Parsely, Sage, Rosemary, and Time

     When you see an opportunity to lend a hand and something steps between you and the recipient to prevent it, the feeling is one of deep loss.  This happened to me recently while at my local supermarket.  And it has preyed on my mind for the last day.
     The young woman in front of me seemed very pleasant.  She had purchased a few items, but the cashier was telling her she had the wrong kind of peanut butter by the time I took my place in line.  I was oblivious to the import of all this as the assistant manager, Rosemary, sent the cashier off to find "creamy" instead of "chunky."  I was wiling away the minutes rolling my eyes at some tabloid headline.  Rosemary then turned to the woman to say, "You can get 2% or skim milk but not whole.  You can't get the parsely with these either," and put the produce aside.  The young woman smiled and nodded pleasantly.  It was then that I noticed what she had--food stamps.  I suddenly felt a wave of sorrow for her.  In this program apparently one is not entitled to anything that has a whisper of luxury to it.  No rich-tasting whole milk.  No fun-to-crunch chunky peanut butter.  No perky parsely to liven up whatever paltry meal you are preparing.  
     So great was my own discomfort at seeing one item after another removed from the conveyer belt that I attempted to engage the woman in conversation just to make her feel like part of the human race.  I made a comment about the weather and looked at her with a smile.  She spoke very little English, and she made motions to convey that information to me, smiling back pleasantly, like one who is striving to keep her last shred of dignity intact.  Maybe I was overestimating the situation.  Nevertheless, I desperately wanted her to have that parsely, that emblem of something fresh, flavorful, and special.  I spoke to Rosemary, "I'll pay for this woman's parsely," as I reached into my wallet.  Her response astounded me.  Barely looking up from tapping keys into the register she glanced at the bundle and said, "She doesn't want it.  But thanks."
     She doesn't want it?!?!  If she didn't want it why would she have put it in her carriage?  I wanted to say just that in response and insist on paying for it, but I stood there stunned by her insensitivity.  The young woman finished her transaction, moved on, and I did as well.  My anger rose at Rosemary as well as myself for not taking charge of that opportunity to do something lovely for the customer.  Why would anyone be so thoughtless?  Anger was going to be useless now, but this was an opportunity to tap into my inner sage.  What wisdom and compassion could I possibly draw from this painful episode.  Could I find a better story with which to interpret this?  My sage did not fail me.  Rosemary was a victim too.  A victim of time.  Hers is a busy job: cashing checks, canceling out purchases, managing the cashiers, referreeing over a coupon dispute.  She was so focused on getting the task at hand completed that she literally did not see the opportunity to be compassionate.  She probably could not deal with me giving her money for an order that was being transacted with food stamps.  The whole business may have been so bloated with rules and protocols that is was better to let this opportunity go.  And in that moment, she lost herself.
     My sage realized that all three of us lost something in that moment, a moment crushed by the man-made demands of time...or at least how we perceive time.  You and I are often victims of this circumstance. At my recent retreat someone offered a definition of love.  It is not a feeling or an act.  It is simply seeing and being seen.  And out of seeing compassion grows.   We reconnect with our true self.  If I can wish you anything in those stressful times of your day it is the ability to see, just for a moment, the suffering of another.  If all you can do is smile or say a prayer, do it.  And, to paraphrase the rest of the song, Remember yourself with the one who lives there.

The Pleiades

     I'd never been to California, yet during the past several months many people living out there have been urging me to come and visit.  Ah, 'twould be nice, but no denaro.  Then unexpectedly I was invited to the annual meeting and retreat of Service Space. My heart stopped for a moment.  This was huge!  Our founder, Nipun Mehta, would be there, a man I deeply admire.  Other folks I knew of but never met would also attend.  In my mind these were the game changers, and they wanted me to come.
     Two questions plagued me, why and how.  Why did I think I needed to go?  While my default response would have been no, my intuition shoved me into saying yes.  Then how in the world would I pay for the airfare? 
     The night after I accepted, I woke up in a panic.  What was I thinking of?  I can't go to California!  But in the next instant a voice cut through the noise.  FEAR NOT!  Instantly the panic ceased.  The next day I got a grant writing job which covered the cost of the ticket.  As long as I was out there, I thought I should see the friends who encouraged me to visit.  I emailed them about my trip, and effortlessly the stars moved to assist me.  Two of these friends offered me a bed, so no hotels.  Other friends offered to drive me everywhere I needed to go, so no car to rent.  John dropped me off and picked me up at the airport, so no parking costs.  Magic!
     Then came the why.  Why do I need to go now and why did I feel compelled to say yes?  I put the question aside when I arrived at Mesa del Sol.  I'd never been to a place like this!  We were in the mountains--high, dry, bright--with a faint smell of sage brush hanging in the air.  I was immediately absorbed into our loving group of 25 and made to feel quite comfortable.  Yet, something felt odd.  Someone asked me how I was doing.  I replied, "I'm not sure.  I'm not here.  Someone is here, but it's not me.  But she's having a great time!"  Whatever anxiety drives my ego and claims to be me was left 3,000 miles behind.  A purer version of me had arrived, one that was so completely open.
     I took advantage of the surroundings to enjoy a little solitude and the starry night, and out of the corner of my eye I spotted the Pleiades cluster.  Since my vision is not what it used to be I cannot look for this cluster straight on; it recedes into the blackness.  But when I don't look so hard, when I look past it, when I allow my peripheral vision to see it, it becomes clear.  Then I realized that I had to find my reason to why in the same way.  Going after it intellectually would reveal nothing.  I just had to let the answers reveal themselves to me.
   They did.  Sure, I was here to get better acquainted with the group.  But I found myself having astounding conversations which could not have happened under any other circumstances.  I met people with whom I developed an immediate and deep connection, and we continue our conversations now.  Because I needed a ride to my next destination, my traveling companions ended up being photographed for a book my host was publishing.  Another friend expressed her wonder that I had come at exactly that time because there was no one else with whom she could share a particular story. 
     The stars move in strange courses, don't they?  While it may be tempting to connect the dots and declare a constellation, I'm finding it's much more amazing to let them connect me to people and circumstances who are, just for the moment, obscured by the darkness.  But when all is revealed, Holy Mother of Pearl, it is magic!
    

Now

     Lately I've been thinking a lot about now....because it is inextricably linked with time...and I've been thinking a lot about time, too.  Now that I am freelancing my time is my own.  I can chose to work at any time of day or night, which means I can do other things whenever I want.  So I pay attention to when I feel pressure, and pressure is usually about being anyplace but now.  My mind goes back to the past to reinforce a belief that may no longer be useful; it projects into the future and frets upon how things will work out.  But when I'm in now, my mind goes in a whole different direction--toward my heart.

     Here it is May, and while there are definitely signs of spring, it has been a long time coming, and I don't think it has decided to take residence completely.  We came close to frost last night!  But that also means that flowers are blooming later and staying longer.  I marveled at the countless buds that appeared on my lilac bushes this year.  Part of me couldn't wait for them to bloom.  But a larger part of me wanted to hold that moment off.  Once they bloom they will begin their inexorable decline toward death.  So I began to appreciate anticipation in a way I had not done before.   Tommy is another next door neighbor all of nine years old.  He is rather small for his age but a dynamo!  He helps me shovel snow and now wants to mow my lawn.  No, he's serious.  He is also the sweetest soul on Earth.  He'll stop by just to sit on my porch to talk to me.  And every time I look into his smiling golden-green eyes I am convinced that behind them is a mighty and gracious spiritual entity.  Yet I know some day he will shoot up like a bean stalk, get a part-time job, fall in love, go to college, move away....  And in that thought my heart breaks that this perfect now cannot go on forever.
     On the other hand, I push so hard for things to happen now.  I just planted vegetables and am boggled that they are taking so long to grow.  I get frustrated when it takes me so much longer to learn something than I think it should.  I feel deep in my bones that I will be in great shape financially, but the operative word is in the future tense.  I want it now!  
     Yet when I sit down and breathe and observe how time and seasons unfold, I feel myself to be in a very safe place.  I will ruminate over my fears until I can sit down on the porch beside the lilacs and breathe in their elixir.  I can observe my cucumbers and be equally boggled that in less than 12 hours another leaf has emerged off my radar.  I can feel the joy of working with my clients.  I am slowly learning that now can be an eternity in itself.  And life is a string of nows.  Seen in that way we can develop more patience with life and ourselves, we can trust, and we can savor our own becoming.
  

Traveling on 287

     Super Soul Saturday was the retreat I attended last week in Princeton, NJ.  The east coast contingent of Service Space met for a day of mindfulness, meditation, and rich conversations.  It was so perfect!  We were all swimming in an ocean of love and support, so it was effortless and comforting to share stories with each other about life's challenges and rewards.  The theme was service in everyday life.  How do we show up for it?  Surrender to it?  What happens when our fears conflict with the desire to trust that what we are doing is right and necessary though conventional wisdom would tell us otherwise?  The day was full of such stories, and with it the laughter, hugs, knowing glances that assure us that we are in this together; and the road we travel is taking us home to our highest consciousness.
     I stayed later than I intended to so I could spend time with Bela who'd be moving across the country days later.  In hindsight, I'm so glad I did and would not have chosen differently.  It was a gorgeous time of sharing.  And this meant leaving at 8:15pm for a two and a half hour trip back home.  It would be a long, dark drive.  
     Things started to go quirky when I made two turns out of the neighborhood and immediately lost my bearings.  Darn!  I should have printed out the reverse directions rather than try to think backwards, a talent that is not in my repertoire.  But I made it to my first service station and got my bearings again from the attendant.  The streets were obviously unfamiliar, but the darkness made it difficult to read the signs, compounding my dilemma.  I made it another few miles, but no signs were evident.  I backtracked once again to a second service station to get confirmation of the route I needed to travel, and was gratified that my intuition was correct.  I then needed to travel up route 1 to the Garden State Parkway.  The trip was longer than it was coming down.  Did I miss a sign?  I began to panic about how the sign might read.  Would it tell me north or south?  Or would it just say To Trenton or Newark?  I have no idea where those places are in relationship to me!  I pulled into a third service station for yet more confirmation.  I was assured the sign would indicate north.  Whew!  On the road again, counting all the miles I thought I needed to be aware of when the sign might appear.  In a moment of doubt I saw a GSP sign tacked onto an exit, thinking that was the exit I needed to take.  Instead it was just a cheap way of posting that the turnoff was yet to come.  I stuffed my heart back down into my chest.  There!  Ahead of me was the easy turn off to the road I wanted.  Now, on to 287 and Westchester Avenue.  As a blessing along the way, I had the good fortune to pay a toll to an attendant with a warm, enveloping smile.  "Good evening, sister!  How are you?"  He got back as good as he gave.  I thanked God for sending me a highway angel.  I was heartened.
     These two roads converge for a small span before hooking up to the Tappan Zee Bridge and the Hutchinson River Parkway.  That would seamlessly meld into the Merritt Parkway which I knew like the back of my hand.  The Hutch meant I was safe and on my way home.  So I carefully counted the miles to where I'd see the signs for 287.  There it was right on time, and with it Westchester Ave.  I took the exit.  But wait.  Something was wrong.  The road I took coming down was a highway.  This was a secondary street with traffic lights.  The signs kept saying 287 with a forward arrow, but the road was not the one I remembered this morning.  Where was I?!?!  The road went on and on.  It was now 10pm, and it would be difficult to find places to drive into and ask for directions.  Light after light I traveled, doubting the signs that promised what I needed but conflicted with what I had known before.  I saw a bus pulled over to the side.  I wondered if I should ask the driver for directions.  But the light changed, and I chose to move forward...up over a rise...and FINALLY!  There before me was the exit for 287, and with it one that broadcast the coming of the Tappan Zee Bridge.  I knew just over the bridge I'd connect with the Hutch, and it would be a straight shot home.  
     The relief was overwhelming because the panic had been so persistent.  I relaxed my shoulders and loosened my white-knuckled fingers on the steering wheel.  Why did this have to happen right after such a magical day at the retreat?  I was annoyed that all those good vibes went right out the window.  A high had been replaced by fear.  But then I realized this trip home was a perfect metaphor for everything we had talked about that day:  traveling an unknown road, in the dark, hoping to get "home."  So frequently during my week, I strain to see signs that the way I am choosing to live is "right," that it will lead me to my destination, the fulfillment of my purpose.  Home.  I talk with others to compare notes and get confirmation.  "Did you have to pass through this challenge?  Good, so did I!"  My life is just like traveling on 287.  And the only way I got through it was on faith.  Sure, I have help along the way, but some stretches it's just me, doubt and faith battling it out, and the road.  Worst case scenario, I could have just driven around all night or stayed at a hotel.  But eventually I would have made it home.  I believe we all do.  It's just that some routes are harder than others.
     Anyway, one piece of advice.  Make sure your tolls are in quarters in case you get into the wrong toll lane.  It didn't happen to me, but it'll be one less thing for you to worry about on your path!

Pax tecum.

Party Like It's 1939

ER  hosting Easter egg hunt at White House

     It was my belief that back in the Great Depression there was a lot more generosity going around than at any time in my life.   The 70's were "me" focused and fashion challenged.  The 90's brought the scourge of greed and technology.  The millennium and 9/11--the world's axis shifted, and nothing has been the same since.  

     But whenever my parents, aunts, and uncles--second generation Americans--spoke about the Great Depression in which they grew up, they always mentioned people's generosity.  They didn't gloss over the hardships.  But stories of sharing and invention abounded.  So you can understand why the 1930s, as grueling as they were, still stand out in my mind as kinder days than those I've lived through.  Until now.

     While greed and indifference exist in abundance to be sure, I am heartened by what doesn't make the headlines because, as they say in the news biz, it doesn't bleed.  I am seeing a lot of caring folks in the world who make a difference for the better.  And I try daily to amplify that generosity every chance I get.  Life is beautiful when I do.  I sport a perpetual smile on my face, and other shoppers respond in kind.  I stop and talk to strangers for no good reason other than to connect with them for a moment, and they light up.  I do things I love, saying "yes!" to people ask to use my talents.  It proves to me that how we show up in the world actually affects our environment.  So how do we want to do that?  With cynicism?  Fear?  Suspicion?  Exhaustion?  

     If you read my last blog (you did read it, didn't you?), you know I am imperfect.  But I'm telling you, the extra effort I make to show up as my better angel is paying off.  My friend Audrey Lin echoes this experience.  At a recent conference, she was losing energy.  The trip, the sitting, the shlepping of stuff, all the talk talk talk.  So she and a friend decided to perform random acts of kindness.  As she enthusiastically describes it in a recent blog posting of her own: 

“As we went around giving out snacks, something shifted, in me and in the people we were interacting with. Suddenly, it was as if we were all becoming family. Giving out snacks, giving group hugs, learning each others' names-- there is something powerful about connecting over kindness rather than connecting over a project or ideology or agenda. When you connect with someone over an act of kindness, you make a heart-to-heart connection--a human connection-- that is a reflection and reminder of the human spirit. Of our interconnectedness!”

(Read more)

     So given all I've told you, you are hereby invited to a virtual party!  I invite you to commit random acts of kindness for the next few days.  You don't have to volunteer in a soup kitchen or write out a check.  Just pay attention!  Yes, that means getting off your devices--and you know I'm all for that.  What is going on around you that allows you to make a moment of positive impact?  Carry little toys in your pocket for restless children in a doctor's office.  In a check-out line turn around and compliment someone on her scarf.   Walk around your street and pick up garbage.  Need more ideas?  Go to HelpOthers.org, a great website!
     Then--THEN--come back here and tell us what you did, and what the experience did for you.  If you do this often enough, you'll notice how you are transforming.  You are becoming a change agent in the world.  But you have to come back and comment about it, or we won't have a party.  And you don't want to be a party pooper, do you?  In fact, forward this posting and bring others along with you.
     Just think.  If this were 1939, you might be sharing sugar rations or tomatoes from your victory garden.  Gee, isn't it swell?  Everything old is new again.  

Pax tecum.

 

     

An Ill Wind That Blew Some Good

     This is my neighborhood post blizzard.  See that teeny black sliver above the railing?  That's the only sign of my car which was completely buried in snow.  Three--count 'em THREE--feet in one storm.  Nor'easters are a force to be reckoned with.    

      My male neighbors lent their muscles to the task of clearing my driveway.  It was exhausting mentally as well as physically as we had to figure out where to put the darn stuff.  We'd work a couple of hours, go back inside for coffee and ibuprofen, then go out and tackle it some more.
        After three days of this paralysis, a payloader finally broke through the street.  Those people worked round the clock, getting stuck themselves, dodging pedestrians and shrouded vehicles.   It was nerve-wracking, mind-numbing, and heroic.   But he couldn't clear the entire road, just past my driveway.  There he stopped.  I'm guessing someone else was in charge of that other portion.  You have to stop plowing somewhere, or you end up circumnavigating the Earth.
     Up the street, Amy stepped out of her house and observed that she was still snow bound.  I was just wrapping up days of back-breaking work when she saw me and, yelling over the sound of a snow blower, expressed her astonishment.  "How come they didn't plow me out?!?!  I'll never be able to get to work!"  
     Spent and aching, I mustered as much goodwill as I could.  "Think of it as a vacation!"
     "How could they be so stupid!?!?!  What idiots!!!"
     That's my hot-button.  When I know someone has given their all to an effort and hear criticism of him, I lose it.  I rarely lose it.  But I lost it at that moment and made a very impatient and frankly irrational reply before stomping into my house.
     Then the inevitable guilt set in.  I handled it really badly.  I was insensitive to her situation and made myself look like a jerk as well.  I had to clean it up.  I chose to go over to her house the next day and apologize, then offer to take her grocery shopping with me.  "Go over."  I write that so glibly.  She is maybe 20 yards away from me.  But it meant I had to swim through waves of hip-deep snow to get there.  Every step was a booby trap.  In an act of poetic justice, I fell on my face a couple of times.  I arrived soaked with cold water and knocked on her door.
     She greeted me warmly, and then I stated my reason for coming, offering a sincere apology for my remark.
    "What remark?"
     "You didn't hear what I said?"
     "No, I thought you were just complaining about shoveling.  What did you say?"
     "Amy, if you didn't hear me, I'm not going to repeat it!"  And we both laughed.  
     Then she turned quite somber.  "No, I don't need to go grocery shopping, but thanks for the offer.  It was good of you to come over.  It's been a hard week for me.  It's the anniversary of my mother's death, and my sister attempted suicide.  It's too much...."  She broke down after that.  I simply stood there, giving her my full attention, sending as much love to her as I could.  Since I was not invited in, I figured she did not wish to dwell in this place.  Then pulling herself together she said, "I just needed someone to tell that to."  
     I gave her my deepest condolences, she thanked me, and I returned home to send up a prayer for her.   Never in a million years would I have guessed that doing something stupid could provide a means to connect with someone in need.  If I hadn't blown so rudely, I would never have been moved to visit with her.  Amy just isn't one of those neighbors I hang out with.
     So I wonder if there are times when being less than perfect opens up opportunities for grace.  Maybe the Universe uses our mistakes for a higher good if we are brave enough to own up to them.   Maybe storms leave some good in their wake after all.

Pax tecum