WONDERS

 

"Summer Shadows", oil,
by Takeyce Walter

Browsing through the Bible recently, I was surprised to come upon this phrase in Psalm 106: “the wonders in the land of Ham”. I’m sure I nodded and smiled, since I’m often called Ham, and since the land of my life is definitely full of wonders. Like all of us, I have a fair share of struggles, but they are easily outweighed by the wonders. To me, it’s a wonder that blood brings fresh energy to my body moment by moment, and that my lungs repeatedly lift with new life. As I write this, I’m amazed that I’m partaking in the full-of-wonders process of being part of this universe, a process that started and continues with no help from me. As I sit with my laptop in the shade on this summer day, wonders work their magic all around me – tree limbs turning almost tenderly in a wind, a leaf falling to the grass with gracefulness, a sky carrying clouds no one has ever seen before. Yes, in the land of Ham (Salsich), each second brings a surprise, and each day makes way more wonders than struggles.

SQUIRREL MIGHT

     When I was in elementary school, we sometimes had tugs-of-war at recess, and I recall older kids calling out, “Pull with all your might!” They meant “might” like in human muscles and strong-mindedness, but I’ve been noticing a simpler, more commonplace example of might, right in our backyard. It’s the might, the sheer single-mindedness, of the squirrels that spring up several feet to find a footing on one of the bird feeders. They usually slip and slide and quickly crash down again, but they’re always back at it with stubbornness fairly soon. Back in 4^th grade, we pulled on the rope with all our might, but these squirrels seem to live with all their might. Whether leaping across the lawn, or scrambling for seeds that have fallen from the feeder, or dashing up the sides of trees sometimes to their very summits and then swaying with the wind, the squirrels at 44 Riverbend Drive do their living with a kind of might that might make a sometimes sluggish senior citizen envious.  

GRAND AND NOBLE MYSTIC

OUR BACKYARD CHURCH

"Neighbor's Garden", oil,
by Diane Mannion

 Delycia and I will be worshipping today in our beautiful backyard church. The door is our back door, which opens into a sanctuary of blessed sights and sounds. There are no stained-glass windows, but the sunlight on the leaves and limbs of the trees lends a consecrated look to our special place of worship. The floor is just the good grass of springtime, and the pews are the lawn chairs that let us relax while we worship. Of course, we can also worship by wandering through Delycia’s hallowed flower gardens, or simply by standing still and listening to the choirs of birds and feeling the flow of the always ceremonious breezes. We worship no god who stays up in the sky, no deity who decrees that some will suffer in hell. In our flowery backyard church, we choose to honor the sacredness that’s all good and in everything – in shaking leaves, in tulips turning in a puff of wind, even in the old stones that set the gardens apart. Our minister is sometimes a squirrel, sometimes -- like today -- simply a blue sky.
  

SIXTY DAWNS

    

"Just After Dawn", oil,
by Pam Holnback

 It would be wonderful to awaken one morning to a world that’s totally new – completely full of freshness, loaded with bloom and novelty, big with brand new blessings – but what’s even more wonderful is to realize that this unblemished new world is, in fact, with me every moment. I actually can’t escape newness. Strange as it sounds, oldness is really nowhere because newness is always everywhere. All I’m ever presented with is the pristine and spotless present moment, a moment never before known by me or by anyone. It may sometimes seem similar to my past moments – and this is what can make oldness seem so real – but, truth is, each moment is a groundbreaking, cutting edge creation, coming to me the way dawn does each morning. In each minute I have sixty seconds, sixty dawns, sixty new sensations, sixty chances to celebrate something novel and new-fangled. 

LIKING WITHOUT KNOWING

 “It was not absolutely necessary to know her in order to like her.”

     -- Charlotte Bronte, in “Shirley”

     We often say that we need to “get to know” someone in order to really like them, but reading Charlotte Bronte’s sentence (below) this morning started me thinking in a different direction. Isn’t it possible to see a smiling face and instantly like the person? We certainly wouldn’t love the person immediately, but we can surely like the look of friendliness, and therefore sincerely like the person, if only in a kind of superficial and casual way. Similarly, I can see people who look lighthearted and uplifted, and I can quickly like them without wondering if I should first get to know them. After all, I like sunsets without knowing anything scientific about them, and I like the look of morning light on flowers, despite knowing next to nothing about the nature of light or flowers. I guess I’m talking about a sort of instantaneous liking, like suddenly seeing sheets of stars across the sky and simply feeling lucky to be seeing them, and liking both the feeling and the stars.

DANCING AT SOUTH STATION

"Swan Lake Rehearsal", oil,
by Robin Cheers

     After seeing a wonderful performance by The Boston Ballet this afternoon, I saw another dance presentation outside South Station. As Delycia and I sat outside on a bench in a soft but steady breeze waiting for our train, I saw a piece of paper tumbling across the sidewalk with what seemed like simple gracefulness, and some limbs above us were smoothly swaying and bending. Delycia had some shopping bags, and they shook in the breeze in seemingly stylish ways, and soon I noticed a woman walking in a lively style, working with the breeze with straightforward smoothness and ease, moving her arms with a sort of everyday finesse. And just before we boarded the train, a guy walked past us in a slow saunter, arms swinging and head tossing in the breeze in fine fashion. He was definitely a dancer – less practiced and seasoned, perhaps, than the ballet dancers earlier in the afternoon, but somehow just as pleasing.

HUNTING GOODNESS

"Out of the Draw", acrylic,
by George Lockwood

      Some friends of mine are occasional bow hunters, and I guess I’m a sort of hunter, too. My friends hunt mostly deer, whereas I hunt, in my sporadic and somewhat casual way, mostly goodness. My friends probably stalk their prey in a silent and serious way, and I sometimes do the same – quietly watching for signs of goodness, sneaking up on it, hoping to see it clearly in all its ordinariness and splendor. I know there’s a significant overpopulation of deer, making them easy to spot during hunting season, but surely goodness teems and overflows far more than deer, enabling me, if I’m sincerely stalking it, to catch sight of it everywhere. This world of ours is a goodness hunter’s paradise. There’s goodness in every face I see, every smile, every glance between friends, every hand offering help. There’s goodness, somehow or other, in every house, every car, every store, down every street. I sometimes set out on a lighthearted and lucky hunt, knowing I’ll see success within a few minutes, maybe just across the street where birds are bringing sticks to a new nest. That’s goodness, and it’s given to all of us to hunt and be happy with, no bows or arrows needed.     

SEEING THE LIGHT

"Puddles", oil on board
by Don Gray

    I’ve often heard people say they “see the light”, meaning the sense of something has become clear to them, and I was thinking, this morning, that a sometimes secret light shines in even the most commonplace parts of our lives. For instance, I can sometimes “see the light” in even the cloudiest and wettest days, meaning their appropriateness, their flawlessness, suddenly becomes clear to me. I can even sometimes see the sort of everyday special light in puddles on the pavement, a light that makes them seem strangely fascinating in a puddley sort of way. This afternoon I saw the light in some sentences in a novel I was re-reading, sentences that seemed shadowy on the first reading but that lit up like lamps the second time around. Also, Delycia and I live in a simple house on an everyday kind of street, but there’s a good and great light all through our lives that I’m sometimes lucky to see.     

AN ODD FACT

“The wiser you are, the more worries you have; the more you know, the more it hurts.”

     -- Ecclesiastes 1:18, Good News Translation

     It’s an odd fact that more knowledge often leads to more uncertainty. Sometimes, the more we know, the more we stumble and fall short, as if all the thousands of facts we’ve learned are lying upon us like heavy loads. Knowledge is a necessity, of course, but it can also be a burden that bends us down and drives us around in silly circles. I’m a fairly well-educated guy, but there are times when I wish I had an empty mind rather than one filled with countless facts flying witlessly here and there. There are times when stillness is what I need inside instead of limitless pieces of information parading and shouting. Quietness of mind can open helpful doors for me, whereas knowing thousands of facts can sometimes shut thousands of doors.   

CAPTURING THE PRESENT

  Since the word “accept” derives from the Latin word for “capture”,  I’ve sometimes thought that I should actually try to capture the present moment instead of simply accepting it. Centuries ago, when you said you wanted to accept something, you might have meant that you wanted to literally capture it – to seize it, snatch it, grab it up, and take it away with you. I wonder if I could live that way, sort of like a cat sitting beside the hole of a mouse – in this case, the present moment – ready to pounce and take the moment prisoner. And it would have to be any moment, not just one that makes me happy. A cat captures any mouse, and perhaps I could set my sight on capturing any and every present moment. Perhaps I could sit beside the hole of the present and prepare to apprehend, arrest, and take prisoner any moment that makes its appearance, be it emaciated or majestic, sinister or inspiring. I could be an alert but also good-natured cat – a soft, sweet-hearted feline who simply wants to savor and digest every single moment. I could quietly and efficiently  capture each moment and consume it with a catlike kind of delight.

DEATH AND A BALL GAME

"Pena at the Plate", oil,
by V....Vaughan

    After attending a memorial service yesterday for a dear friend, it seemed fitting that Delycia and I attended a Pawtucket Red Sox baseball game today. First of all, my friend was a faithful Boston Red Sox fan, and I felt his presence beside us as we braved the chilly weather to cheer on the Triple A Sox. Also, the stands were full of families, full of moms and dads and daughters and sons of all ages, all seeming to feel the youthful spirit of a Sunday afternoon ball game. There was newness and freshness all around us, from the healthful faces of toddlers to the sparkling eyes of grandparents glad to be with their families. There was an abundance of life at the game, a rising up of its brightness and sparkle, a spilling over of its spirit – and it made me think of my friend. His physical presence is gone from us, but somehow that seems to have allowed the spirit of his kindness and courage to be bigger and braver than ever. It’s as if death has done us the favor of releasing more life than ever. I felt it at the baseball stadium today, as if my friend’s full life was overflowing around me, along with the lives of the families finding joyfulness at a Sunday afternoon game.   

GOOD CONFUSION

"Mist on the Lawn of Olana"
watercolor, by Gretchen Kelly

 I’ve come to see, as my 70-some years have passed, that confusion can be good for me – that I can get more gifts from it than problems. Perhaps that shouldn’t be  surprising, since the word “confuse” derives from the Latin word for “mingle together”, and aren’t all things in this world mingled together, in some way or other, and isn’t mingling usually a constructive activity? By growing in a confused way, all mingled together, grass blades sometimes make fine-looking lawns, and the stars in the sky show the beautiful confusion of togetherness and endlessness. Cars on roads mingle in a seemingly confused manner, and yet the ostensible chaos of the traffic – what we might call the resourceful confusion of it – usually produces a steady and smooth movement of vehicles. My days, too, so often seem composed of apparently haphazard things and thoughts, and yet from that confusion has come, and still comes, the blessings given by this good life. It’s a similar confusion, I guess, to that of oceans that bring beauty out of swirling waves and organisms, or of fields of wildflowers that show splendor in the midst of seeming disarray. It’s a lucky kind of confusion, and I’m lucky to usually be feeling it.

AMEN

      The word “Amen”, usually followed by an exclamation mark, might be translated “Yes indeed!” or “Absolutely!” or “No question about it!”. It’s a word of affirmation and assertion, a forceful pronouncement, a declaration of a deeply held belief. If someone said, for instance, “Thoughts are far stronger than things,” I would say “Amen!” If someone said,” “Good is far stronger than evil,” I would say “Amen!” If someone said, “The present is far stronger than the past or the future,” I would say, or maybe shout, “Amen!”

SEARCHING FOR ME

  Unfortunately, I have spent a large part of my 72 years trying to be either defensive or aggressive – trying, that is, either to protect the so-called separate self called “me”, or to launch out from that self in an active, creative way. To tell the truth, it’s been an exhausting struggle. I’ve felt constantly on the alert, constantly standing by to either shield this person called “Ham” or use it as a base from which to make things happen. Almost 24/7, I’ve been either a defender or an aggressor. Thankfully, however, things have been changing for me. A type of mist has been slowly dissolving.  Amazingly, hard as it is to believe, it’s gradually becoming clear that this apparently separate being called “me” actually doesn’t exist. This “person” I’ve devoted so many years to defending and empowering -- this seemingly separate, easily damaged being -- is actually no more than a passing thought. Whenever I search for what I call “me”, all I can find is another thought. It might be a thought that I’m vulnerable and need protection, or that I’m strong and can aggressively make a mark in the world, but in either case, it’s simply a thought, NOT a separate physical person. The strange, startling, and thoroughly inspiring truth seems to be that my only existence is as a fresh, free-wheeling thought in the always-new present moment. There’s really no separate “Hamilton Salsich” who needs protection or who needs to feel responsible for getting a thousand things done each day. There’s just the endless and shoreless river of thoughts, of which I and all of us are a part. This understanding is slowly helping me see that I can, in fact, give up being either defensive or aggressive – that I can finally loosen up, let go, and simply take pleasure in whatever happens in this capricious and always surprising world.    

MORNING ASTONISHMENT

     Sometimes, usually in the early morning, a feeling of absolute astonishment comes over me, a sense that my situation in life is indescribably miraculous. I find myself asking, as I did this morning, how I happen to be lucky enough to be located at this moment in time on a smoothly spinning planet in an astonishingly large galaxy in a universe of unthinkable numbers of such galaxies. I find myself marveling at the smallest things – the way the wind, as I write, is furling and unfurling our flag in countless ways; the way our neighbor’s red car is shining in the sunlight; the way Delycia is smoothly turning the pages of a calendar in the kitchen. I’m sometimes almost stock-still with wonder. How, I ask, does my life-giving breath keep coming and going? How do I have many thousands of new thoughts each day, totaling many millions in my lifetime? And where do all these thoughts come from? And where do gentleness and generosity and kindness come from, and how did they become imperishable and infinite? 
     Sometimes, with startling thoughts like these, I understand, once again, that life is something to soar with instead of struggle with.

ONE DAY

One day he decided to search for himself.

He first found a thought that said

he was 72 and sick with a cold, but

then he saw that that thought

was not himself, but just a thought.

Then he turned a corner and came upon

another thought, this one saying

he was disorganized and fairly forgetful,

but he saw that it was also

just a thought, not the real him.

He kept searching, and soon discovered

a thought that filled a whole valley

and shouted that he was weak

and encompassed by cares and defects.

He shook with concern, but then saw

something like a light that let him know

that even that thought was made

of nothing but brevity and emptiness.

It sure wasn’t him, and so he smiled,

set aside his search, and sat

on a soft place in this universe

of endless, always-new thoughts,

and studied them in stillness and peace.

EPIPHANIES

     One definition of an epiphany is “a moment of sudden revelation or insight”, something that I’m sure happens to all of us more times than we realize. I’ve had, I guess, thousands of epiphanies over the last 72 years, everything from suddenly realizing, one April day back in 7^th grade, that I was in deep trouble with Sister Virginia Marie, to unexpectedly understanding, just this morning, how to securely install a bracket for a flag to an outside wall. I suppose we have these epiphanies almost constantly – these sudden understandings, these unforeseen eye-openers, these “aha!” moments that make some part of life instantly comprehensible. Strangely, one of my most common epiphanies is the out-of-the-blue understanding that I don’t really understand much of anything – that this life is ultimately a beautiful but unsolvable mystery, of which I am a small but essential part. These are instructional epiphanies that, in a flash, make clear to me my safe and lucky place in this vastly puzzling but relentlessly perfect universe. I’m always grateful when they make what have become their regular daily visits.   

SITTING STILL

5:15 a.m.

So many things were sitting still

that morning. He tried to see

something that was moving, but all

was quietness and satisfaction.

The chairs chose to stay right

where they were, the clock liked

its place on the wall, and the cabinets

in the kitchen were stock-still

and content. And he, too, stayed

where he was, in the blue chair

by the window, where he could see

the world that was also pleased

to be sitting peacefully still.  

RISE AND SHINE

Easter Sunday

April 20, 2014

5:45 am

 

     As always, many things are rising and shining this morning – the sun in a bluish-silver sky, trees  standing straight in the early light, fearless sprouts in Delycia’s gardens, and me, making myself comfortable with my computer and letting my words loose on the screen like lit-up ships heading out to sea. Easter, for many, is about resurrection, but resurrection comes in countless forms. Each morning our world is restored and redecorated by sunshine, and each day renewal takes place in limitless ways. Each thought is a thoroughly new one, each feeling flows through us in fresh currents, and all the people we see are starting out spanking new the second we see them. Our days can seem old and tired, but in fact there’s nothing but newness in them, nothing but resurrection, nothing but rising and shining.

SMILING IN THE SUNROOM

He was smiling in the sunroom.

The silence was nice, but then he noticed

small sounds – the humming of the furnace

in the cellar, some spring birds singing

outside, the soft touch of his fingers

on the keyboard. He couldn’t think

of a single problem he had to solve,

or a single something he had to get.

He knew they were somewhere,

but he couldn’t see them now

with so many starlings soaring up

from the feeders in the sunshine.

A SUDDEN REALIZATION

        This morning, as I was reading in the New Testament about Paul’s “conversion” – how, as I understand it, he suddenly came to a completely new way of thinking about love – I realized that I need to think, again, about what love actually is. First of all, perhaps I should capitalize the word, to show that it stands for a force that is totally non-material, and that therefore has no limits and can never be destroyed or even slightly diminished. This is perhaps what Paul saw on the road to Damascus – that this power called love, or Love, is not confined to any particular place or object, but is worldwide, widespread, and invincible. Having no material boundary lines, there's no place where Love isn’t present, and there’s no power that can oppose its preeminence. What’s extraordinary about this is that the same is true for other non-material qualities. Kindness, for instance, has no boundaries and can never be even slightly restricted by any material force. Enthusiasm, too, cannot be confined or constrained, for it is made of nothing but its own wholehearted spirit.  Gentleness, confidence, generosity, peacefulness – all of these are intangible, indefinable, and  elusive forces that sweep through the universe without hindrance. I suppose what really astonished Paul about his new realization is that it thoroughly transformed his notions about God. He had probably been trapped for years by the belief that the supreme being was some type of super-human ruler who controlled the universe the way an absolute human monarch would. What he suddenly saw on the road to Damascus was that this force called “God” was actually far, far greater than he had imagined. He now saw that it is a non-material and therefore boundless power that is utterly unassailable and endlessly persistent. It’s the power of Love, the power that knocked this hostile persecutor of Christians right off his horse.

A LUCKY HEIR

In terms of dollars, I sure don’t have money to burn, but in terms of real riches, I am a wealthy man. I am actually an heir – a beneficiary of a boundless and inexhaustible fortune. I have access, 24/7, to resources that can keep my life continually healthy and happy. These funds are not dollars, not coins or cash or any kind of material currency. No, my wealth is the wealth that all of us share – the wealth of limitless inner qualities. All of us – though we sometimes fail to see it – have a treasure chest inside us that’s spilling over with qualities like caring and calmness and quietness and patience. We can withdraw them at any time, and amazingly, the account instantly refills with more than we withdraw. We amass more kindness the more we spend, and patience produces more patience the more we practice it. This is the simple good fortune of being alive. All of us, aware of it or not, are lucky in this wonderful way. We are all the fortunate heirs of a vast inner fortune that lasts forever.

UNCONQUERABLE KINDNESS

      Sometimes the power of storms or cruelty or economic crashes can seem overwhelming, but what about the power of gentleness? Can any force defeat a calm and helpful heart? Can a hurricane hurt one’s friendliness? Can bloodshed and carnage conquer one’s kindness and compassion? Don’t the good powers, like benevolence and bigheartedness and generosity, simply smile at evil and carry on with their healing work?  

SIDE BY SIDE

"Spring Break, Donut Shop",
oil, by Heidi Malott

There were lights beside a sign

for a donut shop. There were small buildings 

side by side with great ones. He wondered

if sad people were beside those who smile,

and if snowstorms were in valleys

while sunshine was blessing the summits.

He watched his coffee as it steamed beside

his hand, poor hand that sometimes

held itself out to find a friend.

He watched his thoughts as they folded

their hands in each other’s, and his words 

as they took their places on the screen, 

nouns and verbs side by side as friends.

WATCHING THE TRAFFIC

"Rain, Moon, Traffic", oil,
by Heidi Malott

Sometimes, at a stop sign in the car or strolling in a city, I simply watch the flow of the traffic, and there’s often something strangely serene about it – the sort of disordered evenness of the traffic, the curious turns and swerves it takes, the anomalous stops and start-ups that surprisingly happen in something like smooth routines. It’s almost fun to watch it, just as it’s sometimes fun to sit off to the side of my mind and watch the movement of a different kind of traffic – the continuous and convoluted flow of my thoughts. Like cars and trucks on highways, my thoughts stream along in a steady and occasionally serpentine manner, sometimes confusing me with their seemingly slapdash patterns, but always and endlessly moving. I see them streaming along -- thoughts of sorrow and happiness, of distress and joyousness, small thoughts and stupendous thoughts – and it’s somehow a pleasure to simply observe them as they ceaselessly flow. What’s wonderful is the awareness that they are not me – that these thoughts are just short-lived cerebral wisps wandering through my life. I can observe them and be mystified by them, but I can also sit back and smile, because they are not me. The real me stands aside. The thoughts flow by, but I stand strongly and peacefully aside.      

SHIFTING

You can feel things shift when you

switch on the lights, or turn the pages 

of certain books, or see the juice

in a grapefruit flow across your fingers 

like sweet streams. You know that things 

have shifted when you sit in a chair

and it’s not just a chair but a seat

on a spinning planet. There are major shifts 

when a small thought rolls along 

and loosens a thousand others. Also, 

feelings that start to fly can cause 

flocks of them to take to the air,

and take you along.