"The wound is the place where the light enters you". "Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure." Rumi
The fellowship consisted of a group of seven ministers--one Lutheran, one Episcopalian, a Presbyterian, a United Methodist and three Southern Baptists. When I joined there were then four Southern Baptists.
After abruptly leaving a church position with nowhere to go, I was in a particularly difficult stretch of emotional road. The Methodist minister invited me to join his "group". This fellowship of saints met every Thursday morning from 8:30 to 10:00. It was somebody's job to make the coffee and another to bring the donuts. Just plain glazed donuts. There was no agenda, but there was a format. The rule was this--if you have an issue pressing on your heart and mind, then you have the floor. If more than one person needed to talk, we decided who got to go first. If there was time for the second, then ok. But there usually was not.
Over the two years we met before life sent us in separate directions, we sorted though a multitude of personal issues. We coached one through an affair and helped him to salvage his marriage and family. We saw another through his depression and a total emotional meltdown. Another of our group went through a divorce and we helped him through the worst of that. One minister at one point was dealing with serious financial issues, especially after paying money he didn't have for his daughter's wedding. One of the things that was most significant to this Southern Baptist is that no matter how serious the situation, no matter what emotional shape someone was in, no one quoted scripture and there were no prayers uttered. No not one. This was an encounter of compassionate human beings. Divine intervention is such a good thing, but it was never needed.
With that many ministers in one room we certainly dealt with many church issues, but we mostly discussed deeply personal matters of the heart. And what did I talk about? As well as I remember those faces, that youth Sunday School room on the second floor of the First Baptist Church, the coffee and donuts and many of the conversations, I don't remember specific things I talked about. What I remember is the warmth in that room and that I had the rapt attention of seven men of the cloth, men who had not only been through the fire, but had the ability to help me through mine. I also learned that God was not a Southern Baptist. I had been raised and educated in the Southern Baptist world and had to come to view the world through Baptist tented glasses. All of a sudden grace, mercy and love were finding me through different doors, with different liturgical colors.
That was thirty-two years ago this week that I met those men. I have lost touch with all of them except two. I talked to one of those Southern Baptists a few days ago. And that United Methodist who invited me to join? He retired to the United Methodist church where I attend and I talk to him quite often. Instead of coffee and donuts, we meet over a meat and three to discuss issues we hold in common. But we do as much laughing as talking. Thirty-two years ago I was seeking salvation. Now I'm just seeking a friend.
If someone ever writes "the story of my life", they must include those twenty-four months and how they helped shape the person that I am today. The title of that chapter could be "The Wounded Healer." If the wound is the place where the light enters, then there is a very bright spot in my soul.
Monday, June 8, 2015
Thursday, June 4, 2015
When consideration isn't all that considerate...
A friend of mine asked me recently if it's possible to be too sympathetic or empathetic. I think for kind and caring people, this is an ongoing issue.
On the left is the sociopath, the one who is incapable of an ounce of empathy for anyone. This person feels no pain or regret in inflicting pain and misery on anyone. Just to the right of the sociopath is the narcissist. This person is totally wrapped up in himself with no concern for the feelings and preferences of anyone else. Then in the middle is a caring person who experiences with other people their feelings and even their pain. They know how to maintain their own personal space while expressing concern and care for the other person. But to the far right are people that actually enter other people's emotional space. This person emotionally and even physically absorbs the pain and struggles of another. There is very little separation between the emotions of one or the other. This type of person will usually have many more emotional problems than the people for whom he is so concerned.
This is a silly example for such serious issues, but maybe it applies nonetheless. All of us know the rules of a 4-way stop. The rules are very few and quite simple. As traffic approaches the stop signs, the one who stops first has the right of way. If two vehicles arrive at the stop at about the same time, the person to the right has the right of way. That's it, sum total of "the rules".
This morning as I approached a 4-way stop, several vehicles were coming to the stop at about the same time. I always watch carefully to take my turn. The driver to my right arrived at the stop sign before I did. It wasn't a tie or even close. This driver had the right of way. I waited a few seconds and she just sat there. Then she waved for me to go ahead. Instead of feeling like she had done me a favor, I felt annoyed that I had to wait on her to make up her mind about proceeding. My point is that if she had not tried to be "considerate" and just followed the traffic rules, it would have worked better for both of us.
As a teenager I learned the same lesson when I tried to be "considerate" of a stranger. I was at a roadblock taking up a collection for a local charity. A man rolled down his window and dropped some change in my bucket. He then asked directions to somewhere in town. I had a vague notion of his destination and provided vague and rambling directions. I really wanted to help him. He interrupted me and said, "Why didn't you just tell me you didn't know?" and he quickly drove away. I've never forgotten that.
So how do we care for people without getting emotionally involved in their issues? It's all about personal boundaries, that stuff that separates any one of us from the rest of the world. It's okay to feel what other people are feeling as long as you maintain your own personal emotional health and identity. If we empathize to the point of dysfunction, then we have a boundary issue. So how do you know when to say when? You have to test your own emotions -- do I like the way this feels? Am I able to move back into my own space and my own preferred emotional state at will? It the answer to either question is "no" then you have allowed your boundaries to be violated. It's not the other person's fault you're feeling this way, it's a choice that you made.
So whether you're approaching a 4-way stop or talking to a troubled friend, assess the situation, take your turn ( to drive or to help) and move on. This gives the other person the opportunity to move on as well.
On the left is the sociopath, the one who is incapable of an ounce of empathy for anyone. This person feels no pain or regret in inflicting pain and misery on anyone. Just to the right of the sociopath is the narcissist. This person is totally wrapped up in himself with no concern for the feelings and preferences of anyone else. Then in the middle is a caring person who experiences with other people their feelings and even their pain. They know how to maintain their own personal space while expressing concern and care for the other person. But to the far right are people that actually enter other people's emotional space. This person emotionally and even physically absorbs the pain and struggles of another. There is very little separation between the emotions of one or the other. This type of person will usually have many more emotional problems than the people for whom he is so concerned.
This is a silly example for such serious issues, but maybe it applies nonetheless. All of us know the rules of a 4-way stop. The rules are very few and quite simple. As traffic approaches the stop signs, the one who stops first has the right of way. If two vehicles arrive at the stop at about the same time, the person to the right has the right of way. That's it, sum total of "the rules".
This morning as I approached a 4-way stop, several vehicles were coming to the stop at about the same time. I always watch carefully to take my turn. The driver to my right arrived at the stop sign before I did. It wasn't a tie or even close. This driver had the right of way. I waited a few seconds and she just sat there. Then she waved for me to go ahead. Instead of feeling like she had done me a favor, I felt annoyed that I had to wait on her to make up her mind about proceeding. My point is that if she had not tried to be "considerate" and just followed the traffic rules, it would have worked better for both of us.
As a teenager I learned the same lesson when I tried to be "considerate" of a stranger. I was at a roadblock taking up a collection for a local charity. A man rolled down his window and dropped some change in my bucket. He then asked directions to somewhere in town. I had a vague notion of his destination and provided vague and rambling directions. I really wanted to help him. He interrupted me and said, "Why didn't you just tell me you didn't know?" and he quickly drove away. I've never forgotten that.
So how do we care for people without getting emotionally involved in their issues? It's all about personal boundaries, that stuff that separates any one of us from the rest of the world. It's okay to feel what other people are feeling as long as you maintain your own personal emotional health and identity. If we empathize to the point of dysfunction, then we have a boundary issue. So how do you know when to say when? You have to test your own emotions -- do I like the way this feels? Am I able to move back into my own space and my own preferred emotional state at will? It the answer to either question is "no" then you have allowed your boundaries to be violated. It's not the other person's fault you're feeling this way, it's a choice that you made.
So whether you're approaching a 4-way stop or talking to a troubled friend, assess the situation, take your turn ( to drive or to help) and move on. This gives the other person the opportunity to move on as well.
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Zen for Dummies
"You don't shoot the arrow. The arrow shoots itself." Zen and the Art of Archery by Eugin Herrigel
Years ago when I was a young youth director in Jasper, Alabama, a group of my young people invited me to join them on a rope swing one Sunday afternoon at a nearby creek. I knew about the creek, but I didn't know about the swing or a place deep enough for jumping. When the time came for me to take the plunge, I grabbed the rope, pushed off and swung out as far as I could. As I let go of the rope I decided to turn a back flip. Then something happened. The flip was absolutely effortless. My body flipped itself and and I fell into the water in true Olympic form. I felt the flip as it was happening as if it was in slow-motion. When I landed in the water time sped back to normal speed. When I swam back to the bank, one of the teenagers commented on my flip. He said it was stunning, or some such teenaged equivalent. I don't know what it was. I just know that it was as if my body was possessed by some power from beyond that flipped me without my help.
Years later, there was a golf game at Lake Lanier Islands in Gainsville, Georgia. In all the years I played golf, this was the only game when this happened. I played my normal golf on the front nine, but when we made the turn to the back nine, something was different. Most would say that I was "in the zone". It was the most effortless and enjoyable golf that I ever played. My clubs connected with the ball perfectly with every shot and the ball soared where I wanted it to go. My friend was dumbfounded. When I tallied the pars, birdies and bogies, I scored two over par on the back nine of a very challenging course. It was by far the best nine holes I had ever played. I wasn't quite ready for the tour, but it felt really good to play that well.
But did the arrow shoot itself, and did my body flip itself, and did that golf ball really fly by itself?
All of it required effort. The arrow might have shot itself at the instant it left the fingers, but the fingers ha pulled it back and held it until that moment. I may have been in the zone during those nine holes of golf. The game may have felt effortless, but I bent and placed the ball on the tee, pulled my driver back around my body and swung it forward. The flip may have seemed to have happened all by itself, but I grabbed that rope and flung myself as far as I could swing before letting go. My effort propelled my body into its backward flip.
Seemingly effortless things require effort on our part. And yet it's the things that seem to be effortless that we enjoy the most, that bring us the most pleasure. So maybe the mystical moment is when our effort is overtaken by something beyond us, something we can't see, feel or control. We give it our best, and then let this power complete the task.
It takes effort to get out of bed, brew the coffee and begin the day. Then inertia takes over. The body that was at rest is now in motion. The day takes on a life of its own. At this point it would take effort to keep the day from fulfilling its appointed course. Why would you want to stop it?
"Go with the flow" they say. But you can't go with the flow if you're not even in the water. Grab the rope, swing as far as you can and let go of the rope. The rest will take care of itself.
All of it required effort. The arrow might have shot itself at the instant it left the fingers, but the fingers ha pulled it back and held it until that moment. I may have been in the zone during those nine holes of golf. The game may have felt effortless, but I bent and placed the ball on the tee, pulled my driver back around my body and swung it forward. The flip may have seemed to have happened all by itself, but I grabbed that rope and flung myself as far as I could swing before letting go. My effort propelled my body into its backward flip.
Seemingly effortless things require effort on our part. And yet it's the things that seem to be effortless that we enjoy the most, that bring us the most pleasure. So maybe the mystical moment is when our effort is overtaken by something beyond us, something we can't see, feel or control. We give it our best, and then let this power complete the task.
It takes effort to get out of bed, brew the coffee and begin the day. Then inertia takes over. The body that was at rest is now in motion. The day takes on a life of its own. At this point it would take effort to keep the day from fulfilling its appointed course. Why would you want to stop it?
"Go with the flow" they say. But you can't go with the flow if you're not even in the water. Grab the rope, swing as far as you can and let go of the rope. The rest will take care of itself.
Monday, June 1, 2015
Long Ago and Far Away
"and in between what might have been and what has come to pass." Long Ago and Far Away, by James Taylor
I think we all know at a rational and cognitive level that "what might have been" never existed and never will exist. And yet we spend an inordinate amount of time and energy trying to conjure it up. We often actually try to live there.
The truth is, and we all know it very well, "what has come to pass" is the only past tense that is real.
But then the mystics tell us, and they are right about this, "what has come to pass" doesn't exist either. The memories of "what has come to pass" exist but "what has come to pass" does not exist. And it never will exist.
But even the memories of "what has come to pass" do not exist. Our memories aren't perfect. We remember things the way we choose to remember them. Some of us choose to only remember the good parts. Many of us choose to only remember the painful parts. So which memory is the real "what has come to pass"? The good memories or the bad ones? None of them. You are not remembering "what has come to pass" the way it actually came to pass. You only remember certain parts of it. That then disqualifies you from saying truthfully "I remember what has come to pass."
So if there is no way possible to find "what might have been" and we can't even find "what has come to pass" then where does that leave us? Are we all hopelessly lost?
You know this too. It leaves us with the only possible reality --"here and now", the chair where we sit.
Life has always been and always will be in the present moment. Zoa, Jesus called it. The Tao, others call it. And still others The Eternal Now.
But you don't like the present moment? You don't like it here, where you are? Then learn to like it here or go somewhere else. But I'll warn you. When you get there, you'll find it to be much like it is here. So you might as well just learn to like it here. Once you learn to like it here, you can like it anywhere. Just trust me on this.
I think we all know at a rational and cognitive level that "what might have been" never existed and never will exist. And yet we spend an inordinate amount of time and energy trying to conjure it up. We often actually try to live there.
The truth is, and we all know it very well, "what has come to pass" is the only past tense that is real.
But then the mystics tell us, and they are right about this, "what has come to pass" doesn't exist either. The memories of "what has come to pass" exist but "what has come to pass" does not exist. And it never will exist.
But even the memories of "what has come to pass" do not exist. Our memories aren't perfect. We remember things the way we choose to remember them. Some of us choose to only remember the good parts. Many of us choose to only remember the painful parts. So which memory is the real "what has come to pass"? The good memories or the bad ones? None of them. You are not remembering "what has come to pass" the way it actually came to pass. You only remember certain parts of it. That then disqualifies you from saying truthfully "I remember what has come to pass."
So if there is no way possible to find "what might have been" and we can't even find "what has come to pass" then where does that leave us? Are we all hopelessly lost?
You know this too. It leaves us with the only possible reality --"here and now", the chair where we sit.
Life has always been and always will be in the present moment. Zoa, Jesus called it. The Tao, others call it. And still others The Eternal Now.
But you don't like the present moment? You don't like it here, where you are? Then learn to like it here or go somewhere else. But I'll warn you. When you get there, you'll find it to be much like it is here. So you might as well just learn to like it here. Once you learn to like it here, you can like it anywhere. Just trust me on this.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Look Who's Talking
Con.ver.sa.tion --the informal exchange of ideas by spoken words
Yesterday he walked up to me while I was eating lunch. It was one of those "I know the face situations." He asked "I know you, don't I?" I said " Yes you do. I'm David Helms. I remember you from Kiwanis Club, but remind me of your name." And he did.
I had not seen John for over thirty years. I invited him to join me and he sat down. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he started telling me about his health issues. This is not unusual for 60- somethings and 70-somethings, as in many significant ways this is what our lives have come down to.
John began by telling me about his near miss with colon cancer. I learned that during a routine check-up visit, his doctor asked him when was the last time he had a colonoscopy. He told his doctor that he had never had one. His doctor asked, "Don't you think it's time?" And he agreed. They removed one polyp that turned out to be malignant. He underwent another surgery to remove part of the affected area of his colon. He did not need any other treatment. I interrupted him to express my gratitude that the cancer was caught in such an early stage.
John continued with his blood pressure issues. He explained that his blood pressure is controlled now with medication and he that he is doing well with it.
Next, he told me that recently he has had problems with his hip. He said that this past Monday he could hardly walk. But the pain has been more manageable since Wednesday. He explained that he has an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon to discuss a course of action.
After about fifteen minutes or so, his wife walked up to let him know that she was ready to go. I stood up to introduce myself to his wife and John stood up to leave. John continued talking a few more minutes. I interrupted with how good it was to see him. He expressed the same to me, and they walked away. I had learned several things about him. He had learned nothing about me. Not once did he ask about my family, my health, my well-being. What if he ran into another Kiwanis buddy and that person said, "How's old David doing?" I guess all he could say is, "He looked just fine to me." What else could he say?
The main thing about chronic talkers that I will never understand is how they can be so consumed with their own interests and concerns, and apparently have no interest in mine. I want to say, "Why do you assume that I'm even interested in what you have to say? What makes you think I'm even listening? Shouldn't the glazed over look in my eyes give you a hint that I checked out several minutes ago? You're just talking to yourself (your favorite person in the world). Isn't it reasonable to consider that my life is just as important as yours?"
If you are a chronic talker, I offer a few suggestions for your consideration:
1. Ask yourself why you have such a need to talk? Are you afraid that if you stop talking, then dead air will swallow both of you up in some vortex of empty space? I can assure you that the person to whom you are speaking might like an opportunity to tell you something about himself.
2. Stop talking. Just take a breath and stop talking. Let it creep into your consciousness that only one person is talking. No dialogue is taking place.
3.If #1 occurs to you and you can't do #2, then get some help. See a counselor who can help you with your narcissistic tendencies. You're paying money for this. Give the counselor an opportunity to talk and and listen to what he has to say. It will probably take more than one session.
If you are listening to a chronic talker, I offer a few suggestions to you as well:
1. If there's something you are burning to say, just interrupt the talker and say it! Be aware, however, that he is only waiting for you to shut up so that he can continue.
2. If there is a way to semi-politely end the deluge of words, exit the situation as soon as possible. If there is not a way to semi-politely end the encounter, then just leave anyway. Continuing the monologue will not edify either one of you. You have better things to do and he always can find someone else to talk to.
3. Learn from the talker. The next time you're in a conversation that is actually a dialogue, instead of just waiting for an opportunity to speak, ask a question about what was just said. Probe a little deeper. She will give you an opportunity to speak soon enough. She will express genuine interest in what you have to say.
Speech is one of those incredible miracles of the human body. A thought makes its way through the nervous system and lands on your tongue. The lungs provide the air and the energy. The air flows up through the larynx and the vocal cords vibrate. Those vibrations become sounds that are formed into words by the space in the throat, sinuses and mouth. Your lips put the finishing touches on the vowels and consonants. Then the miracle of hearing occurs. Those vibrations enter the ears of the hearer through the ear canals. The brain unravels those vibrations and interprets them into intelligible words. Then the biggest miracle of all takes place-- human interaction and dialogue. Theoretically anyway.
Yesterday he walked up to me while I was eating lunch. It was one of those "I know the face situations." He asked "I know you, don't I?" I said " Yes you do. I'm David Helms. I remember you from Kiwanis Club, but remind me of your name." And he did.
I had not seen John for over thirty years. I invited him to join me and he sat down. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he started telling me about his health issues. This is not unusual for 60- somethings and 70-somethings, as in many significant ways this is what our lives have come down to.
John began by telling me about his near miss with colon cancer. I learned that during a routine check-up visit, his doctor asked him when was the last time he had a colonoscopy. He told his doctor that he had never had one. His doctor asked, "Don't you think it's time?" And he agreed. They removed one polyp that turned out to be malignant. He underwent another surgery to remove part of the affected area of his colon. He did not need any other treatment. I interrupted him to express my gratitude that the cancer was caught in such an early stage.
John continued with his blood pressure issues. He explained that his blood pressure is controlled now with medication and he that he is doing well with it.
Next, he told me that recently he has had problems with his hip. He said that this past Monday he could hardly walk. But the pain has been more manageable since Wednesday. He explained that he has an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon to discuss a course of action.
After about fifteen minutes or so, his wife walked up to let him know that she was ready to go. I stood up to introduce myself to his wife and John stood up to leave. John continued talking a few more minutes. I interrupted with how good it was to see him. He expressed the same to me, and they walked away. I had learned several things about him. He had learned nothing about me. Not once did he ask about my family, my health, my well-being. What if he ran into another Kiwanis buddy and that person said, "How's old David doing?" I guess all he could say is, "He looked just fine to me." What else could he say?
The main thing about chronic talkers that I will never understand is how they can be so consumed with their own interests and concerns, and apparently have no interest in mine. I want to say, "Why do you assume that I'm even interested in what you have to say? What makes you think I'm even listening? Shouldn't the glazed over look in my eyes give you a hint that I checked out several minutes ago? You're just talking to yourself (your favorite person in the world). Isn't it reasonable to consider that my life is just as important as yours?"
If you are a chronic talker, I offer a few suggestions for your consideration:
1. Ask yourself why you have such a need to talk? Are you afraid that if you stop talking, then dead air will swallow both of you up in some vortex of empty space? I can assure you that the person to whom you are speaking might like an opportunity to tell you something about himself.
2. Stop talking. Just take a breath and stop talking. Let it creep into your consciousness that only one person is talking. No dialogue is taking place.
3.If #1 occurs to you and you can't do #2, then get some help. See a counselor who can help you with your narcissistic tendencies. You're paying money for this. Give the counselor an opportunity to talk and and listen to what he has to say. It will probably take more than one session.
If you are listening to a chronic talker, I offer a few suggestions to you as well:
1. If there's something you are burning to say, just interrupt the talker and say it! Be aware, however, that he is only waiting for you to shut up so that he can continue.
2. If there is a way to semi-politely end the deluge of words, exit the situation as soon as possible. If there is not a way to semi-politely end the encounter, then just leave anyway. Continuing the monologue will not edify either one of you. You have better things to do and he always can find someone else to talk to.
3. Learn from the talker. The next time you're in a conversation that is actually a dialogue, instead of just waiting for an opportunity to speak, ask a question about what was just said. Probe a little deeper. She will give you an opportunity to speak soon enough. She will express genuine interest in what you have to say.
Speech is one of those incredible miracles of the human body. A thought makes its way through the nervous system and lands on your tongue. The lungs provide the air and the energy. The air flows up through the larynx and the vocal cords vibrate. Those vibrations become sounds that are formed into words by the space in the throat, sinuses and mouth. Your lips put the finishing touches on the vowels and consonants. Then the miracle of hearing occurs. Those vibrations enter the ears of the hearer through the ear canals. The brain unravels those vibrations and interprets them into intelligible words. Then the biggest miracle of all takes place-- human interaction and dialogue. Theoretically anyway.
Thursday, May 28, 2015
There Goes the Sun
"Smile when you're not supposed to laugh
And cry when you're supposed to hold it back
And live like the sun is burning out of the sky
'Cause tomorrow's too late so don't waste a day of this life." Another Red Light, David Hodges
My sixth grade teacher was a man. Actually, there were two new male sixth grade teachers at the College Street Elementary School that year. Mr. Columbo was one of them, and my teacher was Mr. DiMichelle. He asked us to just call him Mr.D. For an eleven year old boy to have a man teacher was pretty special.
Mr. D was a good teacher, but he was also a lot of fun. Thinking back, I realize the privilege was more for his free time than ours, but he did something for us every now and then that was quite a treat. When the bell rang for us to line up after afternoon recess, he would wait for us to get in line and then tell us to run back to the ball field. By the time we got back to class, it was nearly time to go home.
It was important to Mr. D that we experience things. I remember that he introduced us to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake Ballet. He let us create art with crayons and paint while we listened. It was the most beautiful music I had ever heard. He also wanted us to learn about the world around us through lessons in science. I'm sure he meant no harm and certainly didn't mean to change my life, but he did exactly that. Mr. D suspended a mobile of the solar system from the ceiling. Pointing to the sun he explained that the one day the sun's energy would be exhausted and that the sun would completely burn out. In an instant I knew what that meant for me. If the sun dies, then the earth will die and I will die. It didn't matter that this event was several billion years away. It was that this cosmic catastrophe was possible at all.
Looking back I understand what a gift Mr. D gave me. At the age of eleven I realized that my life had an end date. I would love to tell you that from that day on I have treasured every moment of every day. But I can't tell you that. I would love to tell you that I've treasured every moment of this very day. But I can't tell you that either. But chances are the sun will rise tomorrow and that I will wake to see it. I'll have another day to do better at this thing called living. Or as the mystics call it --being Awake.
Tchaikovsky wasn't the only part of Russia of which Mr. D was fond. My classmate and friend Jimmy McKinney drew with chalk a marvelously beautiful mural of Moscow on the board. The fatal mistake though was when we held the Olympic games on the ball field--USA vs. Russia, complete with the respective flags. This was during the Cold War. You know when we got under our desks in case of nuclear attack. A soldier from nearby Ft. Rucker took exception to the games. He not only stopped the games and tore up the Russian flag, but made Mr. D erase Jimmy's creation as well. While we watched. That was Mr. DiMichelle's first and last year at College Street Elementary.
Our senior year Jimmy McKinney was killed in a tragic accident the night we were building our class float. I missed so much about Jimmy, but I never forgot how he brought a piece of Russia to Enterprise, Alabama. And I don't think a single Communist came out of that classroom.
"Live like the sun is burning out of the sky." It's not Russian roulette; it's science fact. Mr. D taught me that.
And cry when you're supposed to hold it back
And live like the sun is burning out of the sky
'Cause tomorrow's too late so don't waste a day of this life." Another Red Light, David Hodges
My sixth grade teacher was a man. Actually, there were two new male sixth grade teachers at the College Street Elementary School that year. Mr. Columbo was one of them, and my teacher was Mr. DiMichelle. He asked us to just call him Mr.D. For an eleven year old boy to have a man teacher was pretty special.
Mr. D was a good teacher, but he was also a lot of fun. Thinking back, I realize the privilege was more for his free time than ours, but he did something for us every now and then that was quite a treat. When the bell rang for us to line up after afternoon recess, he would wait for us to get in line and then tell us to run back to the ball field. By the time we got back to class, it was nearly time to go home.
It was important to Mr. D that we experience things. I remember that he introduced us to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake Ballet. He let us create art with crayons and paint while we listened. It was the most beautiful music I had ever heard. He also wanted us to learn about the world around us through lessons in science. I'm sure he meant no harm and certainly didn't mean to change my life, but he did exactly that. Mr. D suspended a mobile of the solar system from the ceiling. Pointing to the sun he explained that the one day the sun's energy would be exhausted and that the sun would completely burn out. In an instant I knew what that meant for me. If the sun dies, then the earth will die and I will die. It didn't matter that this event was several billion years away. It was that this cosmic catastrophe was possible at all.
Looking back I understand what a gift Mr. D gave me. At the age of eleven I realized that my life had an end date. I would love to tell you that from that day on I have treasured every moment of every day. But I can't tell you that. I would love to tell you that I've treasured every moment of this very day. But I can't tell you that either. But chances are the sun will rise tomorrow and that I will wake to see it. I'll have another day to do better at this thing called living. Or as the mystics call it --being Awake.
Tchaikovsky wasn't the only part of Russia of which Mr. D was fond. My classmate and friend Jimmy McKinney drew with chalk a marvelously beautiful mural of Moscow on the board. The fatal mistake though was when we held the Olympic games on the ball field--USA vs. Russia, complete with the respective flags. This was during the Cold War. You know when we got under our desks in case of nuclear attack. A soldier from nearby Ft. Rucker took exception to the games. He not only stopped the games and tore up the Russian flag, but made Mr. D erase Jimmy's creation as well. While we watched. That was Mr. DiMichelle's first and last year at College Street Elementary.
Our senior year Jimmy McKinney was killed in a tragic accident the night we were building our class float. I missed so much about Jimmy, but I never forgot how he brought a piece of Russia to Enterprise, Alabama. And I don't think a single Communist came out of that classroom.
"Live like the sun is burning out of the sky." It's not Russian roulette; it's science fact. Mr. D taught me that.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Sanctuary
Yesterday my son texted me, "Dad, looking at the map, we're going to be stopping for lunch in Sedona".
How is it that my family keeps accidentally stumbling into Sedona, Arizona?
In May of 1996 my brother and I had experienced the trip of a lifetime at the south rim of the Grand Canyon. On that rim at midnight the first night of our trip, the Hale Bopp Comet hung silently over our heads. Were we at the Grand Canyon or had we been propelled into outer space? The comet seemed as close to me as my brother standing beside me.
While there we took a perimeter tour of the state including a trek in Monument Valley, Utah and Canyon De Chelly. This canyon is a very sacred place to the Navajo and includes centuries of their tribal history. Just being there viewing the ruins and wading in the river was a spiritual experience. As it turns out, it wasn't our most significant spiritual experience.
After a week of gazing, hiking, driving, talking and laughing, we said goodbye to the canyon and headed out to the airport in Phoenix. We were both very content with the miles behind us. We were very content to be flying home.
Before we left, a woman we were chatting with asked us if we were going to see Sedona. Neither of us had ever heard of the place. She suggested that we didn't need to miss Sedona, Arizona. As it turned out Sedona was just off our route of I-17 on AZ 89A. We had a few hours to spare before our flight that afternoon.
Although our eyes and souls were full of incredible places, just driving into Sedona we both were taken with the beauty of the red rock town and the sense of "presence" there. We had no idea that the town was the "new age Mecca" of the world. After walking around a while, we settled into lunch in a quaint cafe. As we were about to leave, our server asked us if we were going to see the Chapel of the Holy Cross. "Never heard of it." With enough time for one last adventure, we followed her directions to the church. We found a church built into the side of a red rock mountain. The most striking part of the structure was the prominent three story cross built into the front of the church. We parked our car and walked up the long sidewalk having no idea what to expect.
Entering the back of the church, we immediately heard the soft Gregorian chant playing in the sanctuary. The only things in there were pews, a few people and small tealight candles burning in glass receptacles toward the front of the church. When we sat down we were taken by the view through the floor to ceiling window looking through the cross. The vista was certainly nothing we had ever experienced in churches in Alabama, Kentucky and Georgia. A small sign read that for a donation of fifty cents you could light a candle as a prayer for whoever you wish. I invested a dollar for two.
We both sat quietly and reverently for quite a while. I thought about and prayed for the persons for whom those candles were burning. The combination of the chant, the view and the flickering candles created a holy space and holy experience for which neither of us, to this day, have any words. How can two souls already full to overflowing be filled again? I guess a human's capacity for inspiration and revelation can never be satiated.
You hate to leave a moment like that, but we had a plane to catch and families expecting us..
On the drive to Phoenix and the flight back home, of all the images from my experience it was the feelings from that chapel that stayed with me the longest.
I don't remember ever communicating to my son what "Sedona" had meant to me. But I must have, When he texted that they would be lunching there, I knew that I had told him. I knew he knew.
As the Christian pioneers moved west in the 19th Century, the American Indians were perplexed that they choose to worship the Creator inside dark boxes on Sunday instead of in His creation every day. So how is it that of all that we had seen, of all that we had taken in, it was what happened in that dark box that meant the most to us? Maybe the depth of the canyon had carved out a cavern in our souls that was starving to be filled. I don't really know. I can only call it the mystery of the Spirit. The accidental stumbling onto a holy place.
Over the years going back to Sedona, Arizona on purpose has remained on my list of things to do. It just moved much further up my list. Meanwhile, I'm very grateful my son bothered to text me. Good memories are almost as good as being there. Well, not really.
How is it that my family keeps accidentally stumbling into Sedona, Arizona?
In May of 1996 my brother and I had experienced the trip of a lifetime at the south rim of the Grand Canyon. On that rim at midnight the first night of our trip, the Hale Bopp Comet hung silently over our heads. Were we at the Grand Canyon or had we been propelled into outer space? The comet seemed as close to me as my brother standing beside me.
While there we took a perimeter tour of the state including a trek in Monument Valley, Utah and Canyon De Chelly. This canyon is a very sacred place to the Navajo and includes centuries of their tribal history. Just being there viewing the ruins and wading in the river was a spiritual experience. As it turns out, it wasn't our most significant spiritual experience.
After a week of gazing, hiking, driving, talking and laughing, we said goodbye to the canyon and headed out to the airport in Phoenix. We were both very content with the miles behind us. We were very content to be flying home.
Before we left, a woman we were chatting with asked us if we were going to see Sedona. Neither of us had ever heard of the place. She suggested that we didn't need to miss Sedona, Arizona. As it turned out Sedona was just off our route of I-17 on AZ 89A. We had a few hours to spare before our flight that afternoon.
Although our eyes and souls were full of incredible places, just driving into Sedona we both were taken with the beauty of the red rock town and the sense of "presence" there. We had no idea that the town was the "new age Mecca" of the world. After walking around a while, we settled into lunch in a quaint cafe. As we were about to leave, our server asked us if we were going to see the Chapel of the Holy Cross. "Never heard of it." With enough time for one last adventure, we followed her directions to the church. We found a church built into the side of a red rock mountain. The most striking part of the structure was the prominent three story cross built into the front of the church. We parked our car and walked up the long sidewalk having no idea what to expect.
Entering the back of the church, we immediately heard the soft Gregorian chant playing in the sanctuary. The only things in there were pews, a few people and small tealight candles burning in glass receptacles toward the front of the church. When we sat down we were taken by the view through the floor to ceiling window looking through the cross. The vista was certainly nothing we had ever experienced in churches in Alabama, Kentucky and Georgia. A small sign read that for a donation of fifty cents you could light a candle as a prayer for whoever you wish. I invested a dollar for two.
We both sat quietly and reverently for quite a while. I thought about and prayed for the persons for whom those candles were burning. The combination of the chant, the view and the flickering candles created a holy space and holy experience for which neither of us, to this day, have any words. How can two souls already full to overflowing be filled again? I guess a human's capacity for inspiration and revelation can never be satiated.
You hate to leave a moment like that, but we had a plane to catch and families expecting us..
On the drive to Phoenix and the flight back home, of all the images from my experience it was the feelings from that chapel that stayed with me the longest.
I don't remember ever communicating to my son what "Sedona" had meant to me. But I must have, When he texted that they would be lunching there, I knew that I had told him. I knew he knew.
As the Christian pioneers moved west in the 19th Century, the American Indians were perplexed that they choose to worship the Creator inside dark boxes on Sunday instead of in His creation every day. So how is it that of all that we had seen, of all that we had taken in, it was what happened in that dark box that meant the most to us? Maybe the depth of the canyon had carved out a cavern in our souls that was starving to be filled. I don't really know. I can only call it the mystery of the Spirit. The accidental stumbling onto a holy place.
Over the years going back to Sedona, Arizona on purpose has remained on my list of things to do. It just moved much further up my list. Meanwhile, I'm very grateful my son bothered to text me. Good memories are almost as good as being there. Well, not really.
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