a gift

My father's birthday was a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, it's difficult to buy him a present because, first of all, he doesn't really need anything, and secondly, he humbly admits that he doesn't want anything. Maybe birthdays remind him of his age, and like me, we'd both prefer not to get any older than we are. But I wanted to celebrate and give him something I thought he might like. Anything. Simply as a token of my love and happiness that he is my dad. 

I have always liked birthdays. Perhaps it's because it's the day we get showered with attention or maybe it's just cake and presents, but whatever it is, a birthday makes me feel good, important, and above all loved. On the other hand, there are people like my father, who eschew the day - and presents in particular - modestly thinking that it's a burden on the giver. But the giving is equally important as the receiving. Maybe more so because we get to show our appreciation and gratitude even if the gift is a trifle.

At one time or another we have all been given a special birthday gift, one that stands out from all the others. I recall a memorable sixteenth when my father and I drove out to some long-forgotten Long Island locale in the old Pontiac Grand Prix station wagon to get a bicycle. John Lennon's "Be Bop A Lula" was blaring on the radio which was significant simply because we weren't listening to classical WQXR. I loved that bike, yet some of the most precious gifts are the little ones without monetary value. Surprising my mother a few years ago by just showing up on her Denver doorstep when living 2,000 miles away was unforgettable. Regrettably though, there are other gifts we don't even remember having received or not recognized until much later. 

When I was young I received a gift I couldn't play with, wear, or physically use. It didn't feel like a gift but it was something I have cherished my whole life. It was the gift of love from my very dear friend, Margot, who recently passed that is worth more to me than any present imaginable. And today's gospel speaks of this same gift. 

At a prince's wedding, where everyone has been invited, a guest is tossed out for being improperly dressed, that is, coming without a wedding robe. The robe is offered to all and is a symbol, as Saint Augustine says, of "love that springs from a pure heart, a clear conscience, and a genuine faith." Margot had that gift.

We are free to make the choice; to accept or decline the king's gift which is constant, persistent, and a repeatable invitation to god's great party. I'd like to return my friend's gift now - not exchange it - but share it with her husband Jerry, the immediate and extended family whom I love the same as my own, and all their friends who knew her: To share the gift of love.

Intangible gifts are under-appreciated and are often oblivious to many of us. Others don't care about them or think they have little value. Some take them for granted or feel as if they were entitled to them. But the gift of love is the greatest gift and it is the one gift that we can't live without. It is a gift from god and the only one worth giving.

love, always,

pia

to be is to do

The "redlines" arrived on my desk unannounced and unwelcome. There weren't many, but the imperatives staring me down demanded in no uncertain terms to "Make the following changes." To say the least, I was a bit indignant. My "superior" sense of design, color, and proportion was being challenged by what I selfishly deemed to be unjust, coming from uncritical reason. These changes were not for the better, I scoffed, but arbitrary and imprudent. After fuming over a hurt ego for a spit, reluctantly I deferred. But only just so.

Recanting my stubborn refusal to change, I sifted through the pages and began to accommodate my superior's requests. At some I shook my head in disbelief, vowing that I could never affront my masterpiece with such embarrassment, but eventually found the resolve to make good. Others, however, I assented to quickly but proudly failed to perform. In the first scenario I started out wrongly but corrected my action, and the latter had good intentions but no follow through. It was a deja vu rendering of today's gospel parable. In both instances, words and actions did not align. The protagonist said one thing yet did another.

It isn't what you say you are going to do that's important, it's what you do*. And this is the point of Jesus' obvious story: Results matter; Intentions, well, not so much. He condemns the religious elite for starting out on the righteous path but ending up perversely distorting their objective. They mean to follow god but instead get sidetracked with innuendo and intrigue. More concerned with dead legal formalities than the life behind their words, the authorities proclaim: Do what I say not what I do. The unacceptable (the tax collectors and prostitutes), on the other hand, may have begun their journey in the wrong, Jesus infers, but finish strong by following the good. Their actions speaking louder than their words.

Who we are is shown by what we do. We inhabit the divine as the divine is in us and we must share the spirit to make it come alive. The self-emptying, humble, and loving Christ is born in our works. His adversaries speak only to confuse and disable. Our intimate nature seeks our involvement not just our words. We are called to follow through on our promises. Are we ready to say yes - yes to our obligations, yes to the right choices, yes to the god we intimately know and who knows us, yes to live the life of Christ?

love, always,

pia

* Of course the end doesn't justify the means. There is more than doing the right thing. What's not addressed, and arguably more important, is how we do what we do.

lights on, nobody home

A new roommate moved in to my condo last week. Unfortunately, day by day I have become increasingly dismayed over a multitude of instances which I consider violations of my space. Cabinet doors are routinely left open, items are left scattered about after their use, shoes sit on the furniture, lights left indiscriminately on, and the toilet remains unflushed. When I return home I consistently find something not being attended to. I wanted, not an admission of guilt, but a simple "I'm sorry," but none was forthcoming. I felt hurt because my home - and by extension, myself - was not being afforded the respect it deserved. The expectations of an orderly house have been abused.

It's a matter of awareness. To handle things with attentive care, whether through our speech, touch, or mind, is the embodiment of the divine. Of course, it is extraordinarily difficult to be conscious of everything we do and to do it with love, but I saw no evidence of an attempt. An early lesson from the convent was a reprimand for noisily clanging the dishes while placing them in the dishwasher. I was intent on hastily completing my task in order to enjoy free time in other, more pleasant, activities. But my Sisters reminded me that every action required heedful attention - from quietly closing doors to never hurrying. When we wash the dishes we do it carefully that even plastic dishes are given great accord. When we talk we speak with a reverent tongue as if speaking to one most honored. Everything we do is performed as if the our entire life depended on our work - as indeed it does - for the extension of our touch knows no bounds. In such a way, everything and everywhere is a potential for the sacred to emerge.

So a feeling of distress arose on account of my roommate's indiscreet manners. While unmindfulness may have upset the tranquility of my home, anger destroyed my inner peace even more. I became overly anxious and couldn't sleep until I came across a quote by the Taiwanese Buddhist nun, Cheng Yen, who said, "To be angry is to let others' mistakes punish yourself." I quickly realized that my roommate was not purposefully inflicting harm and that only my emotions were the root of my misery. The key to letting go of the pain was forgiveness.

However,  "Everyone believes in forgiveness until he has something to forgive," remarked C. S. Lewis. Why should I forgive when I was the one who (it seemed) required forgiveness? Yet this is what Jesus is attempting to relay to his disciples in today's gospel. In the parable of the Unmerciful Servant, he explains that we are all human and all in need of divine grace. There is no end to forgiveness. Peter, on the other hand, expects a quick fix. He wants to know when his work is done so he can get on to other, more preferable, activities. The Christ tells him that the job is never done. 

Forgiveness is not about accepting unacceptable behavior, it is about relinquishing our resentment and thoughts of revenge. On this anniversary of 9/11

that's something to be mindful of - and perhaps something we should have been aware of ten years ago. But forgiveness takes time for true healing and can't be forced. When we forgive, we let go of of our anger, not our ethics. We can then move on and not be disturbed when the lights are on but nobody is at home.

love, always,

pia

fences

This past Labor Day weekend I helped my father build a fence. He wanted to screen out a stand of junipers that over the years have become bare and unsightly, and although he did the majority of the labor, I found that I also built a fence of my own.

Unlike my father's project, mine could not be seen nor was it entirely useful. I constructed a subliminal fence meant to conceal the suffering from a negative onslaught of self examination. Things that I would rather forget or those that are too painful to live with, my critical mind uncovered and I wished to hide them. In deference to a functioning sanity, my subconscious built a fence around this deep hurt of shame and guilt. A hopeful strategy inflicting a minimal hand blister from the screwdriver of humiliation, but which soon enough is forgotten. However, underneath festers a writhing discontent rendering eventual turmoil onto the unsuspecting visible side.

And so it was this weekend. My usually adequate defenses were torn down, and faults, large and small, overwhelmed my sense of safety. The radical question "Am I looking at myself clearly and honestly?" failed to arise and a ready gainsaying of the provocations appeared to be negligent. Fast I held the gates closed, and in an exasperated resolve, vowed to build a better barrier.

Yet these fences serve only to disassociate ourselves from the true beauty we so hope to see. I wanted to screen out the internal graceless negativity leaving only a secure haven. But my freedom is not found in a separation from the pain but through the wisdom of acceptance. We can't rid ourselves of the things we don't like, these things are what make up our reality. There is always the good, the bad, and the indifferent. The problem is in ourselves and how we relate to what we're confronted with. Our strength and freedom reside not in the protective self but in the uncomfortable confusion of what is.

And this may be the subliminal message that Jesus is attempting to get across in yesterday's gospel. Of course the Christ is alluding to reconciliation of a deviant member of the group, but in effect he may also be acknowledging that all - the acceptable and the unacceptable aspects of ourselves - are part of the One. The joy lies in tearing down the fences and welcoming the undivided soul, not just the parts we find favor with. When we become friends with our Self there is a profound wholeness because nothing has to change and no new fences need to be built.

love, always,

pia

i have arrived

I was deeply concerned that I made the wrong choice this morning. I had eschewed my usual responsibilities at Church with the intention of spending the day at a local Buddhist monastery. Thich Nhat Hanh and the monks and nuns of Plum Village were scheduled to lead a Day of Mindfulness concluding their week-long Colorado retreat and I wanted to be there. However, I was alerted that he was also supposed to be teaching at Naropa and the conflict of interest had me worried that I missed an opportunity to be in the presence of such a venerable and celebrated practitioner.

I had been anticipating Thay's visit for months and despite a grave tiredness from yesterday's intensive activities at the U.S. Pro Cycling Championships, drove up to the mountain center. Convoluting a myriad of scenarios along the way - if he's not there, I'll do such and so - trying to convinced myself that whatever the outcome, it wouldn't be a waste of time. But the reality was that I had my heart set on hearing the master speak. If he was gone I would be sorely disappointed. And even though I didn't hear it in person, the morning's gospel was clearly audible in my ears.

As you may recall, Jesus had just anointed Peter as the head of the Church in last week's reading, and today, three verses following, the Christ is rebuking him for short selling the institution out. Peter has legitimate concerns of course. If the veritable teacher is gone by submitting his will unto death, then it's up to him. And Peter knows all too well that he's no savior. So he tells Jesus that this must never happen; he's got to stick around at least a little while longer.

Don't we all feel that way? What shall we do when our leader, teacher, friend, lover, (fill in your codependency) is no more? Ananda, weeping before the dying Tathagata, is much the same as Peter's admission. In the same vein, I, too, was worried about the teacher's absence. But when I arrived at the monastery's parking lot, I witnessed hundreds of followers streaming up the hillside. I was assured in my hopes and thus regained my spiritual footing. But the ground was paved by what Jesus was trying to tell Peter, and in fact was also the same as the Buddha told his closest disciple.

Each of the unawakened chooses to live in the unreal future confines of "what if." In a two hour dharma talk, Thich Nhat Hanh consistently emphasized living in the here and now as the way to freedom. My happiness is not dependent upon being in the presence of a master, even less about satisfying my own desires. As the Buddha said to Ananda, "Each of you should be an island unto himself, with himself and no other as his refuge." Jesus' rebuke to his closest disciple, "Get behind me, Satan...for you are setting your minds not on divine things but on human things," echoes this sentiment. Two thousand years later, we translated this message beginning the day joyously singing "I have arrived." In walking, sitting, and eating meditation I repeated:

I have arrived, I am home

In the here, and in the now

I am solid, I am free

In the ultimate, I dwell

And by the time I left, I felt as if I surely had.

These writings are now being collected at: http://lovealways-pisa.blogspot.com

a different way of seeing

Advertising is ubiquitous. Beyond the billboards, TV spots, and internet banners, shout outs can't be shut out. Everywhere we look some interest is trying to positively define itself in the consumer's mind. Over the years, branding, as it's now called, has become very sophisticated in the hope that when company communication is seen or heard, an advantageous Pavlovian response will be blindly triggered. Coca Cola used to be "delicious and refreshing," soon it became "the real thing," and now it simply "opens happiness." From long ago crisp description to today's vague promise, each allure affects our emotions and ultimately our buying decisions. In a not so subtle way, corporate America is invading our consciousness in an attempt to create alchemical desire out of fictional grounds.

As a graphic designer I have done a fair share of image creation. In my corporate identity work I usually endeavor to impart meaning beyond that which is readily apparent. My hope is that through the clever use of form, memorable impact will be created while accurately defining the client's product or organization. Most, if not all, of the company logos that you can think of, successfully employ this technique. The hidden arrow in the FedEx logo denotes movement, speed, and efficiency; Infinity automobile's vanishing roadway is a disguised arrow taking you far into the future; and the not so discreet arrow in the Amazon.com mark implies that the company carries everything from A to Z, are just a few examples. 

Branding attempts to create meaning beyond itself. With pervasive and persuasive contact we are easily deceived. Gullible, we readily believe what we're told. Soon we are not seeing for ourselves but that which we are conditioned to see. Though Coke may be delicious and refreshing, can it open happiness any more than the real thing - the real world - can? How is it anything more than a sweet carbonated beverage? We must open our eyes to see things truly for what they are. 

And this is Jesus' test in the gospel reading this morning. What do you see when you encounter the Christ he asks. Is there more than meets the eye? Answers are contrived from the collective consciousness but finally Peter declares only what he alone has perceived. He has seen the infinite in the finite. He has seen the real thing. William Blake, in the Marriage of Heaven and Hell, notes that "My senses discover'd the infinite in every thing." Through the senses we see only the finite reality, yet we sense the infinite through reality. If we look closely enough, the divine is seen in everyday life.

Does that make the mundane special? In one sense, no - a Coke is still a Coke no matter what the behemoth propaganda tells you. The physical phenomena has no meaning beyond itself. But then on another level, there is so much more. And this is what branding attempts to tap into and what Blake infers: That behind every physical thing there is a spiritual element waiting to be discovered. Jesus commends the often daft disciple because with deft comprehension he sees beyond the blinding rhetoric. His message: See not with the eyes, hear not with the ear, but understanding with the heart. In the finite lies the potential for the infinite. No one needs to tell you otherwise.

love, always,
pia

These writings are now being collected at: http://lovealways-pisa.blogspot.com

see what a tree can do

Late winter, when the snows begin to recede and the daytime temperatures rise above freezing, is the brief sapping season at the Convent. The surrounding woods is a veritable sugarbush so there is no shortage of trees from which to choose from. Small and medium sized trees are bypassed until years later, but the large ones are targeted and tapped. Over time some proved to supply more sap than others, yet there are one or two on the far side of the school's basketball court that readily flow far greater than the others. Although the Sisters were grateful for all the trees in the vicinity, these specimens were dubbed Grandfather and Grandmother Maples, perhaps because of their girth and long life, but also because of their unconditional generosity. They were accorded genuine respect and they are still loved to this day even when they are occasionally outdone by their neighbors.

A tree can do that. When you come to know it, not solely for the visceral value it provides, but simply because of it being a living being, that relationship can change you. It only requires an adjustment in perspective. It's important to remember that it's not the tree that changes, but only our perception. The tree is always there, quietly doing its tree business, it is we who become aware that there is more life than just our own limited physical presence. As such, our reality becomes just a little bit larger than it was before. We become more than ourselves and our natural compassion extends beyond our own needs.

This is what Peter, James, and John experience at the transfiguration of Jesus. We are told that the appearance of Jesus' face changed and his clothes became dazzling white. But somehow that can't be what happened. The Master was always such - he did not change, only those who saw him were. Luke continues; "Suddenly they saw," and as their eyes were opened to the majesty of god in man, they became aware of a new possibility. Even though the classical Christian interpretation is to reveal the divinity of only Jesus in that moment, I believe that the understanding of the divine indwelling in all humankind is what truly broadened their worldview and thus changed them forever. The disciples became a part of a greater whole, one which they could not see before, but once the potential was revealed it became indisputable.

As I was driving to my parent's house Wednesday night, I noticed for the first time a statuesque sight. Two houses down from their driveway stood a tall pine tree which stood out from the rest of the hillside. I have driven this road perhaps thousands of times in the 30-plus years they have lived there, but never once had I seen this beauteous giant. Its twisting shape revealed patches of spare limbs and smooth reddish bark. The green-needled branches stretching horizontally struck me with awe. How could I have missed this tree all these years? Of course, it was always there, it didn't change, but now it is a part of my reality. Just like Peter, James, and John, the future will look different because of the recognition of the gracious divine presence dwelling among us. This tree will remind me to be grateful, not only of its individual existence, but for the landscape in which it dwells and all who live thereby. It's simply amazing what a tree can do.

love, always,

pia