win-win

Friday afternoon I received a call from Lorraine, "Have you heard any news yet?," she enquired. We were both anxiously awaiting notification about a large architectural project both our firms had competed for. She regretted that their proposal wasn't selected, but later in the day when I found out that my firm was to continue in the process for the possible award, I hesitated to tell my best friend. After all the intensive effort, I felt badly that her well-qualified firm wasn't selected for an interview as well.

Unfortunately, in many of life's situations their can only be one winner and then there are all the rest. As the perennial all-star Yankee shortstop, Derek Jeter says, "If you're going to play at all, you're out to win." Second place, it seems, is no place at all. It often seems unfair because I always want her firm to do just as well as my own - and vice versa. It's a shame we both can't win.

Last week I briefly watched Rafael Nadal's clay court dominance abruptly end at the Italian Open tennis tournament. Perhaps because I am not well-versed in who's who in sports as much as I used to be, I was concentrating not so much on an eventual winner, but more on the general play. But even in my days as a recreational player, the rally was of prime importance. How the opponents set up the point with deftly controlled precision was my fascination and took precedence over the score. If one played well, if a rally lasted over eight strategized shots, that was all that mattered. The serve and volley game, obviously, was not my preference. I was more interested in the control of unforced errors. The point of the point was not to grand slam the other into submission but to join in the congruous interplay where both players can be welcomed in the victory circle.

In a way, that may be what Jesus is telling the disciples in the gospel message this morning. "Do not let your hearts be troubled," he assures them, "In my father's house there are many dwelling places." The victorious, therefore, are not those singled out in triumph but those who find their way home to their baseline. This true home is not dualistic - with the dichotomy of winners and losers - but maintains that all who come shall prevail. But this is what confuses the disciples who see their champion going to an agonizing love defeat. How can that be considered success they maintain. But winning is not the achievement we think it is. The final victory is won when no one is shut out. 

While watering my fledgling vegetable garden yesterday I pondered the following metaphor: The drops of water that do not nourish the planted seeds - those that lose, so to speak - eventually make their way to a greater place. We will enter that house prepared for us, to find our true home, just as these drops eventually enter a stream. When the solitary drop merges with the flowing tide, it is no longer an ordinary, individual drop, it has become harmonious with the all. It has become both all and none, as we cannot distinguish between the single drop and the whole river. Just so, we must enter the master's house — to the room he has set aside for each of us — so we are both one and a part of everything. In this house there is no distinction. Now we will not be an individual — set aside in our self-created, egoic houses — but a part of existence which is from the beginning, a part of our creation. When we live in the house prepared for us, we are empty and full at the same time. And that's a win-win game.

love, always,
pia

the true voice of love

That early, somber grey Friday we ambled still satiated from the evening's feast toward Mother's. The morning's heat penetrating through a viscous sky was matched only by the same inescapable boil rising from the feet swelling pavement. Upon entering, not even the pungent aroma of "the world's best baked ham" was pervasive enough to ignite our tired taste buds. All we craved was the jolt of eye-popping caffeine and a spot for jovial communion before our convention called us to revelry. 

We invaded - what else can a merry band of twelve do in a small New Orlean's cafe - and from some shrill yet garbled dialect, were immediately instructed to take plasticized cards and find a seat. And that's what we did. Securing our places in an empty hall we sat and waited. We waited and watched and waited even more. Entertaining ourselves with amused glances and curious inquiries as to the edibility of "debris," nobody came to break our back-room isolation.

"Did we hear her correctly," we wondered. It was a relevant question because the waitress's multi-syllable drawl garbled like glutinous grits into a single unrecognizable jumble. Since we couldn't follow her commanding voice, we looked for a guide to gauge protocol. But we were haplessly alone, so there we remained until a pitying busboy scornfully directed us to line up at the serving counter in the next room. Happily we complied but were frustrated at the ritual censuring to maintain precise military alignment. Disorganized, we quickly broke rank while pointing at the enticing Southern delicacies behind the steaming display cases. Once again a swift reprimand bellowed from the scurrying wait-staff. Breakfast was never so serious.

Back at our table, we were condemned for using the wrong pitcher to draw water; vilified for inappropriate chair placements on the beaten rug; and snarled at for retrieving coffee from an errant carafe. Unspoken rules confounded us like inarticulate travelers in a foreign land. Indeed, to paraphrase Oscar Wilde, we had virtually nothing in common with our Louisiana hosts, including language. We didn't know their customs and couldn't  follow their directive voice.

Efficiency may demand a certain manner of doing things. A proper place, a right time, an organized way, all conspire to advance etiquette. But we were out of our element and hard-pressed to do the right thing. Unacquainted with common convention, we were simply rude, ugly and barbaric as we were deaf to the voice of authority. 

In the story of the Good Shepherd, John tells us about following the master's voice. Though summarily cautioned not to blindly follow any command - "He [the master] leads them and they follow because they are familiar with his voice" -  the gospel acclaims only that which comes from love. And that voice is life-affirming because "I put the sheep before myself, sacrificing if necessary." But this voice is often unclear, sometimes unintelligible like an overworked New Orlean's waitress. But if we are conscious to the voice of love we shall be filled with abundant grits - I mean grace - just as a mother tends to her child.

On the return puddle-jump home, I sat next to a young South American mother entertaining her eighteen month old baby reading from the book "Buenas Noches, Luna." I watched in captivation as she slowly read Bway-Nas, No-Chez, Loo-Na to the cherub, pointing at each individual letter as she did. The baby tried to imitate everything her mother did and it was evident that she was beginning to get a command of formulating words. No doubt she will be talking soon, and through  the loving voice of the master, her life will unfold before her. That is the true voice of love.

 

love, always,
pia

give thanks - hug a tree

Creativity is elusive. I don't know where it comes from, nor can I recognize how it's done, or when it comes about. It's a mystery of which all I can presume is that it doesn't originate with me. Inexplicable grace is the unreasonable foundation, and though we often try to summon the muse with passionate supplication or subtle bribery, it instinctively acts on it's own accord.

There was a time, soon after my college education, I cheekily declared that "when I do not have a single idea, I shall be as dead." Filled with audacious pride, and an endless list, deep in uncreated images this young artist wished to render, the appreciation of creative abandonment was illusory. The days of vanity are precious, for even the most inspired seem to fall victim to the dread of the unmanifest.

And so every Sunday I return home in perplexity from the morning's ritual visage. The keyboard cursor shouting like a caustic neon sign advertising my soul's dearth of opinion. The dull page filled only with the procrastinated silence of empty space. "What is there to say that's relevant," I contend, "Do I have anything meaningful at all to give?" Many times nothing seems to be there. Nothing but a weary story, a vague reference, and trite consolation. I am desolate and so remain mute for a time.

Bereft of our muse, the creator feels lost and struggles against dispirited odds. Likewise, on the day of the resurrection, the uninformed Emmaus-bound peregrines were woeful because their motivation was beyond recollection. In dependence upon a now crucified christ, they gave up the journey to deliverance. All possibility of a creative solution was destroyed. "We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel," they pined to the enigmatic stranger, yet their essential cry was, "The salvation we demand, he was to give to us. Who will give to us now?" Give us, was there extreme hope. Though unbeknownst to them, he did provide. The Sphinx-like Jesus "interpreted to them...the scriptures," and gave them the inspiration to convert their creative impasse into connective, redemptive power. The unfortunate circumstance, however, was that the disciples only wanted to receive and not give in return.

"Giving and receiving are opposite energies inextricably linked together in the natural flow of life, like inhaling and exhaling," says consciousness teacher Shakti Gawain. We are reminded of this daily simply by considering the abundant flowering trees that surround and astound us. Unremittingly they photosynthesize sunlight, "inhaling" our carbon dioxide offertory, soon "exhaling" a precious life-giving bounty. From their life they give us life. Literally being a "tree-hugger" is, therefore, a natural way to convey thanks. "You give but little when you give of your possessions, Kahlil Gibran enumerates, "It is when you give of yourself that you truly give." Just so, Jesus offers the gift of life, and with their eyes opened, the disciples knew how to give as well." Their muse restored, they returned to Jerusalem...and told what had happened on the road." They shared the demiurgic gift.

We each have our own unique gifts to receive as well as to offer. With particular awareness to the creative spirit we revel in a thread that perpetuates the cycle. Gawain continues, "When we do our best to live our truth and express ourselves as authentically as possible, sharing ourselves as we are genuinely moved to, we naturally give our gifts to others and to the world." In our life we receive and we give; both are important. When we are open to receive life's creative grace with thankfulness, we restore our resources to reciprocate and enhance another's life. Creativity isn't as elusive as it once seemed. Life itself is the source of energy that we endeavor to tap and from it exudes from the capacity to give with grateful hearts.

love, always,
pia

getting closer to god

"Why do we we do this?" queried the Right Reverend Bishop Winterrowd prefacing the ancient rite he was soon to conduct. It's a pertinent question because we typically react by rote, undertaking acts without the slightest understanding of their significance, or perform overwrought analysis ensuring suitable results. So he asked the faithful congregants, why are we baptizing these children? Without hesitation a young girl sitting at the feet of the cleric bravely spoke up, "We're here to bring them to god." The bishop was startled and well pleased with the naturalness, sincerity, and ease of the response. Without any prompting or coaching came a theological message of acuity well beyond her years. Through sheer innocence she got straight to the point: A direct line from egoic obscurity to cosmic origin. We are here to get closer to god.

Unfortunately, like a circle whose physical reality transcends its center, we live at the periphery. We are trapped outside, defined by our achieving mind, and can't find the key to the soul's door. We try one thing and then tangentially another without referencing our true and intimate nature, and never get closer to getting in. Until we enter into the calm of our immutable and real home, we dwell homeless in the extremities of relentless and unpredictable thoughts, feelings, and desires. We are unmindful of our true home - the existential reality that houses our authentic origin.

"Life can never be known at the circumference," says the Indian mystic Osho, "Life can only be known at the center." Yet we have lost our center by living chiefly in the analyzing and calculating mind. But the center has never left us, nor can it ever leave us, we have simply forgotten where it resides. We have become unaware of its peace living so far away in the orbiting periphery of engaged thought. The mind has us locked securely in a room forsaking the heart. 

And that's where we find the disciples the evening of the resurrection. They have lost their master as well as their center. They are scared and disconnected from their inimical truth. Having no certainty, and even less security, they hide in the mind of disassociation. Yet with the Johannine Pentecostal greeting, "peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you," Jesus sends them forth from the heart. Immediately reconciling them to their sacred center, their "suffering begins to dissolve" as Pema Chodron says, "when [they] question the belief or the hope that there's anywhere to hide." They recognize their deeply rooted connectedness to life and find perfect shelter at their center. There, nothing is missing nor is there any desire. The disciples are complete and from their heart can testify with an overdue Thomas, rejoicing, "My Lord and my God." As such, they know why they are there.

When we are aware, we know what we are doing and bring ourselves closer to god. Only then do we know our innocence and become fully alive. That is what is meant by being centered. It is saying "yes" from our balanced heart center to the ever-changing uncertainty at the periphery. That's why we're here: To get closer to god.

 

love, always,
pia