For some there comes a time when a second chance is given.That time then becomes a celebration of the unrecognized gifts of the past and humble gratitude for the wonder of present.
This then is a collection of reflections and comments on life,work,love and faith to be sung ,and danced to, in thanksgiving for a second chance.
So
with just weeks away from another birthday I have had a number of reflections
and ideas about a blog post bouncing round and round in my head. I have drafted
at least four separate posts but I thought I would highlight just some random
sections from these drafts as the post today.
* Less
than a week has gone by since my 20 something daughter and fiancé’ gathered to
celebrate the music of the not-ready-to-retire original members of Fleetwood
Mac. There in the oceanside city that refuses to die, where lost sheep seek
dreams and gamble their fortunes is where we found ourselves. It was observed
that “The Mac still got it and time ain’t got nothing on these players!” The
congregation of pensioners and newbies danced and sang the night away.
“Everything
that dies some day comes back. Meet me tonight in Atlantic City.”
* So
there is a friend who is telling me that he is getting concerned about his age
as he moves forward in his second career, which in all truth should have been
his first. But that’s for another post. This friend and I know of a peer of
ours who has posted his age as being ten years younger than he really is. Hmmm?
A recent 6-week bout with sciatica as a result of two bulging discs reminded me
that I couldn’t do the same things the same way I did years ago. (Hey now…I am
talking about golf!) While in pain I couldn’t read, write or even play music. I
did worry for a while but the worrying didn’t change anything. Physical therapy
and prayer helped!
* There
are some Buddhist monks who spend days carefully creating intricate works of
art called “Mandelas” with millions of colored grains of sand only to brush
away the work of art when their work is done. They believe that the “art”, the
sacred experience is in the doing…in the “creating”, in the being “present.”
Being present is to be lost in the moment of the task at hand and all that
fills the spirit. “Yesterday is history, tomorrow mystery and the present is a
gift.” All is impermanence some say. There is no need the boast about what was
finally completed. It is being present to the moment that matters. I like to get
lost in the doing and the flow...
* The
pilgrim was asked to create a profile that featured his experiences, achievements
and credentials. He wrote down that he is most proud of his two daughters. The
newly designed automatic electronic digital form that was to collect his input
wouldn’t accept that response. So he tried again. This time he wrote about his family,
friends, playing music, running marathons, meditations and walking on the beach
at Cape May watching the sunrise. Again, big red letters appeared “ERROR: NOT VALID ENTRY!” and wouldn’t accept his
input. There were designated spaces about educational degrees earned, work
titles and employers and memberships to organizations. “That’s not who I really
am”, he thought.
* A dear friend sent me this quote in
response to some correspondence about my letting the winds and waves carrying
me to where I need to be…. Coincidence or a greater plan, who knows?
“Perhaps the best river runners are
Taoists at heart. Taoism considers someone wise if they accommodate themselves
to the rhythms of the universe.”
* Becoming a first time grandfather
recently has changed everything. All of a sudden the sacred has exploded like
some beautiful fragrant flower in the middle of the winter of my life and even
I feel reborn.
* I
read the quote below years ago and only recently did I begin to grasp it’s
meaning. I am not sure if I am correct but it doesn’t matter in the end does
it?
“Before
enlightenment; chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment; chop wood, carry
water.” ~Zen proverb
Don’t Stop – Fleetwood Mac ( Smart Phones click on link)
Does
it seem like some days you are in a never ending dream trekking through some
dark gray Paul Simon-like winter’s day - over and over and over? Books and poetry
begin to lose their comfort. Desolate Chicago blues tunes are the common acceptable
choice to play on your winter weary home stereo. The dog,who normally delights
in brisk walks, hesitates as his senses warn him of the frigid consequence of
stepping through the door.
Television
broadcasts of golf tournaments in summer-like climates are no longer watchable
as viewers sink into deeper doldrums. Local liquor entrepreneurs promote and
delight in the increasing of bourbon and wine sales. A news story of how a
husband and wife who took turns at using their 12 gauge shotgun on their state
of the art flat screen when a 24 hour ice skating marathon was broadcast are
seen as local heroes. Meteorologists hide as they are officially persona non
grata everywhere. Congress,
in its half-hearted attempt at across the aisle collaboration is said to
consider legislation to either shoot the messengers of bad weather or to ban
winter forever. Baseball spring training games are considered as a cruel tease.
Children urge escapes to the home of Mickey Mouse while their parents secretly plan
for a midnight getaway to Hemingway’s retreat at Key West . A nasty rumor leaks
out that the Pope is preparing an encyclical that God has stopped listening to
many in certain sections of the world and that “arctic vortexes” will become
the new norm. There is no new Noah to facilitate escape. Hope wanes.
They
say the next snowstorm will not be as bad as the last one. They say that it is
better to fill the tubs with water just in case the power lines come down due
to the weighted ice. They say the children no longer delight in the “snow days
off” as they will need to make up the time instead of a spring break. They say
the retailers have raised the prices of coats, hats, scarves and gloves. They
say the municipalities have used up their budgets for snow plowing, sanding and
salting. They say get your provisions before the roads freeze. They say, “you
are on your own!”
Without
warning something happens as pieces mystically fall into place. A not–a care-in-the-world giggling
gaggle of cherubs pulling sleds and ice skates saunter off to the hills and
pond past your window. The white
blanket suddenly seems to purify the once dark dismal landscape. A starling’s soft
soothing song sweetens the chilled air. The chimes respond gently to the frosty divine sourced breeze. The late owl’s call continues to query you and you no longer hesitate
to answer. A last minute almost
impromptu family reunion fills your home with unconditional joy and love. All
this is then capped off at your birthday dinner with your family as you
celebrate the now with one breath and in gratitude realize that warmth and
spring is ever present … within. The heart’s voice whispers “Wishes do come
true and everything is good."
The Winter of Listening
Inside everyone
is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.
Even with the summer
so far off
I feel it grown in me
now and ready
to arrive in the world.
All those years
listening to those
who had
nothing to say.
All those years
forgetting
how everything
has its own voice
to make
itself heard.
All those years
forgetting
how easily
you can belong
to everything
simply by listening.
And the slow
difficulty
of remembering
how everything
is born from
an opposite
and miraculous
otherness.
Silence and winter
has led me to that
otherness.
So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.
~ David Whyte ~
Shoveling Snow with Buddha
by Billy Collins
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over the mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.
Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.
Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm and slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?
But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.
This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.
He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
(The Charles River with a view of Boston from Cambridge - J.Sobecki)
MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
• Thomas Merton, “Thoughts in Solitude”
So the planned annual
pilgrimage to the cathedral of number nine in the town that birthed a revolution brought the
pilgrim up through the hills of the long tidal river. There ahead a cloud
poured a continuous veil of tears as his vessel and companion passed through a
black hole in the universe. The sound of anguished cries of mothers and angels
could be heard in the rain . No words were necessary as they reverently passed
the sign that read “Newtown.” Silence. Prayers. After years of repeated
passages their vessel and hearts knew this path perfectly to their Jerusalem
but now they were aware of how their journey and nothing would ever be the
same.
Just months previously that great storm of the century seemed to be the first ominous sign of that the universe was turning upside down as it battered their shores of their childhood. Memories were washed away to sea. The boss’s prophetic premonition lament of the light shining on the stranded stony faces on the shore should have warned them. Dreams and homes covered by soft-yellowed sand and water logged flotsam and jetsam saw hand holding families bowing heads bidding goodbye from the new shoreline while attempting to rekindle the flame of faith and hope. They will rebuild.
Then as he neared his Jerusalem, with great expectation of
redemption and deliverance, he crossed over into the town that had become his
adopted home. His welcome was celebrated like a Joycean wake mixed with the
songs of freedom by ghosts of patriots . Constant solemn bells rang out in sacred remembrance for all the broken hearts and the heroes. To him it was and is personal. He and the co-sojourner family pausing their moveable feast softly somberly joined the ever echoing voices of marathoners
and citizens in a reverential defiant chorus of “we are Boston Strong!”
“Storms end, souls consoled and prayers are answered for those
who believe” were words he recalled from a good book.
The prognosticators proven wrong, the rain ended and the sun broke
through the clouds like the first morning. Sitting within a tearful cry from
where a young man on the job in training had his life stolen by the sons of
Satan, he sat in silence watching the Charles flow. His heart moved by the
perpetual flow , the river of freedom – the gift of living in present with his family; the
gift to love and being loved, and the gift of hopes and dreams.
And
so it begins all over again .The end of a book. The end of a season . The end
of a year . The end of and era . Yet, nothing never seems to end , you know ,
with each ending there is a beginning.
New
pages, clear and clean readied to be filled.The pen in hand hesitant and yet
ready to script out what is not yet known or experienced. It is not just a new
chapter,it is a new book! A new idea! An original never before thought of
concept! Maybe it is a sequel? Maybe it is part of some undiscovered obscure
trilogy? Maybe it is just another episode already clear in the divine eye but
it just needs to be written by some pilgrim spirit.
Regrets?
Not many. Choices continue to be
discerned. What chord to strum? What song to sing? What book to read? What words to pull down from the
heavens to speak or write never to be erased or forgotten? When to let go and let it be. How to be
present. How to be loving and to be exactly who we are intended to be. Has this
Odyssey been a series of fruitless self-centered adventures with a few
uplifting unplanned blessings?... Or, is this passage a pilgrimage required for all wanderers to gain redemption?
Is
questioning faith, faith?
They
say that the season of Advent is a celebration of “waiting and preparation.” The pilgrim tries to
wait without wondering too much about how the renewed celebration of the birth
of love will rekindle his own fire as he prepares the hearth.
Billy
said, “and so it goes.”
Dorothy
said, “There’s no place like home.”
Saints
John and Paul said, “The love you take is equal to the love you make.”
Pedro
said, “God is love .”
The
pilgrim doesn’t need to look under an ornamented tinseled small multi-colored
lighted Douglas fir to understand what Ignatius meant when he said
Waking to the song of a solo bird in the moment when all the darkness begins to burn away becomes the moment when the physical and spiritual experience of hope exists in its purest form . The fogged meanderings from a dream-scaped night slowly rise as eyes permit the formation of colors of the new day to greet the soul. Folgers or any other caffeinated contrivances are obviously not the best things.
Reports of storms swirling , separating spirits from sentient beings leaving a serpentined shattered swath of splinters and rubbled ruins is all the news that fits . Pictures of edifices unscathed are visible under the brilliance of the sun that blesses the complete landscape as they scream out for mercy for their sacrificed neighbors.
Caseworker remembrances echo as the morning breaks. Thanksgiving sentiments sanctify the wires from the persistent frightened unbeliever who dodged another bullet. Exasperated offspring shakes her fist heavenwards seeking consolation and wisdom why barriers divert her partner from a desired vocation. The second one dreams of missionary safaris and finding her prince as another commoner drives away with a future king .The world watches and takes a breath from all the pain.
Songs crafted in a previous life rearranged are rerecorded. Mentoring from a member of the band mitigates fumbling through the technology as mix and levels are altered but the song has not changed.
Beatification : Divine Mercy Sunday/International Workers Day
( Don’t call me a saint!)
There were four amidst the gathering of 80,000 pilgrims in the land of giants on a torrential October day 1n 1995 .Immersed in the baptism
of constant rain they patiently waited in anticipation of a grace-filled presence. A somber sober sanctified celebration commenced. All they knew was that the man for whom they joined in cheer and reverence was somehow special. Their hungry spirits were nourished. The rain ceased and a holy aura encompassed the celebrant .Karol Józef Wojtyła was living confirmation that an imperfect human form can be sacred.
Post Script:
Books and blogs speculate about the nature of holiness and the institutional canonization of the acclamation of “saint” for certain individuals of virtue. This first day of May 2011 is celebrated as the day of Divine Mercy ( all giving unconditional love and forgiveness ) , as well as celebrating the Beatification of Pope John Paul II, who once suggested that our “prayer be are work and our work are prayer.” It is coincidentally also the day identified as “International Workers Day (May Day )”, honoring all who work. Reflecting on holiness, mercy and work - Dorothy Day comes to mind.
Reading her words and stories about her she seems to meet the core criteria of the church to be called “Saint.” The work of Dorothy Day was her prayer , her prayer was her life.
(Dorothy Day former agnostic, divorced, had an abortion, unwed mother, ex- Communist, common law wife, has a spiritual awakening and converts to Catholicism at about age 30 ….Social activist, co-founder of Catholic Worker Movement , author, peace activist , opens 30 that has grown to 100 communities to house and serve the working poor , homeless and marginalized ….
Dorothy Day once said “Don’t call me a saint, I don’t want to be dismissed that easily.”)
Somehow it becomes clear that all who listen to and follow their hearts are saints.
