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.       

LEAVES AND THOUGHTS AT 3:06 P.M.

Outside the window all the leaves seemed light

and free, just floating in the summer breeze,

and all their thoughts were just as free, like slight

and wavy winds that moved with perfect ease.

TO THE HARBOR

 A friend who has been feeling the effects of a long-standing physical problem told me recently that he sees, now, that the problem is like a wind that’s actually “bringing [him] home to the harbor” (his words). He said somehow this physical difficulty is slowly blessing him with a greater awareness that his real home is actually the entire vast universe, and not his small, sometimes distressed body. He said this chronic problem seems to have opened him to what he called “the immensity of life itself”, and he knows, now, that he’s part of an immeasurable “wind” that’s softly and irresistibly blowing toward greater understanding. He said he has come to think of his physical discomfort as an opportunity. (He explained that the word “opportunity” derives from Latin words meaning “in the direction of the harbor”.) He said he certainly doesn’t welcome or enjoy the discomfort, but he’s watching it patiently and earnestly to see how it takes him to a harbor, and how understanding slowly spreads out on the horizon.    

LIFE IN THE AUDIENCE

     It seems fitting that in these, my retirement years, I have decided to formally retire from my role as a performer. It seems to me that I have been performing on a daily basis for most of my life, trying my best to do countless big and little jobs as perfectly as possible. I guess I felt I had to “prove something” over and over by carrying out this or that duty in a successful manner. It was as though I was on stage, and only the best performance would earn applause. No more, though. I’ve stepped down from the stage and am now sitting serenely in the audience, watching the wonderful world I live in perform. Just now the sky above me is doing its “light blue with wispy cloud” performance, a breeze is executing its “brushing against flowers” routine, sparrows are showing off their flits and flutters at the feeders, my lungs are doing their lifting and falling presentation in a perfect way, and even the distant traffic on the interstate is staging its own show of smooth and steady sounds. Tell me, why should I bother to perform when there’s so much to see on the stage of this surprising world?

A LARGER LIFE

Slowly it has become clear to me that my seemingly little life, the one I’ve been carefully protecting all these years, is not little at all and does not need my protection. Decades ago, as a boy, I somehow became convinced that what I called “my” life was a small, separate, and at-risk entity, but now I see how mistaken I was. I see that “my” life is not mine at all, but is part of, and belongs to, the endless Universe, the way a drop of water belongs to the ocean or a wisp of a breeze belongs to the everlasting wind. I see that I no more need protection than does a drop of ocean water. The drop drifts with its measureless ocean, the breeze works within the wind, and I move as the Universe moves, swirling along with the currents of life the way stars stream along in the immensity of the sky. I do sometimes like to pretend that I, by myself, perform and produce, but I know now that it’s the endless Universe (some call it “God”) that always does the work. I see I am part of something so large it makes “my” artificial little life, the one I invented in boyhood and have been caring for ever since, seem silly and beside the point.              

A 74-YEAR-OLD CLOUD

     As I was watching some clouds carrying themselves across the sky today and slowly shifting their shapes, it occurred to me that I am a sort of cloud myself. I, too, am constantly changing, despite my deceptively fixed appearance. If people had seen me sitting outside this afternoon, they wouldn’t have seen the river of fresh thoughts flowing through me, each one new and special, each one making me someone slightly new. Nor would they have seen the cells in my body being purified or replaced, or the fresh oxygen bringing newness to my lungs, or the blood ferrying freshness to every part of my body. They would have seen a 74-year-old silvery guy staring at the sky, perhaps at a fluffy cloud that first looked like a lion, and then a ship, and then a sailing heart. They wouldn’t have noticed that his life was slightly new each moment. They wouldn’t have seen what was constantly being born inside him.

A PURE RIVER OF GIFTS

 We use a purification system at home to filter our well-water, but fortunately, I don’t need or want purifying treatment for myself, because I, like all of us, am part of a universe that has been flowing along in the purest of ways for eons. I may not like a lot that happens to me, but that doesn’t change the fact that a fundamental freshness and healthiness has been part of the universe from the start. With my self-oriented way of seeing things, yes, there does seem to be “contamination” of all kinds around me. Severe storms certainly don’t seem clean and fresh, and sickness seems a long way from freshness. However, all of it, in some mysterious way – all of the successes and defeats and pleasures and sorrows – is the interwoven, flawless work of an unblemished universe. I guess my goal is to see life, not as I personally want it to be, but as it actually is – the faultless flowing of a river of gifts that are 100% gifts.    

      

A GRATUITOUS LIFE

It often amazes me to realize how gratuitous my life has been – how totally unearned and unmerited most of the gifts I’ve received have been. Yes, I know I’ve occasionally worked hard and earned some justifiable rewards, but the big gifts, the important gifts, have come to me as unearned, free-of-charge presents. For instance, there’s the flood of helpful thoughts that flow through me each day, all of them coming without much effort on my part. I don’t strain and sweat to make useful thoughts; they somehow simply show up, like on-the-house gifts from the universe. And what did I do to deserve being born of hard-working, level-headed, and loving parents? I showed up in November of 1941, and there before me was the undeserved gift of a fairly well-off and wonderful family. Finally, there are the gifts I get day by day – a smile from someone, or a sweet word of kindness, or hours of steady sunshine, all handed to me on a platter free of charge. I wonder if I should feel embarrassed about all these free handouts, or just grateful for a universe that seems to give because it’s fun.

A TIP OF THE HAT

      During a walk with Delycia on this warm morning, I took my hat off whenever we entered a shady area, just to cool down, and it started me thinking about the old custom of men “tipping” their hats when in the presence of someone special – tipping their hats, and perhaps bowing with stately graciousness. We were not walking past kings and queens this morning, but we were surely in the midst of magnificence. There were, for instance, majestic old trees along the streets, some of which were here when my grandparents were young, and which still stand in a resplendent and regal way. Do they not deserve a tip of the hat and a bow? And what about the soft winds that cooled us as we walked, winds that have been working their magic in a solemn and measured manner for eons? Shouldn’t an old, grateful guy occasionally give them a tip of the hat and a cultured bow as he walks in the morning with his sweetheart?

A HOLY BACKYARD

 I’m sure somewhere in the Bible the phrase “a holy place ” is used, and I thought of it today as I was sitting beside Delycia in our backyard surrounded by her overflowing flower gardens. I hope I don’t offend anyone when I say that our backyard seems as holy a place as any church. Don’t we go to church to worship what’s beautiful and good and true, and don’t I find that in our backyard on a daily basis? What’s more beautiful than a crowd of lustrous coreopsis blossoms, and what’s more full of goodness than grand trees sharing their shade on a summer day? And where is the truth, and the whole truth, better found than in an everyday backyard with breezes blowing by and birds swooping and singing all around? I agree with Emily Dickinson, who said she keeps the Sabbath by staying at home and listening in her garden to the sermons of God, “a noted Clergyman”. What better sermon than the sight of feverfew blossoms floating on their stems, or the sound of house wrens having dignified discussions near their nest?    

BUT

    “But” is a simple, unfussy word that sometimes helps me stay humble. When I think I clearly understand something, the word “but” occasionally steps in to show me what I missed. If I say some situation is just what I need, “but” says there are elements in it that I definitely don’t need, as in “You love these fresh cherries, but you don’t need to eat dozens of them.” If I say sorrow has nothing good in it for me, “but” shows me some understanding I can gain from it, as in, “Your loss has brought you sadness, but watch for the wisdom that waits inside it.”  The word “but” scolds me in kindhearted ways: “You think you’re right in this argument, but you see only a small sliver of the truth.” “You think you know what you need, but that’s like saying you know what the Grand Canyon needs.” “You think you know yourself, but yourself is like miles and miles of mountains.”  

     “But” is an unpretentious word, but it always brings me down to size. 

      

“AND”

     I have decided that “and” is one of my favorite words. I guess I like this small, simple word because it suggests to me something about the immeasurable abundance of the universe. Indeed, a list of the universe’s components would go on and on and on and on and on forever, with never-ending “and”s! The universe contains clouds and suns and planets and stars and mountains and moons and blades of grass and specks of sand and sunsets and helping hands and big hearts and sparrows sitting on feeders outside our windows. What I like about this list is that all the components are equal in importance, all joined by the unbiased and equalizing word “and”. Sparrows and sunsets and big hearts and specks of sand – we need them all, absolutely and equally. Happiness and sorrow and success and adversity and smiles and tears – in some mysterious way I’m still trying to understand, they are all equally special and necessary and useful and instructive.

     I bow to “and”, again and again and again and again.

THE BEAUTY AND POWER OF INTERRUPTIONS

     This morning the pastor of the church we attend gave an inspiring sermon on the beauty and power of interruptions. She helped me see that my life, and all of life, is, surprisingly, a steady stream of interruptions, and that all of these interruptions are actually a part of the affirmative and healthful flow of The Universe through us. (She used the word “God”, but I sometimes use “The Universe”, to remind me that God is not a person.) An interruption is like The Universe knocking on yet another door to show us still more miracles, and perhaps the best way to respond is to smile and happily open the door. Curiously, the word “interruption” derives from the Latin “rumpere”, meaning “to break”, suggesting that an interruption could be seen as The Universe breaking through to show me something special, or even breaking me open like a bud breaks open and blossoms. Already today I have experienced hundreds of these moment by moment interruptions, small side streams that flowed into and refurbished my life. I hope I’ve smiled and welcomed them and wondered what they could show me.    

PERMITTING THE FLOW

     The word “permit” derives from two Latin words meaning “allowing to flow through”, which makes me realize that I should do a lot more permitting in my life. I especially need to permit thoughts and situations to stream through my life as effortlessly as they naturally want to do. Thoughts and situations, after all, are not stationary objects, but ever-moving events in the endless procession called life. They come to us, but with surprising speed they always go from us, passing away and usually leaving just a mist in the memory. My problem is that I often don’t permit my thoughts and situations to flow in their effortless, inexorable way. Strangely enough, I seem to set up barriers, so that thoughts and situations, especially the worrisome ones, are blocked from flowing through, and instead, stay solid and real in my life for far too long. I need to remember that everything passes away soon enough, including thoughts and situations. I should probably sit more often on the bank of the river of my life and give them permission to flow easily by.    

TREASURE AT HOME

      I was recalling today the old fairy tale about the guy who leaves home for many years to search for treasure, and finally returns home to find it buried in his own yard. We’ve all done our share of searching for the “treasure” called contentment, and, in the end, don’t we occasionally realize that the contentment we were seeking was somehow beside us all the while? I have a feeling that the present moment – any present moment – is a treasure box of contentment, but sadly, I rarely recognize it. Most moments in a day, I’m off on the great search for ease and satisfaction, perhaps in several lemon cookies, perhaps in purchases of things I don’t need, perhaps in daydreams about maybe’s and what if’s. Occasionally, though, I do return to the present moment, which is always right here for me, always loyal, always waiting with its treasures. Every moment is a chest of riches, and it’s not even buried, except to folks like me who have good eyes but sometimes can’t see.      

INSTANT TREASURE

   I’ve known for a long time that I can’t immediately have all the things I want, but I also know that I, and all of us, can instantly have, almost at the snap of our fingers, the really important things. Take kindness, for instance. All we have to do is truly want to be kind, and presto, kindness is there inside us like a breeze filling us full of its helpful spirit. Of course, we have to accept it and be willing to work with its powers, but kindness is always there for us, ready, right now, to show its invincible spirit to the world. And patience -- it, too, has all its gentle forces stored inside us, ready to be released to do its soft work on our behalf. We can have patience immediately, instantaneously, as much as we need, always, without end. Of course, we can deny this. We can say other people might have patience and kindness, but not me – and then we’re simply shutting the door on a fortune. It’s like standing beside bags of gold and refusing to see them.       

A REALLY OLD YOUNG GUY

     I am legally 73 years old, but according to an astrophysicist friend of mine, I’ve been around for billions of years. In fact, I’m not just a senior citizen, but a truly ancient guy, as old as the stars. Scientific studies say that my body is composed of approximately 7,000,000,000, 000,000, 000,000,000 atoms, most of which, my friend tells me, came into being when giant stars exploded several billion years ago. Apparently these atoms browsed around the universe for eons before they somehow assembled and settled together in 1941 to produce an arrangement named “Hamilton Salsich”. Who knows -- some of my atoms might have made up parts of prehistoric mountains, or the kidney of king, or a wee shrew’s eyes, before they luckily linked up to bring a baby to life in St. Louis 73 years ago. What’s equally amazing is that some studies suggest that the 37 trillion cells in my body are replaced with brand new ones about every ten years, which means, unless I’m missing something, that my body is now only about 10 years old. If I understand this correctly, I’ve been around for billions of years, but I’m still just a kid. I’m ancient, but still – literally – in the springtime of life. (Does this mean I don’t deserve senior rates at the movies??)         

EVERYDAY MAJESTY

     The BBC television series “Wolf Hall”, though well-acted, portrays a meager kind of majesty compared to what I’m presented with each day. Delycia and I live in a fairly average New England village, but the splendor we see hour by hour puts King Henry’s majesty to shame. His is a false majesty, made of fabrication and pretentiousness, whereas the majesty of Mystic is made of legitimate miracles. Just now a slight rain is falling with more real dignity than the king and his stooges could ever summon up, and birds are floating around our feeders with the kind of authentic magnificence that makes flashy courtly formalities seem frivolous and pointless. Even this afternoon’s damp, gray sky has a brilliance that, for me, totally trivializes the regal robes of Henry’s suave society. And just now a bird somewhere out in the soggy weather sang a song that seemed way more majestic than the pompous sentences I heard spoken on the episodes of “Wolf Hall”. I’ll take a backyard in simple, stately Mystic over an ostentatious king and his court any day.      

YEAH, NO

     It’s strangely inspiring to me to hear people say “yeah, no” so often these days, as in “Yeah, no, I think it’s a great idea.” I guess it reminds me, in a funny way, of the fundamental truth that life is made  of opposites. Yeah, it’s superb, but no, it can also be dismal. Yeah, it’s a blessing, but no, it’s sometimes a catastrophe. Yeah, there’s May’s brightness, but no, there’s December’s blizzards. To me, it speaks of the overall fairness of life, its evenhandedness, its insistence on a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Life’s like a dance: yeah, a sway to the left, and then no, a swing to the right; yeah, a twirl, then no, a swirl. It’s this secret, ever-present balance in all things that lets the universe surge up and down, right and left, with perfect poise. My task is to see and appreciate this poise, this overall constancy, this gift of the general evenness of all of life. Yeah, no, there’s darkness, but also lots of light.      

NO PROBLEM

      I sometimes think I could make good use of the currently popular phrase “no problem”. I’ve had countless problems in my life, problems that seemed to involve all sorts of material difficulties, but whenever I carefully look back at them, it’s clear that the “problem” part of them actually existed only in my thoughts. Yes, I’ve experienced many unforeseen situations that I didn’t understand and hoped could be altered, but this, in itself, does not mean they were problems. A problem, by definition, is a situation that a person believes needs to be fought and overcome, and that belief, of course, comes solely from the person’s thoughts. If I decide that a situation is my enemy and needs to be defeated, my decision creates the “problem”. So, in a sense, I could always say “no problem”, because there never are problems “out there” – just situations that need to be accepted, examined, and somehow worked with. By waging war against situations in my life, I create problems; by welcoming all situations, including so-called “bad” ones, I create open space for myself, and a chance to settle down and let the situations teach me their valuable lessons.           

GETTING OUT OF PRISON

      I got to thinking today about how refreshing it is to free oneself from the prison of resentment. I’m not sure why, but I was remembering an incident from many years ago when, having felt injured by someone’s remarks and having enclosed myself in bitter resentment for awhile, I was suddenly able to free myself from it. I’m not sure why or how, but I unexpectedly broke down the walls of my own anger and, in my heart, completely forgave the person. I remember it so well, the feeling of unqualified freedom that came over me. I was released from the prison of my own resentment. I was free to accept and even be at ease with the remarks that had so hurt me. I saw the remarks as if from a great distance, and they seemed as harmless as birds flying far away.  

     And now it has me wondering: Could I perhaps forgive other so-called harmful things, even things like serious illness, or tragedy? If these happen, could I forgive them, in a sense, and thus rise up out of the prison of anger and bitterness? Would this help me to see illness and tragedy as simply events in my life, events with which I can be comfortable instead of angry, events that could release me into the wisdom of acceptance instead of imprisoning me in the foolishness of acrimony?   

SITTING ON THE PATIO IN EARLY SPRING

He sat outside in sunshine and a breeze

that seemed to blow from far-off southern shores.

He felt the kind of feeling that can ease

you into peace and through the open doors

of paradise. Some birds began a song

that said serenity was here and now,

and he believed it. His life felt strong

but also soft. He said a quiet “Wow!”

THIS GRATUITOUS LIFE

On a golden day like this, a day given to me free-of-charge, I wonder if I will ever be grateful enough for this seemingly gratuitous gift of life. What did I do to earn or deserve a day like this? How did I come to merit so many hours of daffodils and smiles and sunshine and white clouds like ships sailing above? The gifts this day gave me seemed almost indiscriminate, and surely excessive, as if some silent power placed rewards all around me for no obvious reason. I’m a little bewildered by it, as I have been on most of the days of my life.

BEING ABLE

"First Day of Spring",
watercolor,
Kay Smith

     I’m lucky I’m able to do so much. Truly, it’s an out-and-out miracle that I am able to bring in a new breath each moment, able to see so many daffodils standing in the sunshine this morning, 

able to tap out these words on a keyboard. Just now I am chewing and swallowing animal crackers, a quietly miraculous process that I’m somehow able to do. And able-ness is all around me here in Mystic. It’s in the trees so able to stand tall and sway stylishly year after year, in the birds able to effortlessly fly to wherever food can be found, in the sunshine somehow able to bring itself back to us each morning, and in my old but wise and clever hands that are able to easily carry cookies to my mouth again and again.

GLORY

"Barn at Dawn", oil,
by Heidi Malott

     Today we had a glorious spring morning in Mystic, and it made me actually feel a little glorious myself. Honestly, I felt something like splendor inside me, almost as magnificent as the sunshine spreading around the town. I’m in no way a celebrity, but I felt somehow famous this morning, the way the fresh wind is famous, the way the shining forsythias on our bushes are famous. There’s a distinction in being alive on a morning like today’s. There’s majesty in making an omelet, and greatness in going to the grocery store. Some of us praise the Lord, and I praise the proud, impressive mornings in this regal world of ours.

AN EVER-PRESENT POWER

     It sometimes surprises me that I can’t seem to ever find myself far from the presence of goodness. It’s always close by, like an ever-present power, like a gracious and supportive spirit. No matter how bad things seem to get, goodness is always nearby -- perhaps in the smile of someone at the grocery store, perhaps in a wave from a walker passing the house, perhaps simply in the quiet look of clouds coming across the trees. It seems omnipresent, this transcendent, universal force that stays beside us through the worst adversities. When sorrow closes in, goodness gets its light ready. When hatred breeds its short-lived bedlam, goodness, somewhere close by, prepares its gentle but far superior powers.

BIG-HEARTEDNESS

   I recall hearing it said that certain people had “big hearts”, meaning, I think, that they were overflowing with kindness and seemed to be able to share other people’s concerns and sorrows. It sometimes seems to me, though, that all of us actually have big hearts – infinitely big hearts -- except that we usually don’t realize it. It occasionally becomes clear to me that we all contain space enough inside us, in our inner spirit, to hold boundless amounts of kindness or sorrow. After all, our inner spirit –  our “other” heart, you might say – knows no boundaries, is not restricted by bones and flesh, but widens out as far as needed to hold whatever gloom or gladness life might send us.   It’s as if we have an endless sea inside us upon which all the ships of fear or joy,  happiness or disaster,  can comfortably ride.  Unfortunately, most of us -- including me -- usually see our inner lives as fairly small and constrained, able to hold only so much distress, and thus not able to be open to too much of other people’s pain. Every so often, however, I get a glimpse of the universal big-heartedness we all share –   the openness, the boundlessness, of our inner spirit. That’s when I know I can welcome, on my best days, the joys of life as well as the sorrows , including the sorrows of others. There’s room inside – inside all of us – for whatever feelings might flow our way.