EVENING ALL DAY

"Evening Sun", oil, by Delilah Smith

     Cia and I usually have tranquil, quiet evenings, mostly at home, and it sometimes occurs to me that our  days are actually just like these kindhearted evenings. It’s interesting that the word “evening” comes from the word “even”, which suggests, not the coming of night, but simply smoothness and steadiness, as in “The road ran evenly across the landscape.” Maybe all our days, without our realizing it, actually run evenly along, going where they must in a level and laid-back way. Maybe we just don’t notice the evenness of our days as clearly as we see the easygoing mellowness of our evenings. Perhaps we should look for the relaxed “evening” of each hour in the same way that we look forward to the quiet of our evenings at home. Maybe we can learn to see the “evening” – the smoothing out and leveling of everything – in each daytime moment.      

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.       

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.