In the department of home repair I am mostly known for making things worse. I YouTube solutions and follow procedures. Occasionally I bumble into a triumphant fix but mostly I utter the words, “I think I broke it.”
Kerri, on the other hand, has the savvy. She springs into fix-it mode. And, she knows when NOT to spring into fix-it mode. She knows the line not to cross.
I lack the line so I rely on her to tell me when to stop, when to walk away. Since this particular cartoon happened yesterday, I’ll leave you with a bonus question: Before walking away, did I or did I not crack the sink? Hhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmnnnnn?
Like most people I have had some dark nights of the soul. Fortunately, I also have a life rich in beacons, special people that shine bright and light the way in my darkest hours. Best-of-all, my beacons are visible on sunny days, too. Some of my beacons have been around for the long haul. Some show up in a moment and disappear as fast as they appeared.
It’s hard not to believe in guidance when surrounded by so many living lighthouses.
Once, on a snowy day in a local store called PeaceTree, the man behind the counter told Kerri that she was surrounded by good angels. It was a comfort and gave her courage to head out into the storm.
Yesterday, Jonathan’s passing had us talking about good angels. He was certainly an angel for us. It made me realize (again-and-again) that the good angels that surround us are not ethereal unseen spirits. They are visible. Humans. Folk. Peeps. 20. Brad and Jen. The Up-North-Gang. Horatio. They are the friends that show up to help, Arnie and Dwight. The people that call out-of-the-blue to check-in. They are the world’s best mechanic that fixes our car and then delivers it to our driveway. The notes from Judy or Jim. The texts of encouragement from Rob or Mike or David. The “likes” from Alex and Buffalo Bob that revitalize us everyday to keep writing, keep creating. Brenda and Cris reaching out to us when they hear one of Kerri”s compositions streaming and share how much her music means to them. The bright lights that we just know are out there. Guy and Charles.
We are, indeed, surrounded by good angels, more than I can name or count. We would not be here were it not for the people who catch us when we were falling, the voices of encouragement that cheer when we consider stopping, the many, many people who stand with us in the storm and whisper, “How can I help?”
Beacons. Warming fires on the hill. They are all around us – all the time – and we are more than grateful for their bright light, infusing us with courage as we sail into the next unknown.
More than a few times, we’ve stood at the display of wind chimes in a store. We sound them. We compare the tones. We close our eyes and feel the vibration. Some we like immediately. Others we shrug, not-so-much. We give them a second try, ringing a few together to make mixed tones. We never buy the chimes but we always try them on for size. It’s a form of dreaming. We leave the display with the magic phrase, “Someday.” Yes, someday we’ll have to get those.
Someday. What a double-edged sword is this word!
A few years ago, when Kerri’s digestive system went awry, we dedicated ourselves to the Whole 30 diet so she might regain balance. There’s no sugar allowed in the Whole 30. We learned a valuable strategy for coping with the intense I-must-have-that desire. Walk past the plate of brownies and count to 5. In five seconds, without fail, the desire dissipated. We learned that what-we-must-have is a healthy system. The road to “someday” meant not biting the illusion of sugar-fulfillment.
Delayed gratification. Accelerated health.
Today we learned of Jonathan’s passing. The news floated by on the Facebook stream. We were stunned. In addition to being a very bright light in the world, a peer, he was one of the hardest working people I’ve ever known. He was stockpiling money for his retirement. He had vision. He had plans. “Someday,” he’d say, a twinkle-of-delight in his eye. We lost touch during the pandemic. This morning Kerri said, “I always thought we see him again. Someday…”
I’m given to looking up the words I’m batting around. The antonyms of “someday” are “immediately” and “never.” Two choices, polar opposites, both unforgiving.
Today we will celebrate the life of a friend. We’ll lift a glass in his honor. We’ll share a brownie bite. We might just go to the store and sound the chimes. And, who knows, maybe today will be someday. “Why wait?” I’ll ask.
On my list of things to think about: raindrops are water held together by surface tension. The elements of air and water at play. And then, as if that were not enough, there’s refraction!
Now you know why I’m such a bore at parties. While everyone else discusses recipes or the antics of their children, I’m captured by the drip of water on the houseplant. Talk to me at your own risk.
It’s a question of attractions. Water molecules like hanging out with other water molecules more than they like hanging out with air molecules. Like seeks like. The liquid contracts. An inward force of attraction creates a surface tension at the crossroads with air. Don’t worry. Beyond the metaphor I don’t really understand it, either.
In my next life I’m going to be either a gospel singer or a physicist. If a physicist, I’ll still be an outrageous bore at parties but at least I’ll understand the forces behind what I’m seeing. If a gospel singer, I’ll be great fun at parties and I won’t for a moment think of the forces at play. I’ll sing with the power of unquestioned faith.
Our backyard is a sanctuary. The birds love it. The chipmunks race along the fence line. The bunnies eat the grass and lead Dogga on wild-bunny-chases. The pond gurgles. The plants thrive. All are interfaces of forces. Water and air. Life playing with life.
It gives me plenty of fodder to think about. And, plenty to love.
Although butterflies get all the headlines, the transformation of a cicada is equally astonishing. The cicada doesn’t emerge from a cocoon. It emerges from its own body. The outer shell, a crawling insect, splits and the new form, a miracle with wings, a flying insect, crawls out of its former self to greet the world.
It actually has two emergences. For most of its life it lives underground, feeding on the sap in tree roots. And then, one day, on a cue no scientist has yet discovered, all of the cicadas in the neighborhood crawl to the surface, climb into the air and light, ascend toward the sky, and attach to a tree or some other vertical surface. Once they are firmly attached, the second emergence begins. Like a snake shedding its skin, the cicada sheds its former…form, and enters the last chapter of life completely changed. Air-born.
I’ve never wondered if a butterfly turns and ponders the cocoon. A cocoon seems generic. An envelope. But each time I see the shell of a cicada I can’t help but wonder, as its new wings dry, before it is capable of flight, what it might think, perched atop the old form, staring at what it used to be. Did it know that wings were growing inside all along or is it a complete surprise? A reverse mummy, opening the lid of a body-shaped sarcophagus to venture into the upper regions.
I wonder if it knows the transformation to flight signals the end, only a few more weeks of life. The males begin to sing. The females click their wings. Partnering through an ancient call-and-response. The end of life. The fulfillment of purpose. The beginning of a new cycle of life.
It’s full, full, full of useful metaphors. The old shell appears as if it is hanging on for dear life when dear life was about to burst forth, unrecognizable. Transfigured. And, isn’t that usually the way of the scary new? The old, well-worn shape wants nothing more than to hang on for dear life to what it knows, what it has always been. It’s necessary for the new energy, the new form, to split the frightened shell, wrestle with itself to emerge, and discover life anew. Finally ready to fulfill its purpose, its reason for being.
The second part of the quotes reads like this: “The ability to observe without evaluating is the highest form of intelligence.” It’s another way of saying, “Be in the moment.”
Being in your moment is harder that it sounds. Lately I’ve been pondering two Buddhist practices that came by way of Quadzilla. First, develop the capacity to discern between the fear raging inside and what’s actually happening outside. Unless there’s a tiger chasing you, the fear is most-likely manufactured. Second, learn to discern between what-you-feel and the story you layer on top of what you feel. Feel the feeling, chuck the story. Develop these two practices of discernment and arrive at equanimity: “mental calmness”, the ability to observe without evaluating.
The first part of the quote reads: “It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”
Each time I scroll through the news-of-the-day I hear Tom’s voice in my head: “When I was a kid and the circus came to town I paid a nickel to go into the tent to see the ‘freak show.’ Cows with two heads, etc. Now, all I need to do is watch what’s on tv.” In his final years, Tom retreated to his ranch and spent his time cutting the grass and tending the land. He watched baseball games. For a time I was concerned with his isolation but now I understand it completely. He was a deeply sensitive man, a gifted theatre artist, and rather than grow numb to the “freak show,” to try and make sense of the sense-less, he put his hands in the soil. He watched the sunrise and sunset. He found his health in the quiet place beyond the sickness of the society.
Pasting the quote back together in proper order: “It’s no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society. The ability to observe without evaluating is the highest form of intelligence.” ~ Krishnamurti
The lessons keep coming. Late in life Tom made the choice to keep his nickel and stay clear of the world concocted inside the tent. The world inside the tent is manipulated. It’s meant to rile, to confuse. He discerned between where to place his focus and where not to place his focus. Stay out of the tent. Focus on the soil. The movement of the sun. Family. Ancestry. Helping. Chopping wood. Carrying water. The real stuff.
Outside the tent, outside the made-up-horror-story, there’s no reason to evaluate [to judge]. It’s another way of saying “Appreciate your moment.”
Oh, those fine lines get finer and finer as I become (like a good wine) a product of my age. I just asked Kerri if I was “fine” and she laughed so hard she choked. Perhaps I should have been more specific. Maybe it was the manly-pose I struck when I asked. My pose almost made me laugh but I choked first.
There is no doubt, my life has been better with coffee. This, too, is not in question: as I become finer and finer, I need to drink less of the dark magic elixir. For many reasons that I will leave up to your imagination. Like my manly pose. It’s okay. Imagine it and laugh.
Kerri just said that I am “Too much.” There’s that line again. When am I not enough? When am I too much. I think I’ll take another sip and ponder-the-line…
“Dangerously soft-hearted. Derogatory. Informal.” Thus, the great book of words begins its definition of Bleeding heart. It’s no wonder we’re value-confused. Poke around the word “compassionate” and you’ll find a string of synonyms that are soft-hearted without the informal-derogatory in the mix: sympathetic, pitying, caring, understanding, empathetic…
Qualities to be admired.
If I care for you, if I feel your pain, if I consider your feelings, if I make space for your grief, if I feel sadness for your suffering…am I dangerously-soft-hearted or caring? The associated verb that pops up again and again is “to feel”. The portal to standing in another person’s shoes is through feeling.
We caution our little tykes not to let their emotions cloud their judgments. It’s good advice when understood that emotion…feelings…are necessary to arrive at sound judgement. Mind and heart are indivisible dance partners. Separating the two is a recipe for psychosis. And meanness.
Does compassion cloud or clarify? In the Christian tradition a bleeding heart, the bleeding heart, is the spirit that nourishes. “The salvation of humanity.”
Empathy is an epicenter of artistry. Love is a word of the heart, soft or otherwise.
It’s quite a mix of meanings! I suppose that’s why the wise advice found in all wisdom traditions is to find the middle way. “Balance” as a Buddhist might recommend. “Get neutral” as divemaster Terry instructed. Parcival; pierce the veil with the arrow aimed straight through the middle. There, the grail is found.
A bleeding heart is a plant, too. Beautiful and it always evokes a sweet sigh from Kerri. Life giving. Instant presence. Now, isn’t that an apt example of a spirit that nourishes? Try to find that in a dictionary!
“…people find what they are looking for. If you’re looking for beauty, you’ll find beauty. If you’re looking for conspiracies, you’ll find conspiracies. It’s all a matter of setting your mental channel.” ~ Roger von Oech, A Whack On The Side Of The Head
Our time on Washington Island was multi-layered. Half of the people on the island saw us as invaders. The other half saw us as welcome progress. We were hired to manage the performing arts center which, out of the chute, served as a divisive symbol for the local community. We were the first “non-islanders” to manage the TPAC. Division upon division. And, although we were the focal point of the contention, none of it had to do with us, not really. Our status as invader or progress originated in the eye of the beholder.
Because the actual job was a festival of landmines, I especially appreciated the simplicity – and sanctuary -of our little house, a home provided to us for the summer-on-island-months. Our refuge sat on the shore of Lake Michigan. It was as peaceful as the job was contentious.
My favorite symbolic act at the little house was hanging the clothes to dry. When we arrived the clothesline was in disrepair. We re-strung the poles with new line purchased at the local hardware store. We quickly grew accustomed to carrying the wet clothes outside. We learned that the wind off the lake sometimes required strategy to what-is-pinned-in-front-of-what. Double clothespins on sheets and shirts was always a good idea. Mostly, I appreciated how the clothesline slowed our pace. It brought us into the sun and in relationship with the wind. The real stuff.
It helped set our mental channel. Hands on, tactile, slow-paced, generous, the power and presence of the lake filled us with awe. So, to our work, we brought awe. Literally. We were in awe of these people that cared so much for their community. Like most communities, they had more than one idea of how to protect it. Progress or conservation.
We understood that these two paths-to-the-same-goal need not be oppositional.
We learned that our job was to build bridges where they had fallen. We understood that, in this divided community, we had to pay attention to what-is-pinned-in-front-of-what. We learned that double pins on big ideas was sometimes a good idea because ideas often generated big wind. Listening was the best idea of all. We understood that if we brought our awe to both sides of the coin, we might one day build a single bridge that could not be burned.
We learned that there was no rushing the process, just as there is no way to rush the clothes drying on the line.
“It’s a corn butter spreader,” she said. 20 and I looked incredulous.
“A what?” We squinted, as if squeezing our eyes might produce a sharper image. As if recognition was produced by wrinkling our faces.
“She’s pulling our leg,” 20 suggested. I nodded. She is well-known for too-easily pulling-the-wool-over-our eyes. 20 and I are gullible and easy marks for her shenanigans. I appreciated 20’s suggestion that between us he and I had only one leg to pull. Unintentional admission of our shared wit-less-ness.
“Noooo!” she protested. “Haven’t you ever seen one of these?” We shook our heads. Wary. Smelling a trap. “It’s a corn butter spreader!” She insisted. 20 and I stood our ground of solid disbelief.
“Look,” she huffed, scooping butter into the contraption, lowering the press arm, she ran the device over a hot cob of corn. Like an indignant Vanna White, she finished her demonstration and thrust the gadget toward us proclaiming, “Corn-Butter-Spreader!”
20 whispered, “She might be telling the truth.”
“This time,” I mumbled. Now, she was squinting at me though I doubt her squint was intended to sharpen my image.
“Use it!” she glared at 20 who promptly obeyed, deftly spreading butter on his corn.
“Hey!” he smiled. “Who knew! This thing works. There’s a tool for everything!” he double buttered his corn. “Do you want to try it?” he asked.
“I’m a purest,” I said. “I like mine without butter.”
“Too bad,” he said, triple buttering his corn. “This is fun.” He turned to Kerri asking, “When were you going to tell us about this?” He looked at me, puzzled, “Why does she always keep things from us?”
The Direction of Intention 