more than meets the eye

A blistering summer yester-day, I took air conditioned refuge in the local art house cinema. Inside, Tom Shadyac's lively documentary "I Am" entertained the questions, What's wrong with the world and what can we do about it, in a "What the Bleep" format of exploration. Known for his mega-successful comedies, the writer/director/co-star contemplates these spiritual concepts after suffering an about-face traumatic bicycle accident. His interest derives from the realization that although he has accumulated vast wealth, it has failed to secure lasting happiness. He attempts to investigate the root cause of this disfunction and discovers that ultimately, things are not what they seem.

Following the film, I began browsing in the Tattered Cover, Denver's premiere independent bookseller, and as always, gravitated to the Religious/Philosphical section. Out of the myriad of selections that surrounded me, I was first pulled toward familiar authors and then, because of my background in book design, to those with beautiful covers. However, upon noticing that the influential and recently deceased Zen teacher Charlotte Joko Beck wrote the foreword to Diane Rizzetto's "Waking Up to What You Do," I became intrigued. In my brief perusal I was engrossed with her (presumed) premise, "Are we there to meet our current situation or not?" In effect, every situation in our lives becomes our teacher thus engaging the proverbial "don't judge a book by it's cover" slant. For things are not always what they seem and there is more than meets the eye.

Each act, every minute, contains profound meaning. In it we can open to the existence of the divine or we can pale in oblivion to the magnificence. Just so, we celebrated the feast of Corpus Christi this morning in recognition of that self-same presence. The sacramental ritual of the body and blood of Christ makes the beyond personal. We live through it, become one with it, as the material is transformed to that which is deep, vast, and fundamental. As the bread nourishes the seen and known body, so too the hidden inner soul. In a faith-transformation from object to metaphor, the carnal reunites our bodily self with the spiritual self.

Certainly a division never existed, yet through societal consciousness we often forget the inside truth. We live in the world as if blind. We don't see, we refuse to see, or are distracted from seeing the deeper meanings inherent in all existence: The cover hiding the latent possibility of the infinite. Of course any object can return us to this place - bread, book, or body - and in reality we don't need a protagonist at all. Only awareness can bring us to immanence. Every object contains the potential to go beyond that which we see. It's always there and never fades away. 

Whatsoever we do, whatsoever we see, has meaning more profound than at first perceived. Inside lies a depth that provokes gratefulness as its only response. In this amazing world of grace, Shadyac proclaims, "All phenomena, including the accumulation of material wealth, is a neutral phenomena, neither good nor bad," we just need to see beneath the surface. And that true presence restores us to fullness, the original state where reconciliation with ourselves and with the world takes place.

love, always,

pia

three little words

This morning's short passage from the conclusion of Matthew's gospel really resonates with me. In it the author sums up the entire narrative with a sublime truth underlying all of what Christianity stands for. Perhaps more so, it affirms the very heart and soul of all religions. Oh, not in the "great commission" where Jesus sends out his disciples commanding them to attest the word of love to all nations. Nor is it his assurance that the divine spirit forever dwells within us and it is our quest to exact courage in its illumination. No, although these are valuable insights that express the sagacity of the master's teachings, we heard an even more profound lesson in three concise words.

It is of course Trinity Sunday where the Church recognizes the unity of the triune god. But neither do I contend that Father, Son, and Spirit convey today's vital message. No, it actually resides in a clause easily overlooked; "The eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshipped him." It could have neatly ended there - They came. They saw. They conquered - but it doesn't. Only then comes the inconvenient truth: "…but some doubted."  Though the author quickly glosses over these troubling three words and within three sentences the book ends happily ever after, the fact remains some were not so sure. 

We want to be certain - especially about faith. Not simply to be right but to confirm who we are. If we confess doubt we reveal an uncertainty that may question our entire understanding of the world and our place in it. That's a lonely place most of us don't want to go but it's where seekers for millennia often find themselves. Years ago Sister Maria Walburga warmly said to me in profound astuteness, "From now on I'm going to call you Sister Joseph because you are always wrestling with god." It's true, I'm never sure.

Perhaps I learned this from my highly influential high school biology teacher, Ralph Postiglione, who passionately exclaimed, "In life there are no absolutes." Invariably an exception to every rule exists. We just can't be sure so faith becomes, at least for me, a relentless fight to the death. That makes everything very confusing and may explain the comforting security of fundamentalism. With staunch faith, life retains order and hope. But I'm not convinced. Nothing is static as everything eventually changes. 

So, where can we find definitive answers? Maybe that's not the appropriate question. There is a Zen proverb that says the student must have great faith, great doubt, and great determination. With true faith comes doubt. And doubt is about openness to what is. The determination to persevere with uncertainty is the reassurance that our journey is proceeding toward a humility of imperfect understanding. The disciple who doubts are perhaps the one with the most faith.

love, always,
pia

the ravaging within

A howling wind braced through the shadowed skies as the first drops of a heavy rain splattered against my exposed flesh. I shivered in anticipation. A gloaming chasm of fear enveloped me, so I retreated inward to a presumed safe haven. There, in my sheltered anomaly, the buffeting storm raged in even greater intensity. And although there was nothing overtly terrifying, nothing except my own perverse and convoluted thoughts, a deep sense of dread soon paralyzed my being. The enemy, it seemed, was not the gale beyond but that which ravaged within. When the edgy chaos would not abate and feeling drawn to a past interior darkness long thought quit, I called for help.

That surprised me. Being self-assured and of independent mind, I arrogantly employ a DIY approach which has taken me on three disparate routes: One fully absorbed in the trappings of the misguided mind, thus directly combatting heresy with apostasy; another denying the serious nature of the threat, thereby procrastinating the eventuality of conflict; and the third, wholly refusing to engage in combat with the would-be character assassin. Despite an abundance of aggressive therapy and alternatively dismissive behavior, victory is often claimed in detached nonviolence.

I hear this in today's gospel as well when Jesus says, "If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained." Usually this passage is perceived about the behavior of others, but this morning it reflected most ardently upon my own state of mind. If you let go of the sins, the grudges, and the maladies of any - most importantly, those committed by ourselves against ourselves - they are forgiven. When we are contentious, fighting with guilt, self-condemnation, and convictions far damaging, we divide against our divine nature, and defeat all that is good. This is not license to evil, accepting our actions in laissez-faire complacency, on the contrary, this is a call to awareness of all that is true. Only then one is freed from worldly convention, our potentiality fulfilled, and we can be in the spirit. Only then one becomes whole.

Yet I was far from complete after receiving a dismissive email yesterday. "How could the new head of the organization fail to recognize my efforts and attribute them to another with no authority," I silently railed with exacting ire. I was effectively and contemptuously fired from my position without regard, without reason, and obviously without understanding. I have been fired before, but never by email and never in such a presumptuous manner. All sorts of excuses travailed my brain in explanation. Should I reply and defend myself, I contested, must I set the record straight as I began to compose my reply. Eventually, I laid my pen to rest to allay not just my beleaguered pride, but the situation as well. It was simply a misunderstanding and no malicious intent was implied. However my aggrieved ego contorted afflicted thoughts that harangued my susceptible being. When distanced from the ravaging within, all that remained was the clarity of peace. Then I could rejoice when I perceived the lord. "Jesus came and stood among [us] and said, 'Peace be with you'," suddenly I knew my fears were self-inflicted.

love, always,
pia

left behind

This past Thursday was Ascension Day, the day the Church commemorates the rising of Jesus reuniting with God. To be honest, I wasn't in Church to celebrate, but only for choir practice. I needed to be there because I am seriously behind in my musical studies and have been sight-reading more than performing these past, well, let's just say I don't even want to recall how long it's been. So getting a brief preview of the scores at rehearsal is better than coming in blind. With all my commitments, I just haven't found the time to practice. It's exasperating as I'm getting further and further behind. Each activity is accomplished just barely in time, and my life feels like it's at the edge of shambles. Any minute things could derail resulting in dire consequences. And there goes Jesus on his merry way to god, leaving the rest of us behind.

Great. Thanks a lot, son of man, did you notice that I could use a little help down here? I have been scrambling at work as well. There has been no time to breathe, to recuperate from the last mad dash to the next finish line. Proposal follows never-ending proposal; interview and special request run concurrently in competition. There is no end except to my energy and waning enthusiasm. Projects, if started, remain unfinished and others are getting left behind. I just look the other way, but now there's no where to turn without seeing something left undone.

Even consecutive recreational and extra-curricular responsibilities vie for attention and priority. I bear the overdue deadline of my editor for the story and photographs about last week's music festival (Shameless plug: Read the story about Summer Camp at festivalpreview.com - that is, if my editor has the story up yet). I'm a half beat behind on everything and what about all the other things I want to do? Though I did attend a half-day volunteer meeting for the bike collective yesterday, I missed out on tai-chi twice last week, a Friday party, a Japanese tea ceremony, and a concert last night, only to name a few. I need to be two people to get done all that I have on my plate.

It's strange but that may be just where the spiritual quest wants us to be. We are told Jesus glorifies god by finishing the work he is given, but if that's the case, god's not looking too favorably on my efforts right now. Contrarily, we're not to be overworked and filled with anxiety, but coming to the understanding that we devote too much time and energy to the corporal half of our being and not enough to the spiritual half. That being divided into two, as we often are, is not getting twice as much done, but enjoying life less than half.  

John tells us that Jesus prayed, "Protect them…so that they may be one," united in body and soul, without division, to enjoy - to live - life fully. He continues, "And this is eternal life, that they [meaning, you] may know [god], the only true God." However, we are called not simply to be - as in the duality of human being versus human doing - but to find acceptance in the satisfaction of both. Neither extreme is our home. What is essential is embracing the natural peace of who we are. Yes, it is good to step back from the hectic pace of our everyday lives, but don't leave any part of yourself behind.

love, always,
pia

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