OPEN WINDOWS, OPEN LIFE

  Today I drove on I-95 with the car windows down, something I rarely do, and it was fun, for a change, to feel the outside world roaring in to me as I drove. It was shrill and sometimes almost harsh on my ears, but it was also sort of refreshing, in a funny way. It started me wondering whether I could leave the “windows” of my life open more often, just welcoming in whatever happens to come along. Could I tolerate – and even say a pleasant hello to – all the “noise” that life sends to each of us? With my “windows” – my heart, I guess – wide open, could I learn to let in the bad with the good, and perhaps even find some wisdom and benefit in the bad? Like some of us, I drive – and live – in a fairly closed-up way, but this morning’s free-feeling, open-window trip on the highway showed me the possibilities of living a more unfastened, unenclosed sort of life. It might make for a fun ride.

GLORY IN A BACKYARD

      

This morning was a glorious one. Truly, all mornings are probably glorious, but this morning I was actually able to notice the glories. In just a few minutes, I saw sparrows fluttering in their simple splendor around the bird feeders, a shimmering hummingbird whirling its wings at its feeder, old and noble branches bending in the breeze, and sunlight shining on brown shingles. I must admit that I don’t often notice the prestige and magnificence in our backyard, but this morning the glory couldn’t be missed.

BREAKING OPEN

      Early this morning, as light was brightening our backyard, the phrase “break of day” came to mind, and it seemed odd that breaking something could bring good results. Here was sunshine suddenly sweeping across the yard, simply because, as we say, the day had “broken”. Usually when something breaks, we think of injury or damage, but when dawn breaks, the brightness of a new day is at hand. It started me thinking of a friend who told me of the grief he suffered because of his divorce, but also of the strange rebirth he experienced. He said the break-up of his marriage brought misery, yes, but it also brought, eventually, a surprising sense of renewal – a resurgence, he said, of youthful feelings he thought were gone forever. He told me that, as the sorrow of the divorce slowly transformed into acceptance and understanding, he sometimes felt like his life was filling with light, helping him see, perhaps for the first time, who he really was. As I thought about him on this sunny morning, it seemed strange that suffering can start a new light shining -- strange that something breaking can bring to light a new kind of life.

THE INNOCENT UNIVERSE

    

     With so much seeming disorder in the world today, it may seem silly to speak of our universe as being “innocent”, and yet, when I manage to step far enough back to get a bigger picture, it truly seem like the universe does no harm, ever. Yes, there are storms and wars and heartrending losses and disasters of astonishing size, and yet the universe seems always able to stay on its steady, 15-billion-year-old course. There are tragedies, but these tragedies, again and again, seem strangely balanced by triumphs. There’s loss after loss, but the losses are always, in due course, succeeded by offsetting gains. Leaves die and fall in autumn, but fresh life always flourishes in the spring. The universe seems to be a purely innocent and smoothly flowing river of compensation, where every wave and swell has its necessary place, and where “good” and “bad” both disappear in an immense and endless harmony.    

SOFT WEAPONS

 I suppose like many of us, I grew up with the idea that life is a non-stop skirmish with all kinds of enemies – hostile people, disease, disaster – and it was my task to take on these enemies with the best weapons available. Over the years, I learned to use the swords of self-deception, self-satisfaction, egotism, and a sort of concealed belligerence in wars with these so-called enemies, but in the second half of my life, I came in contact with softer weapons that seemed to work way better. I guess I learned some lessons from watching water – how its softness is what makes its astonishing strength. Water is so easy-going and graceful, and yet so forceful. It effortlessly accepts whatever falls into it, and yet is strong enough to support ships of enormous size. Slowly, my weapons -- most of them, anyway --  have turned into water’s kind of softness, into light and mild qualities like gentleness and acceptance. I’ve found that calmness and hospitality can sometimes disarm the scariest enemies. In a good way, I guess I’ve grown soft with age. Learning from water, my best weapon is now a sincere welcome to whatever happens. In softness I’m finding victories.

GETTING WISDOM

 I’ve occasionally said to my wife, “I’m going out to get some groceries”, or “I’m going out to get the car fixed”, but I’m sure I’ve never said, “Honey, I’m going out to get some wisdom” – and yet it’s what I need the most. I devote hours and days to getting all kinds of stuff – exercise, food, money, store products, friends – but very little time getting the kind of deep understanding that brings real light to a life. I’m prompt about getting prescriptions filled, but not especially swift in getting insights about how to live with poise and light-heartedness. I’m good at getting to the Y most days for a workout, but getting wisdom about why the world sometimes seems to be in a senseless mess is another matter. I guess my priorities need repositioning. I guess getting wisdom should be right at the top, instead of down below with getting a Snickers and getting to bed at nine.    

FINDING WISDOM

(in Hanover, NH, with Delycia)

     I guess like most of us, I have been searching for wisdom for most of my life – searching for some sense of who I am and what this thing called life is all about. Sometimes – often on silent, unblemished summer mornings like this one – I realize, to my dismay, that my search has been wasteful and silly, since true wisdom doesn’t have to be searched for. It’s wherever I am, as ever-present as air and as immeasurable as the sky. To find wisdom, I simply have to stop searching for it, open the door of my small, cautious self, and walk out to where boundless wisdom is always making its miracles. It should be as simple as that.  

HONOR AND BRIGHTNESS

       I’ve known some people who seemed to think their lives were shameful and of no use to anyone, when all I could see radiating out from them was honor and brightness. To me, they were first-class human beings who seemed to shine the light of sincere kindness wherever they were, but they seemed to see nothing but disgrace and shadows inside themselves. When I was with them, I felt lit up by their loving interest in others, by their gentleness, and by the welcoming openness of their lives, but about themselves they seemed to feel only meagerness and embarrassment. I wanted to shake them and say, “Don’t you see the light of love you shine on everyone! Don’t you know how wonderful you are!” Somehow, the brightness they brought to others, and the honor of their own lives – honor which helped others feel honorable as well – they never noticed.   

RECESS

In Hanover,  NH, with Delycia

     This morning, as we watched young people relaxing on the Dartmouth College green – tossing Frisbees and footballs, stretching out in the sunshine, strolling hand-in-hand – it brought back memories of “recess” when I was a kid, and made we wonder if these years in my 70’s have become a wholesale recess for me. The word “recess”, coming from the Latin, originally meant “go back”, and perhaps I’ve gone back, fairly wholeheartedly, to my childhood days. Perhaps I’ve become a born-again kid, for whom de-stressing and loosening up is an accustomed way of life. These days, I sometimes toss minutes and hours around like Frisbees, just seeing how time can sail and soar when I’m not fighting it. My days are occasionally like sitting in steady sunshine, or strolling with life to see where it takes me. I still work hard, especially at reading and writing and listening and thinking and loving, but I do it like I did recess in 3rd grade. These days I skip more than I struggle.  

REALIZING

     Occasionally I set aside an hour or so in which I do no reading or writing or walking or even talking; instead, I try to do what I call “realizing”. As an alternative to prioritizing, analyzing, or dramatizing (old habits of mine), I simply realize for a few minutes. One dictionary says to “realize” is to become fully aware of something, and to understand it better -- and this is exactly how I try to spend an hour now and then. I sometimes sit outside in the shade and do my best to realize – make more real – the limbs and leaves of trees as they bend and waver in the wind. I study them carefully and try to truly see them as they are, and before long, usually, some new understanding of them arises, as if they suddenly do become more real to me. I also sometimes realize the clouds in the summer sky above our house, just watching them wander along, steadily shifting their shapes. If I watch them long enough, they seem to slowly become more distinct, and therefore more remarkable, and somehow, again, a fresh kind of understanding of them comes to me. It’s an instructive way to occasionally spend an hour. It’s helpful, every so often, to realize this really wondrous world.

MY DOMINION

          I live with my wife in a small house on a small lot in a small town, but sometimes it becomes clear to me that my true home – my dominion, you might say – is far larger than that. The word “dominion” stems from the Latin word domus, meaning “home”, and my real home is a vast one, stretching from the most distant stars to the deepest depths of the ocean. The truth is that, like all of us, I am an inseparable and essential part of a measureless universe.  My home is not Mystic, but the cosmos itself, a cosmos where all things, from new-born babies to massive spans of mountains, are of equal importance. We all share dominion in this dominion of ours, this universe that knows no end to its territories and provinces.  From infinitesimal insects, to trees in forests, to presidents, to poor wanderers -- we’re all kings and queens forever and everywhere -- if only we knew it. This morning, lucky for me, I’m knowing it.

FLOURISHING

 While Cia’s flowers are thoroughly flourishing these days, I feel like I’m doing some flourishing myself. The word comes from the Latin flos, meaning “flower”, and in some ways my life seems to be flowering fairly profusely in these days of my 70’s. My skin may be sagging somewhat, and my days of speedy, hours-long cycling may be over, but something keeps springing up inside me, sort of the way bulbs rise up into blossoms. Call it eagerness, or spirit, or zeal, or sparkle – whatever it is, it seems stronger than ever now that my face is furrowed with 74 years. I haven’t run anywhere in years, but spirited thoughts sometimes run riot inside me, like the phlox that float luxuriously in her garden. My money doesn’t multiply every day, but my fervent feelings definitely do – feelings that make this old life feel like the young and plentiful garden it actually is.  

LEARNING FROM RAIN

     Watching the rain fall today in its somewhat blasé, easygoing way, I see that it’s sort of the way I’m living my life lately. I’m 74, and I guess I’ve done enough careful living that I can now deserve some carefree, devil-may-care days. The rain seems to sway this way and that in a totally stress-free manner, and I’m trying to let my life do something similar – lean wherever things want me to lean, swing this way or that with sorrows or joys, bend (instead of break) with the winds of change. But being blithe about things doesn’t mean being lazy or muddled, just free of the wish to control everything. The rain controls nothing, but simply sails where the weather wants it to, and I’m learning by watching. If I’m lucky, my coming days may be more like joyful free-falls than strenuous personal productions.  

A SHOW WORTH SEEING

On Laurel Lake in the Berkshires

8.3.15

     This morning, as I was sitting on the screened porch of our cottage, the sunlight was flashing on the windswept waves of the lake, and you might say some thoughts were flashing inside me, as well. They weren’t especially impressive thoughts, just the small, shaky, transitory ones that seem to be always flowing through my mind. In some ways, I seem to be made mostly of thoughts. By the thousands, they stream through me each day, swirling and sometimes surging and shimmering like the ripples on the sunny lake this morning. Of course, sometimes my thoughts are hushed and almost unseen, like Laurel Lake on a windless, misty day, but they’re always there, these inexplicable currents called thoughts, moving me through the days of my life. This morning I watched the flashing surface of the lake for a few minutes, just enjoying the ever-shifting patterns of the waves, and perhaps I should simply watch my thoughts more often. Sitting on the screened porch of my mind, I might see a fairly fascinating show.       

THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS

On Laurel Lake in the Berkshires

8.2.15

     This morning I went for a peaceful float on the lake, and was surprised, as always, by the strength of the water. As I easily drifted on the surface, I wondered how something so soft can be so strong? How can water, which sometimes seems the weakest and most insubstantial of materials, easily hold up my body, to say nothing of ships of astonishing size? I suppose it has something to do with the strange strength inherent in all weakness. I once knew a man who, though bed-ridden with a paralyzing illness, radiated the rarest kind of power. To stand beside the bed of this debilitated man was to feel almost afloat on his joyful inner strength. And what about air, that seemingly flimsy presence all around us? Does it not sometimes sweep through our neighborhoods with incredible power, as though something fragile suddenly found the force it always had? Tomorrow, I think I’ll keep a lookout for the strength in weakness – perhaps how the smallest birds soar easily across the lake, or how soft sunlight lights up an entire valley, or how old, furrowed fingers can type words that sometimes speak.