nice since my boots weigh in at about two pounds each. Designed for expedition wear, they provide a great deal of lateral stability, which means I'm less likely to twist an ankle doing the Texas Two Step with downed timber. Having done that in the past, I wasn't eager for a repeat performance.

The hardest part of the afternoon involved getting a tree to actually fall. The surrounding forest is so thick that finding an open space between the trees is darned near impossible. The live ones snag their deceased counterparts and, as a result, I have to cut about six feet off the base of the tree, let the trunk break in two, and proceed section by section until I'm dodging the tip as it finally gives way. This is another good reason for not cutting firewood with snow on the ground.

While it wasn't quite the Maine Chain Saw Massacre, by the end of a couple of hours, I managed to clear two large trees, three or four smaller ones and get them into the barn. Believe it or not, this really is a lot of fun. I get to be outside, the physical activity feels good, and after I've cut the logs into shorter pieces and done my Paul Bunyan routine with the splitting maul, I'll be ready for winter. Sure, I could purchase firewood that's already split and cured, but I feel more independent this way.

Self-sufficiency has its limits, though; I'm going to sleep good tonight.


(Image via Wikipedia)

She Set Me Free

My favorite comic strip is Red and Rover, an ongoing story of a boy and his dog. Today's offering depicts Red blowing bubbles through a straw into a glass of chocolate milk. Rover comments, "Your mom is coming," and Red replies, "Let her. I have no intention of waking up one day, only to find myself a bitter old man, all because of a childhood not lived to its fullest."

There may be a genetic basis for self-consciousness and then again, it may result purely from environmental influences. Either way, somewhere along the line our attitudes regarding what constitutes socially-accepted behavior undergo changes. We find blowing bubbles through a straw endearing in a child and embarrassing if done by an adult -- especially in public. Some things are age-appropriate and I have absolutely no argument with that.

Self-consciousness as a barrier to self-expression is something else again. Mark Twain urged, "Dance like nobody's watching; love like you've never been hurt. Sing like nobody's listening; live like it's heaven on earth." As wonderful as that sounds -- and I think it does -- when a person has been raised to believe that not only is everyone watching, they're passing judgment, it's a risky proposition at best. And even if the environment was explicitly supportive, it's quite possible to have digested the implicit message that one had best be careful, so in some essential way, they hold back.

The morning before ninth grade Christmas break I was happily reading Irving Stone's The Agony and the Ecstasy, when my PE instructor entered the classroom and announced there was no need to suit up, because that day we were going to dance. Over the sound of groans coming mostly from us boys, he said everyone was expected to participate. The dread I felt initially quickly turned into terror. I didn't know one foot from the other on a dance floor and furthermore, asking a girl to be my partner felt nearly as threatening as a trip to the dentist. Maybe not quite, but pretty darned close.

Anyway, we obediently lined up, girls on one side of the gym, boys on the other, the music played, and with the exception of a few, including me, people paired up. Then a girl who was generally suspected to have fewer inhibitions than the earth has moons, approached and took my hand. It must have been comical, she who knew what she was doing and me who had no idea. We borrowed a do si do from sixth grade square dancing and I've been grateful for her ever since.

She could have picked any number of more appealing partners and whatever motivated her to choose me, the effect was liberating -- she set me free. Because of her, I was able to screw up the courage to ask another girl to dance. She refused, but that's not the point. The point is, I not only asked, I learned there is something worse than hearing "no." It's never asking at all.

Suzy's Cooties

"You've got Suzy's cooties!" said the boy as he slapped another on the shoulder and ran off. The slapping boy had inadvertently brushed up against Suzy, and touching her or anything she had touched meant a person had gotten Suzy's cooties. The way to get rid of them was to give them to someone else.

Suzy was African-American and the only one in my grade school. Like me, she came from a family considerably less affluent than the other children. The fact that both of us were outsiders in a community of insiders might have made a difference in other circumstances, but not in this one. I tried being friends with her once -- you know, birds of a feather? Her response made it absolutely clear she wasn't interested. Suzy was mad as hell.

Who could blame her? A virtual pariah, she was forced by social convention to use only one of the three student water fountains and, naturally, it was the oldest and poorest functioning. There were no signs stating, "Whites Only," but the effect was the same. I drank from that fountain as well, initially because I was an outsider, and then intentionally.

My family taught me that I should never treat someone badly simply because their skin color was different from mine. In fact, I shouldn't treat others badly, period, but especially because of skin color or religion. I had also been encouraged, for as long as I could remember, to be an individual. My parents explained there was no truth in what was said about Suzy and the right thing to do was drink from the same fountain and do so bravely.

So, that's what I did. And, of course, that rendered me not only an outsider but also an infected one. Over time, I somehow survived the "plague" and so did Suzy. Eventually, she found acceptance among some of the girls and I learned to rely on resources outside school to make life enjoyable. I haven't forgotten, however, how it feels to see someone treated as though their existence was a mistake. Nor have I forgotten how it feels to be treated as though you didn't belong.

Making our own way in this world isn't easy on the best of days. When we witness prejudice and injustice in whatever form, it behooves us to be fearless. We don't necessarily have to do anything dramatic. Simply drinking from the same fountain may be enough to send the message that you know the truth and intend to live by it.


(Image of Rosa Parks with Dr. Martin Luther King via Wikipedia)

Coping With Craziness

The clock read 5.42 AM when I was awakened this morning by the sound of something solid being batted around on the floor above my head. One of the local species of rodentia had packed a nut into the house and was having a feast, completely ignorant of the fact that their pleasure was at my expense. I laid quietly for a few minutes, hoping I'd already slept through the main course and s/he'd be finished shortly. No such luck. So, I got out of bed, grabbed the flashlight, and headed upstairs -- barefoot and in flannel pajamas (it gets cold at night in Maine).

After a few fruitless minutes of playing "Aha!" with my dinner guest, I gave up the search along with any expectation of returning to sleep and turned on the coffee pot, instead. Maple oat muffins are cooling on the stove at this very moment and the cat is in the window, hoping for a glimpse of anything that could be interpreted as prey.

We're a pair, I'll tell you. I've done everything I could to ensure no wild creature pays the ultimate price for freeloading on my property while he would like nothing better than to go after all of them. As long as he restricts himself to the occasional mouse, I'm not about to let my political views regarding "Bambi" interfere.

There's something mentally healthy about the consistency in all of this, up to and including "Julia Child" upstairs. I may be irritated over losing sleep but that's as far as it goes. My cat is glad for the company, the critter got away, and I'm at work. It's a lesson in coping. And most things that happen to us are better handled by coping than by craziness.

The holidays are upon us and that means family and whenever families get together, some measure of craziness can't be far behind. It's important to keep our heads and resist getting dragged into an age-old drama that no amount of rehashing will ever resolve. So what if there are "chipmunks" in the attic? As long as they don't do any damage, leaving well enough alone isn't such a bad strategy. Remaining focused on what's good about being together, enjoying the moment, and coping when an acorn gets rolled across the floor at 5.42 AM is better than going, ahem, "nuts," anytime.

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