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

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

killing the Christ

Walking into the Reverend Canon Elizabeth Randall's office I confided, "I am still searching for a teacher." She just sat there and nodded with an impassive expression concealing her empathy and waited. Many times had she heard this from me, but this time I was hoping she might relent and take me on as a spiritual advisee. To break the awkward silence I continued, "Of course, Jesus is my teacher," and with a nod of her discerning head I immediately knew I had lost my case. 

For many years I sensed that a wise mentor was necessary to guide my spiritual journey. From devoted monks and nuns, to countless spiritual directors and confessors; from friends inclined in similar pursuits to professional counselors and respected authors, I have searched for the acute wisdom to understand the mystery: What does it means to live a human life? I am intrigued and consumed by this question. If I am not searching through tantalizing theology or pouring over logical philosophical arguments then I fear my questions will remain unanswered. To this day I have yet to find that esoteric messenger with all the answers.

Judas, one of the twelve, was confident he found his exalted teacher. But it is said that if one attains the Tao, it is not the Tao. So when things weren't turning out the way he expected, he did what he had to do. Though we vilify him as the one who set the wheels in motion by betraying his close friend culminating in the Christ's untimely death, Jesus himself understood that it was necessary. We think that without the treacherous kiss, he might have lived another 40 years, teaching his unskilled disciples just as the Buddha did after his enlightenment. But no, the master was convinced his hour had come and he was willing, if not prepared, to die. Occasionally we pardon Judas' behavior saying that someone had to do it. If it wasn't him, then surely another would have to. He became the scapegoat so the "Scriptures could be fulfilled." But perhaps the fratricide wasn't a case of predetermined lore to verify a Messianic heritage; instead the perfidy may have been exactly what needed to be done. 

In Buddhist tradition, the ninth century Zen master Lin Chi is regarded as saying, "If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him." This profound koan stipulates that when the object of religious faith - or anything we accept as valuable for that matter - becomes ensnared as a representative icon, then it may become necessary to disassociate the object from reality. We must let go of our trust in these elevated goods as the means to truth. Whatever we conceive as the Buddha, or the Christ, is mistaken. If the teacher is found outside oneself, as the parable implies, then we must kill our grasping instinct for facile salvation. The Buddha can only be found within. In this way, could it be that the action of Judas was right? 

When I was twelve my formative adolescent faith was rocked off its foundation while discussing the escalating Vietnam War in eighth grade Social Studies class, Basing my argument on the values learned from my liberal Democratic parents, I was convinced that there was no "just" war. My adversaries questioned my convictions with all manner of ethical implausibilities. Yet when they asked if I had known anyone personally killed in the conflict, they struck an emotional conundrum. Since I did not, nor did I know how to verbalize the underlying morality issue, my parental confidence was betrayed. What I believed to be concretely true was now open to debate. Doubt invaded the certitude I held in my parent's teaching and I became disillusioned. Never again would I trust so implicitly now that my idols were crushed.

I shall never condone violence and it is morally wrong and abhorrent to kill at any time. But our erroneous efforts to follow that which can not deliver must always be figuratively sacrificed. Judas had to kill his reliance on the cherished beliefs of an exterior god, as well as his interior ego, so that what remained would be his life-changing truth. Our golden heart can only awaken when we let go of all that is not oneself. We cannot live if we try to live another's life. The Buddha, the Christ, the god you seek is not to found, it can not be taught, nor can it be achieved, because it is already within you. You are what you seek.

 

love, always,

if only

"How delightful it would be if 'Dorian' could remain exactly as he is, while the portrait aged and withered in his stead. I wish it might be so," cited his creator, Basil Hallward, in the preface of Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray." The emphatic desire had monumental and dire circumstances for him when the book's namesake acceded to the Faustian bargain. And unfortunately it reflected human nature's reliance on wish fulfillment fallacies. If only I could remain young and beautiful forever was Dorian's downfall.

Most people think they would be happier  if only they had.... I'm sure you can easily fill in a relevant ambition. If only I had a better job. If only I had more money. If only I had a new car. If only I was thinner, then things would be better. "If only," as author Mercedes Lackey wisely remarked, "must be the saddest words in the world."

Sad, because they can never be realized. We continually await a future happiness or, if we are fortunate to achieve what we want, we become trapped in a never-ending cycle of desire. As we succumb to the lascivious pull of hope, all that can remain is a sorrowful expectation. 

I saw an alluring woman in church this morning with gorgeous, long and thick red hair and envy enveloped me. It's all I ever wanted, screamed my wanton lust. If only I was that pretty. If only. Ever since I was young I secretly coveted a new life of beauty and grace. For a time I was satisfied with a modicum of success but resignation is my wan and subsequent sigh. I shall never be that for which I long, and so curse the object of my fascination.

And that's what happens in the Passion narrative today. The Christ emerges from the shadows of hope feeding an anticipation for a better world. He arrives as a promise that he never meant to fulfill. When the promise is dashed, the scorned quickly look for something new to take its place. Salvation, the would-be hero, is renounced and life missed its moment of glory.

When we find ourselves trapped in "if only," then it's time to remember what we do have. Instead of languishing in what might be, we must recognize the beauty and blessings underlying the present moment. With the freedom from cyclical desire we soon discover that we can have all the happiness we ever wished for. And that's a promise.

 

love, always,
pia