STILL A PERFECT DAY

Last night, after another of my vertigo-like episodes had me recliner-bound
and dodging nausea all day, it was a great relief going to bed and getting fully horizontal.

IMAGE: Wikimedia Commons
http://www.scientificanimations.com/wiki-images/

Compared with most days this one hadn’t been fun. And yet, when I began my nightly prayer—typically one of mostly gratitude—instead of that misery blunting my thanks, I found it only sharpened its clarity.

As my tally of the day’s blessings unfurled, I realized it included just about every one I’d listed the night before when I was feeling fine. And when I got to part where I acknowledge my relatively good health, instead of that item migrating over to the unspoken list of negatives, there it was, still right there on the plus side.

  I appreciate...the smallest, most essential wonders:
  each precious heartbeat, every precious breath. 

Maybe it’s a product of one’s aging, but don’t we find ourselves doing this more and more? Being grateful, even for some unpleasant things, that they weren’t worse? For the reminder that one cannot take all the good stuff for granted?

IMAGE: www.thetabernaclechoir.org

After all, I’d still gotten up and gone to bed a free man, living in peace, and owning a few modest talents and ways of sharing them. What more does a person need to be happy and fulfilled?

With this new awareness of adversity’s inability to taint such blessings, I appreciate as never before not just those the big, broad wonders of life, but its smallest, most essential ones: each precious heartbeat, every precious breath.  

Thank you, Great Spirit, despite—or maybe I should say because of—the occasional pain, for another precious day of living, breathing, sensing, feeling….and, above all, of loving.

IN GOD’S EYES – An Accounting of Loving and Being Loved

I’ve just had an epiphany. Actually sort of a compound epiphany.

The soil in which these realizations took root was tilled several years ago by a friend's telling me of the vision Trappist monk and author Thomas Merton experienced on a busy street corner in downtown Louisville in 1958. 

While standing there, Merton suddenly saw all the strangers around him in a perfectly clear, unfiltered light, not with assumptions or judgement, but simply as innocent children of God.

“Then it was as if I suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts, the depths of their hearts, where neither sin nor desire nor self-knowledge can reach, the core of their reality, the person that each one is in God’s eyes. If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time.”

How would it feel if Sylvia were dying in my arms?

HEART TO HEART
So, the other day I’m lounging in my Lazy Boy with our adorable mini-schnauzer, Sylvia, cradled face up in the crook of my arm. I had little to do but contemplate her being…and mine. I thought about how much I love this precious little creature, how deeply that love possesses my heart and soul, how utterly complete and without condition it is.

It may sound a bit gloomy, but it’s hard for me to process such profound gratitude without considering the prospect of loss. How would it feel, I pondered, if Sylvia, instead of basking in a nice tummy rub, were dying in my arms? 

I had this perfectly clear image of her eyes, fixed on mine, that opalescent chestnut brown a marbling of fear, pleading, trust. I could see right into her heart, and I think she could see into mine. Everything in and between us was love.

Tears welled up; my throat tightened.

In that very last exchange, what could Sylvia see in my eyes? Would it be anything close to the outpouring of unconditional love I was feeling?

     It’s a perspective that could change my life…

THE MORE YOU GIVE…
It was at this moment of swirling love and grief that I realized—and here comes the first epiphany—even at my ripe old age, I don’t think I ever have, and quite likely never will, experience that kind of pure, uncomplicated, unconditional love.

Recognizing that void in my life made me very sad indeed…but just for a few seconds.

Until, that is, I realized—and here comes the second epiphany, which refutes the first—that the perfect love Sylvia and I shone on each other in that heartbreaking vision is exactly how the God I believe in sees me. And you. 

IMAGE: Sotheby's

It’s just how Thomas Merton found himself seeing everyone on that busy street corner back in 1958. And it’s a perspective that could change my life…if I let it.

Now I know I have been, and still am, loved perfectly. Not just by my dog, but by God. 

Of course, that begs the question: are we human beings capable of such absolute love? Other than catching a fleeting glimpse of the concept as Merton did, is it even possible for us to love without expectation or prejudice? Do we love ourselves enough to love others that way? 

I believe very few of us do, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try.

Even if I should never receive such love from another person, at least I can try giving more of it. After all, isn't love the only thing in life where the more of it you give away the more you have?

And, since I’d like to have lots and lots of love, I guess I’d better get busy. Giving that kind of love, God's kind of love—not just to Sylvia, but to my amazing wife, Sally, my kids and grandkids, and a few special friends. And, just maybe, to strangers.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

I wish all my visitors and loyal followers from all over the world—75 countries so far—the very best of this season. For us Christians, that means MERRY CHRISTMAS! (para mis hispanohablantes amigos, ¡FELIZ NAVIDAD!) For my Jewish friends, it's HAPPY HANUKKAH! For all of us here in the northern hemisphere, it's HAPPY WINTER SOLSTICE! 

Whatever your celebration, may these days be kind to you, your families and your loved ones. May they bring you new awareness, wonder and gratitude!

BORN TO KILL – The Precious Instincts of a New Puppy

We human beings have been trying to breed and train out our domestic dogs’ wild instincts for 15,000 years.* Or, more accurately, to channel those instincts to best serve our own needs.

With those early wolf-dogs, of course it was handy if they scared away predators and rivals…but not so good if they ate the baby.

Centuries passed, and the roles for which we trained our canine helpers broadened to include hunting and retrieving, herding, search and rescue, rooting out vermin, pulling sleds, racing, and even rooting for truffles.

As the array of distinct breeds has broadened—the AKC now recognizes 190—the diversity of services these splendid creatures provide for us has kept pace. Some of the latest: drug- and bomb-sniffing dogs, personal assistance dogs, therapy dogs and, the latest and somewhat controversial designation, “emotional support” dogs.

   There they were: skills no one’s taught a
   schnauzer for well over a hundred generations.

APPLIED PHYSICS
And that brings me to Sylvia. She’s the eight-week-old miniature schnauzer puppy Sally and I just added to our family last Saturday.

We don’t expect Sylvia to do anything for us but be there when we come home, listen to us when no one else will and let us love her to death. Oh, and not tear apart every rug and piece of furniture we have.

But she’s a smart little thing; after only a week, she’s learning her name, that she gets praise and a treat when she does her business outside, and, quite amazingly, already recognizes tone of voice and facial expression as indicators of our approval.

But those are all things we’re teaching her. What amazes me more is the sheer staying power of those ancient instincts, tracing back to her lupine ancestors and channeled in the late 1880s when miniature schnauzers were originally bred as ratters and guard dogs on German farms.

Last night I watched in awe as Sylvia showed off that genetic imprinted repertoire—skills no one’s taught a schnauzer for well over a hundred generations. Yet there they were on full display as we played a simple pursuit game with her favorite plush toy.

We tied one end of a sturdy six-foot-long ribbon to that limp, pink form—I think it’s supposed to be a pig. I hold the other end and swing the thing around Sylvia in broad arcs. I thought sure she’d clumsily lunge at it as it went whizzing past her, or at best run in circles to follow it.

Nope. She’s too smart for that; from the very first try she showed she knows in
her bones a little something about hunting…not to mention geometry and physics. Instead of attacking in the direction of her “prey” as she saw it, she knew to anti-
cipate its trajectory, and raced directly to the place she knew it would be a scant second later. And she does not miss.

Is my dog a friggin’ genius? He-yeah!

What does your pet do that conjures up its breed’s early domestication? Do you observe vestiges of behavior one might expect had long since been bred out of that species? Whether you have a dog, a gerbil or a giant Burmese python, we’d love to hear from you; please share your thoughts here with a comment, or share and comment on Facebook.

* Estimates of when wolves were first domesticated range from 10,000 to 30,000 years ago. Some claim it happened in Europe; others, in the Middle East or East Asia. Some think early human hunter-gatherers actively tamed and bred wolves. Others say wolves domesticated themselves, by scavenging the carcasses left by human hunters, or loitering around campfires, growing tamer with each generation until they became permanent companions.
A NEW ORIGIN STORY FOR DOGS BY ED YONG – THE ATLANTIC – 6/2/16

THIN SPOTS – Close Encounters With Eternity

Recently, the mother of my dear old friend, Charlie, died. She was an incredible woman, smart, civically engaged and, at 97, still living independently. As a minister—ordained when she was in her sixties—and someone with a life-long passion for music, it came as no surprise that she’d orchestrated much of her own beautiful memorial service.

Some time before her death, while discussing that eventuality with her minister,
she had noted some of the most important aspects of her own, personal spirituality. Among them was her belief that human beings—at least those of us open to the possibility—regularly encounter “thin spots” in the self-made barrier between our largely-mundane daily busy-ness and other, more transcendental realities.

She felt it was her job, as a minister, to encourage people’s awareness of those convergences, because, among other reasons, they are good places to find God.

          If I could choose between this state and 
          deep sleep, I’m not sure I could tell you 
          which I’d pick.

BLISSFULLY AWAKE
The other night, perhaps facilitated by that posthumous sermonette, I encountered one of those thin spots in my consciousness.

I’d already had a unique and memorable night. Unable to sleep for some reason—
I seldom have that problem—I’d been lying there, resting quite nicely, though acutely aware of my surroundings, my body, my thoughts. It wasn’t that anything in particular was on my mind, nor even that I was unable to turn off my thoughts;
I truly wasn’t thinking of much more than how amazingly comfortable I was, both physically and mentally.

Instead of any sense of urgency or frustration with not being able to sleep, I just felt utterly at peace. I remember thinking, If I could choose between this state and deep sleep, I’m not sure I could tell you which I’d pick.

Now, to be honest, I can’t say I might not have drifted briefly off to sleep now and then during the night, but it sure didn’t seem that way.

            A tear—a real, cool, liquid tear—
            rolled down my cheek.

THROUGH THE MEMBRANE
Then, some time in the wee hours, I was suddenly aware of a presence. Not a flesh-and-blood presence, but a presence nonetheless. It was my dad. (In the 20 years since he died, I’ve had just one other significant connection with him, so I knew right away this was something special.)

We talked. I don’t remember saying anything out loud, but we talked. My “voice” felt real and true, and his…well, it seemed completely spontaneous, by all ap-
pearances his true voice, not one of my own creation.

So I asked Dad some of the questions I, because of both my reserve and his, had never thought to bring up while he was alive. “What were some of the high points of your life?” I asked. Without hesitation, he said, “You and your brother.” A tear—a real, cool, liquid tear—rolled down my cheek.

“Were you happy as an old man?” I asked. “You and mom seemed pretty detached by then, if not downright fed up with each other.” He replied, “Oh, you should have seen us when we were younger! When we got married, we were happy…and we were in love. Back then, we could talk, we laughed, we were affectionate...or as affectionate as conservative, German Americans could be (he winked)—we shared dreams…”

“Yeah, but were you happy during your final years, after you sold your homes and business?” I pushed. He thought for a few seconds. “I guess it was a different kind of happiness, the kind that comes from fulfilling a responsibility. Once I got your mom situated where I knew she’d be looked after, and sewed up some financial matters, I figured I’d fulfilled my purpose. I kind of let go.”

     In a kind of role reversal, I felt I’d taken 
     on the role of parent, and he was the child.

Dad and I talked for quite a while. I filled him in on my life since he passed away—during much of which he smiled and nodded knowingly, as if he already knew. I had to catch myself a couple of times running on about myself and tried to turn the conversation back to him. After all, I told him, this was about him.

He disagreed, but I guess that’s one reason this encounter was so amazingly special; in a kind of role reversal, I felt I’d taken on the role of parent, and he was the child.

I told him how proud of him I was…and am, and how much I love him. And how sorry I am that I wasn’t able to express that pride and love more overtly while he was still alive. In one of Dad’s patented responses—usually issued when the rare mention of love came up—he said simply, with that familiar, twinkly-eyed smile of his, “Ditto!”

Finally—I don’t know if I eventually did drift off to sleep or if it happened consciously—we said our good-byes. But not before I made him promise that he’d come back. He promised…and I’m waiting...

HEAL! – How Dogs Cure Us

Nature is in every human animal’s DNA. It made us, sustains us and comprises us, body and soul.

No matter how much we may try to control or deny it, no matter how we presume to virtualize it, no matter how we smother it in busy-ness, we can’t escape it. Wherever we live, even if it’s a place where signs of life are few, our essential belonging to Nature is hard-wired into us. And at some level, whether we realize it or not, we all deeply long to embrace it—to bring it home.

This is why human beings have dogs. (Okay, I know dogs aren’t the only animals folks keep as pets, but what can I say? I’m a dog person.)

That reminds me of a joke: Know the difference between dogs and cats? Dog looks up at its person and thinks, My gosh, he pets me, feeds me, talks to me, gives me everything I could possibly need...he must be God.

Cat looks up at its person and thinks, Well let’s see, she pets me, feeds me, talks to me, gives me everything I could possibly need…I must be God.

ALL PHOTOS, UNLESS OTHERWISE CREDITED: Pixabay

FROM PRACTICAL TO PRECIOUS  

PHOTO: Mario Sanchez via WikiMedia

From the ancient Egyptian grain trader relying on his cats—while also deifying them—to control vermin; to the medieval lord and his falcon, or the modern hunter or rancher trying to make sense of both loving animals and slaughtering them, our domestication of wild animals is as old as we are.

While most of these creatures, including dogs, were originally tamed to work for us, there are, as it turns out, other reasons we’re so fond of having pets; the blurring of the line between expediency and those other less practical benefits dates back at least 12,000 years.

Here are just a few of the reasons why we cynophiles want—and need—dogs in our lives:

Companionship – No matter how perfect we might feel our connection is with another human being, personal relationships are hard. We try to be good mates, but we always end up hurting and disappointing each other. We see our own short- 
comings reflected in them.
     But with a dog there's no guile, no misplaced expectation. They are what they are…and they love us for exactly who we are. In fact, we see in them many of the traits we wish we possessed.

    I sometimes wonder if dogs don’t feel sorry 
    for how we’ve forfeited our own child-puppy 
    spontaneity.

A Need to Nurture – Most humans, it seems, are so independent, so self-sufficient, that we won’t admit to wanting—much less needing—anyone to take care of us. But we all need to nurture.
     Sure, we do it instinctively with children and perhaps the aged, but what about after the nest is empty once again; what about for those who no longer have—or have never had—someone to take care of? Two words: bow and wow.

PHOTO: fortheloveofthedogblog.com

Entertainment – Dogs make us laugh…and cry…and sing and dance… We just love to watch them. People are fascinating to watch too, but dogs are way more fun. It touches more than our funny bone; it touches a place that yearns to be that spontaneous, that genuine, that free.
     And I sometimes wonder if dogs don’t enjoy watching us too—maybe just to see our reaction to them…or perhaps feel sorry for us grown-ups having forfeited our own child-puppy spontaneity.

Exercise – You’ve heard dog owners say they’re not sure who’s taking whom for the walk, right? Well it’s true. We need dogs to get us off our big fat butts and thin little screens and out of the house.
     By the way, these folks we see now and then being hauled passively around on their bikes or skateboards by the slave labor of their poor crazed, panting pups…they just don’t get it.

     We have allowed our awareness to be steeped 
     out of us by a culture that can no longer dis- 
     tinguish reality from entertainment. Dogs, 
     thank God, can still tell the difference!

Role Modeling – We find much to admire in our dogs: their generous spirits and modest needs; their unbridled enthusiasm; their obvious empathy when we’re sad or hurting; their fierce loyalty; their ability to thoroughly inhabit the simplest moment.
     And then there’s the way they handle adversity. A dog doesn’t blame anyone if it gets sick or hurt, doesn’t feel sorry for itself when it loses an eye or a leg. Hell, most wouldn’t even blame their owner for abusing them. My wife and I call this “just doing,” and often notice how it educates our own dealings with life’s hard knocks.

PHOTO: John Hurd via WikiMedia Commons

Awareness – It seems more and more people are so captivated by their own mostly-inane thoughts—or, perhaps more aptly nowadays, their iPhones or iPads—that they don’t have a clue what’s really going on, often right in front of their noses…until their dogs show them.
     We humans have rather easily allowed our awareness, our attention spans, to be steeped out of us by a culture that can no longer distinguish reality from entertainment. Dogs, thank God, can still tell the difference! 

Social Lubrication – When it comes to ways of meeting and interacting with other human beings, we’ve all heard the tried-and-true tricks: sign up for a community ed. class; volunteer; hang out in the produce aisle at the supermarket and ask folks how to tell when a cantaloupe is ripe.
     But the best way, hands down, whether you’re a young single person prospecting for dates, a lonely elder or just someone who loves other people, is to walk down the street or through the park with a dog—puppies are most effective. The way I figure, anyone who doesn’t love stopping to pet your dog isn’t worth meeting anyway.

PHOTO: dailypuppy.com

Centering – I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that dogs have a spiritual presence. Like sunshine on our skin or the smell of food, the presence of dogs causes things to happen in our bodies and minds. Something opens up; a hardness inside softens and melts. The toughest character—even, they say, a hardened criminal—turns into a cooing, caressing softie in the presence of a pooch.

Have you ever seen the face of a hospitalized child or a dementia patient light up when that sweet chord of connection with a dog is struck? What is this chemistry, and why is it so powerful that I feel it change me even when I just look at a picture of a dog?

Healing – Pet dogs don’t just take us outdoors, don’t just show us how to be healthy and whole; they impart genuine healing energy to our bodies and spirits. Scientific studies have shown, for example, that petting a dog lowers people’s heart rates and blood pressures.
Therapy dogs provided through a number of treatment programs—for Alzheimers, autism, PTSD, hospice, and many others—are well recognized for providing obvious, measurable healing.

So how do dogs—yours, or perhaps those you only covet—make you feel? 
What do you most admire about them? How do they make your life better? How have they changed you?

We fellow, fawning cynophiles out here would love to hear from you!!

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY – The Distance of a Grandfather’s Love

The 9:10 commuter train heading back to Boston squealed to a stop. I bent down to hug her, her wiry wisps of arms reaching up ‘round my waist, that perfect pixie face pressed against my side. I told her I loved her, turned and dared not look back.

I stepped aboard and took a seat. Clambering over my carry-on, I put a hand on the window and looked out.

There she was on the platform, scanning the dark-tinted windows—all but opaque to her—like a sailor craning to make out a speck on the distant horizon. For an instant, I thought our eyes might have met, but she looked right through me.

A deep desolation pulled me down, the kind a dear, departed spirit must feel when fully present with, yet unnoticed by, a loved one revisited.

The train jerked into motion. Still delving the dark, blank windows, she walked along just beside me, barely keeping up. Now I pressed both hands and my whole face against the glass, grinning, waving, weeping.

And then she saw me. Our eyes locked, the gulf between us suddenly narrowed nearly to arms’ length. Beside me she ran, faster and faster, her limbs a spritely fusion of flailing and grace…and she beamed.

I turned, looked back, and those few seconds swept her from my view. But that image, that sense of being at once so far and so close to that sweet girl, will stay with me until I am once again on that magic train…and I am the one looking through that dark window for a glimpse of her.

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – Tip #32

Bless a stranger with your thoughts and deeds.

You know how it feels. Someone you don't know from Adam smiles and offers a kind word; perhaps sees your need, and helps.

Be that kind stranger today; wish a passerby well. Know they might walk in darkness today, but for the light of your being, shared.

A WING AND A PRAYER – The Amazing Reach of Presence

When it comes to praying, I suppose I’m no different from the next person. I thank my god—that incomprehensible power I think of as the architect of everything— for the privilege of being alive, and ask for guidance in proving worthy of that gift.

I say thanks for the good fortune that I and those I love are in reasonably good health and have come to no harm today. And I count my many other blessings: peace where I live, my country’s hard-won freedoms, a loving family, devoted friends, a beautiful home in a caring community, a safe,  comfortable bed and plenty of food to eat.

     Nearly all that good fortune has befallen me...
     by the sheer luck of the draw.

I acknowledge that nearly all that good fortune has befallen me not because of anything I might have done to deserve it. Not because I’m better, smarter, more thoughtful or more conscientious than anyone else, but by the sheer luck of the draw.

I think of all the millions of folks around the world who, no less deserving than I, experience few if any of the blessings I enjoy. I ask my god to let the next hand they’re dealt include at least a few cards of comfort and hope.

LIFTING LOST SOULS
The part of my prayer I find most compelling is one I’ve added just recently, a product, I’m sure, of having read hundreds of books about sailors and explorers fighting for survival. (Besides the obvious escapism, I guess such stories help put my own day-to-day challenges into perspective.)

I ask my god to bless those who are lost, perhaps trapped in a collapsed building or mine, mired deep in a remote jungle, adrift at sea or unjustly imprisoned. Or maybe they’re lost in plain sight, surrounded by people living carefree lives, yet unnoticed, unloved and desperately lonely.

I ask my god to let each of these casualties actually feel my prayer, coming directly from me, right then and there, in real time.

Please, I pray, hold these forlorn souls in the warm embrace of all that is good, loving and beautiful about life. Give them the hope, the strength, the faith to hold on. Let me be perhaps the one person in the world who notices them and accepts the privilege of helping…somehow.

WHERE MYSTICS DARE
And—now here’s the part that makes this prayer feel like no other—I ask my god not just to intercede, but to let each of these casualties actually feel my prayer, coming directly from me, right then and there, in real time.

Think of it. You’re afraid, you’re in pain, you’re exhausted. You wonder if anyone even knows you’re there. Chances are you’ve lost all hope. You struggle to accept the reality of dying. And, worst of all, you are utterly alone.

Then it comes, like the first human touch after years of isolation, the strong sense, the certainty, that someone, a real, live person, knows you’re there. Someone has found you and cares what happens to you. (At that moment it may be more important just to know it’s someone than for it to be one who can physically save you.)
Does anyone else find this notion incredibly moving? What does it all mean to those of us who are wander and wonder?

    Never doubt the power of what we human 
    beings...can do with our minds and our spirits.

SOMEONE IS WAITING
The idea that one might be present for a stranger halfway around the world is not just some new-age pie in the sky. It’s a belief in the incredible power of human beings’ connection with one another (and everything else, for that matter). Like our capacity for love, wonder and happiness, that connection is hard-wired into us from birth.

But the older we get, it seems, the easier it is to misplace this gift of connection. We get distracted into thinking life is more complicated than that. We get so overwhelmed with the challenges of caring about those closest to us that we forget the power we have to affect others, even total strangers. Maybe we just get lazy and self-centered.

      I don't have the slightest shred of evidence. 
      But does that really matter? 

Never doubt the power of what we human beings, with our unique abilities to reflect and create, can do with our minds and our spirits. We have the ability, rare among all living things, to care about more than our self-interest. And we have the unique capacity to converse with the great spirit.

With those two gifts alone we can be forces of love, healing and salvation—for our fellow beings, for all living organisms, for the earth. And the range of that beneficence is limited by nothing but our faith.

So can we really connect spiritually with a hopeless stranger on the other side of the earth or across town, one separated from a fearful, solitary death by no more than a wing and a prayer? I don't have the slightest shred of evidence. But does that really matter?

Isn't this one of those ideas that's just too damn good to let a little doubt get in the way? Try it. After all, it takes just two things for it to work: your faith in love, kindness and the oneness of everyone and everything; and the openness of spirit of that one desperate person who, perhaps just subconsciously, is waiting for you.

A good bet, if you ask me.

IN THE GUTTER – Lessons From My Grandchildren

My daughter sent me this photo this morning. She said, “Hey dad, the kids were delighted that raindrops falling into a puddle could create bubbles.”

                

This delights me too—at so many levels: that my daughter thinks of me at such moments of discovery and wonder; that she and her husband show my grandchildren not just the joys of being outdoors—in any kind of weather, I should add—but encourage them to look carefully, inquisitively, creatively; that the kids have learned to not just welcome wonder, but expect it;

WONDER OF WONDERS
Wonder exists at many levels, and they’re not always the most obvious. To get beyond the commonplace and see the real miracle, one often has to invest an extra measure of curiosity, creativity or just plain old patience.

And that’s what I find most interesting about my grandchildren’s experience with the puddle. They could have been drawn in by those golden, glowing leaves. It could have been the water and its unique properties—the reflections, the clarity, and certainly those amazing ripples.

Perhaps they did notice all that, but what they were especially drawn to were the bubbles, a wonder even more ephemeral.

I so appreciate my daughter today for those lessons she so thoughtfully mediates between generations.

Kids are naturally good at wonder; they’re hard-wired for it. Getting them outdoors, letting them stop, look and play, allows those circuits to fire, powering their health and happiness in many ways.

They learn the most basic—and some would say most sophisticated—lessons about themselves and their relationship with the spaces around them, about beauty, about humility and a concern for things beyond themselves.

WHAT GOES AROUND
Sometimes, as I get carried away with my writing and the work entailed in bringing it to a growing readership, I lose track of that inevitable question about teachers and students: who’s teaching whom?

I forget that, as much as I may have taught my children and grandchildren about curiosity and wonder, they continue to teach me at least as much—about perspective, spontaneity, joy and, ultimately, love.

I so appreciate my daughter today for those lessons she so thoughtfully mediates between generations. And this, perhaps, is what those fleeting bubbles have to say to those who stop and listen: life and love, like wonder, are fragile. No matter what the distractions, we must keep our ears open or we may not hear it.

SEE YOU TOMORROW – A Lesson in Grace

When I spend any time with very old people—I suppose I should say older than I am—I can’t help but try seeing myself in their shoes. I’m especially drawn to those few elderly souls who, despite their obvious physical restrictions, still manage to keep learning every day and shining their lights of optimism, joy and kindness. That's what I want to be when I grow up.

Might the elegant designs Nature has crafted for everything else in creation include compensating us, when we age, for our loss of physical mobility with a proportional gain in our spiritual reach?

If this is the case, I think I might understand what grace is. And it brings to mind an experience I had when the door to my mother’s century-long life—at least the part of it that afforded her access to the physical world—had closed to a narrow slit.

                                             *    *    *
   
"Oh, Irene’s the one in charge of the whole place," Mom declared. "Everything goes through her." I looked at Irene and the others at our table, and somehow I knew she was talking about Joyce.

Mom had been in the nursing home for only a few days, and already she’d assigned a pecking order to her fellow "inmates." She'd even pointed out "the head table" in the dining room. It was always a different table, always one occupied by people no more able nor important than the rest. Still, the institution seemed of great interest and importance to her. There was no resentment in her matter-of-fact tone, just a vague note of resignation.

I'd been joining Mom every Thursday for dinner and bingo since she and Dad had first moved into assisted living eight years before. The staff at her new full-nursing-care residence had been nice enough to establish a standing guest chair for me at Mom’s table, so every Thursday there was a place set for me. Even more thoughtfully, they'd assigned to our table residents who could feed themselves, and who still had the ability—and the desire—to converse.

Tonight, everyone at the table seemed in fairly good spirits. And Joyce was positively in seventh heaven. One of the two dinner choices was biscuits and gravy. To her, this was pure ambrosia—real comfort food reminiscent, she explained, of her youth. The servers always brought her two large biscuits and an extra bowl of gravy on the side.

With her one functioning hand and special fat-handled spoon, she resolutely spaded off each morsel of biscuit, slathered it in the thick, starchy, sausage-dotted gravy, and lifted it slowly to her mouth. Gravy crawled down her chin, dripping occasionally onto her bib. I remembered my mother's comment about Joyce and wondered if she saw something I was missing.

I exchanged pleasantries with Irene, Mark, Marion and Joyce, but somehow the conversation never managed to build up a head of steam. I guess it's hard to talk when just taking a sip of juice demands every bit of your strength and concentration. Every few minutes, it seemed, a nurse would interrupt, dispensing medications in little pleated paper cups.

      While nearly everyone else in the room
      seemed carried by conditions beyond their 
      control, Joyce still carried herself.

As dessert was being handed out, I found myself looking again at Joyce. On the other side of that gravy-spotted bib, there was indeed something different about her. While nearly everyone else in the room seemed carried by conditions beyond their control, Joyce still carried herself.

It was hard to put my finger on, but, if one can imagine a 90-something, half-paralyzed, wheelchair-bound woman embodying a mystique, Joyce, I decided, had it.

This presence was by no means intimidating—though she was a woman with a large frame. But her erect posture, her direct, confident tone of voice and an earnest, resolute manner just seemed somehow strong, safe, reassuring.

She seemed wise too, as if, when she mentioned something factual, you could believe her. Among this community of crumbling minds and spirits, her core of strength seemed intact, as yet unconquered by her years.

Eventually everyone began leaving their tables one by one, a few steadfastly wheeling themselves, most being pushed by aides. It was then that I was glad I'd kept watching Joyce, because the most remarkable thing began to happen.

A woman at another table who'd been staring vacantly into her own lap was wheeled by her still-ambulatory husband all the way across the room to our table—to Joyce. When the wheels of their two chairs touched, the woman raised her head and gazed distantly into Joyce's eyes. "Yes, dear, I know," I overheard Joyce intoning.

   She'd always end her audience with those
   gently powerful words: "I’ll see you tomorrow."

I lost most of the words, but the solid, caring, deeply reassuring tone was unmistakable as she leaned forward toward the woman. Joyce raised her hand and, offering the softest part of it—the back—tenderly stroked her supplicant's cheek. "Good night, sweetheart; I'll see you tomorrow," she said.

In the coming weeks I witnessed Joyce's gentle ministry, once again with the same woman and with several others. "Darling," "sweetheart," "love"—she embraced them with her words and her touch. And she'd always end her audience with those gently powerful words: "I’ll see you tomorrow."

Last Thursday I was back in my special spot at Mom's table. "Hey, where's Joyce?" I said to no one in particular. There was an awkward silence before Irene's quavering little voice answered, "Joyce..." She forced the rest through a catch in her throat. "...passed away this afternoon."

I miss Joyce. Everyone misses her. My mom has appointed no successor to her imaginary exalted post. I keep looking for a sign that someone else—anyone—will carry on.

Maybe, I'm thinking, Mom was right after all. Maybe Joyce really was in charge.

DOG PHILOSOPHY

(This piece is used by permission of the generous folks at DogWork.com. 

Please check out their delightful site; you'll be happier after you do!)

 

If you live by these dog rules, you will be a happier person!

There's a lot we humans can learn from dogs. If you live your life by the same philosophy that dogs do, you will be much better off in life. In the wild, animals fight only for two things, not a fancy car, not clothes or jewelry, they just fight for food or a mate, everything else they get after that is just pure happiness.

 

1. See life with joy and wonder.
2. Experience the beauty of nature and smell as much as you can.
3. Open your heart to the ones you love.
4. Sometimes you are allowed to break a few rules, go for it.
5. Be loyal, you will keep friends for life.
6. Cravings are good, enjoy them while you can.
7. Make sure you do something fun everyday.
8. Enjoy good foods, savor them like if it was your last meal.
9. Be yourself and you will always have true friends
10. Be persistent and bark until you get what you want.
11. If someone is having a bad day, snuggle the worries away.
12. Enjoy the love of your pack.
13. Delight in the simple joys of a long walk on the beach.
14. Allow people to love you.
15. Less barking, more tail wagging.
16. Celebrate if you feel like it.
17. Get inspired by the simplest things in life.
18. Everything is possible, all you need is love.

Couldn't have said it better myself!

THE BRAINS OF THE OPERATION – The Difference Between Women and Men

PART TWO OF TWO PARTS

COULD YOU PLEASE BOX THAT?

When my wife and her women friends get together, I listen in awe to how they communicate. Indeed, they seem to move seamlessly from one topic to the next, following what might best be described as a non-linear train of thought. At times, conventional language comprises, if anything, only part of the conversation.

A woman will start out with what sounds like it’s going to be a sentence, but then, after little more than the subject comes out, she’ll either start a new sentence or be interrupted by someone else’s sentence fragment. To a male, it would seem that almost no real information is exchanged, yet everyone seems to understand completely.
 
My wife does this with me too, often with disappointing results. She knows exactly what she’s saying and assumes I do too, even though her actual words have not delivered a complete thought.

   Occasionally she’ll take 
   issue with something I never said, but which she 
   knows I must have been thinking.

To be fair, she's equally confounded by my thoughts and how I attempt to convey them—or not convey them. It baffles her how much time I devote to assigning my thoughts and plans their proper boxes. She’s sometimes hurt by the fact that my box for apologies (like that of most men) is either missing or in very poor repair.

Occasionally she’ll take issue with something I never said, but which she knows I must have been thinking.

PRESENT TENSE; FUTURE IMPERFECT*

Men and women have different concepts of time.

While I have separate compartments for past, present and future events, to my wife they’re not so easy to distinguish. I choose to think only about the present and maybe, once in a while, the future—not at the same time, of course.

For her, the present and the past blend together, the latter continually haunting her (as it does lots of women) through guilt. Because this requires stuff from two boxes to intermingle, men tend not to do guilt very well.

THANKS TO EVOLUTION

Remember, these things are not just momentary reactions to specific circumstances. Nor, for the most part, can they be changed. They’re hard-wired (or, in men’s case, hard-walled) into our brains, and for good reason.

Ages ago, before evolution worked this wonder, lots of men multi-tasked and harbored guilt. But those who did were all either slain by enemies or eaten by wild animals, both of which were, in those days, better equipped than they were to focus on the task at hand.

  Isn’t it a miracle how those respective strengths  
  have come to compliment each other so well?

And some women, before they’d mastered their comprehensive thinking, sensitivity and intuition, failed utterly at raising children and maintaining social connections. Neither those women nor their families survived either.

So here we are today, women and men, both products of that evolution, both very good at some things, not so good at others. Isn’t it a miracle how those respective strengths have come to compliment each other so well?

My wife and I once took a community education class in meditation. After a few frustrating sessions, she declared that, alas, she was going to be the first person in history to flunk meditation. She just couldn’t, she explained, shut off the flow of thoughts, plans and worries going through her head. Now, as I picture that endless tangle of wire in her head, I finally understand.

"A woman marries a man expecting he will change, but he doesn’t. 
A man marries a woman expecting that she won’t change, and she does." ~  SOURCE UNKNOWN

* Apologies to Dudley Riggs's Brave New Workshop, Minneapolis, for using the title of their hilarious comedy production.

THE BRAINS OF THE OPERATION – The Difference Between Women and Men

PART ONE OF TWO PARTS

Are you as confounded as I am about how the mind of the opposite sex works?
I suspect I’ve spent way too much time trying to figure this out. Usually it’s like trying to prove something doesn’t exist; it just doesn’t work.

Still, as with all of Nature’s mysteries, investments of a little awareness, curiosity and faith often are rewarded in small, yet significant, ways.

    ...it can go one of two ways. We’re left either 
    in awe (perhaps a better term would be utter 
    frustration) or in stitches.

If we’re lucky, we might come to understand and appreciate our partners better.
If not, it can go one of two ways. We’re left either in awe (perhaps a better term would be utter frustration) or in stitches.

OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD

Comedian Mark Gungor has a brilliant act in which he sheds some very helpful— and hilarious—light on the differences between male and female brains.

On each side of the stage, about twenty feet apart, stand two pedestals. Atop each is a sculpted head, one of a woman, the other of a man. He walks over to the male bust and lifts off the top of the skull.

Inside are rows of neatly arranged little wooden compartments. Not only are they separate, he explains, under no circumstances can they be allowed even to touch each other.

In a man’s brain, he continues, everything—work, money, house, kids, sex—gets put into a different box. The guy can take a thought or emotion out of one compartment and move it to another if necessary, but it can only be in one box at a time.

What’s more, he says, men have no trouble at all shifting their focus from one box to another. They can even choose not to deal with any of the boxes at all. In other words they can, at times, think about absolutely nothing.

  Every thought, every emotion, is connected to  
  everything else. And it can never be turned off!

Now Gungor walks across the stage to the woman’s head. He begins explaining why women have trouble with men’s compartments, illustrating this by acting out a typical Mars-versus-Venus marital spat. Just as Venus is throwing up her hands in utter frustration, Gungor lifts off the top of the head.

The audience roars.

Inside, filling the entire cranium, is a tangled mass of copper wire—one continuous strand, he points out. Every thought, every emotion, is connected to everything else. And it can never be turned off!

(TO CONTINUE WITH PART 2, CLICK HERE) 

INSTRUMENT OF GRACE – The Power of Touch

When you touch something, it touches you.

Touch is underrated. Sure, it gets credit as a way of discovering and exploring—that is to say, as a receiver of sensation. What we seldom appreciate, though, is that, of all our senses, only touch is always a two-way street. You can usually see, hear or smell something pretty much anonymously—without its being involved in any way. But when you touch something, it touches you.

FEELING FAITH
Many years ago I was walking out of my office building for lunch when I heard a disquieting sound from across the street. It was the sound of impact, not like the metal-on-metal crash of a car accident, but something more dull, a heavy thud I suspected right away could not be a good thing. When I got to the top of the steps, I could see what had happened. A workman who’d been perched on the roof of a three-story rooming house had fallen nearly all the way to the driveway below. He’d caught the corner of a dumpster, where he lay, draped like a rag doll, his body bent grotesquely backward.

By the time I and a few other passers-by had run to the scene, someone had already called 911. The guy was conscious, but I think he was going into shock. We didn’t want to move him because of the near certainty of spinal injury. So we threw several jackets over him and prayed the ambulance would be there soon.

    When I opened my eyes after a minute or so, 
    he was looking right into them, and the look 
    of pain and terror was gone.

The man was terrified. I think he’d already realized he was in pretty bad shape. Maybe he’d noticed that he couldn’t feel his legs or his body; I didn’t ask. I took one of his hands in mine, closed my eyes and tried to pour my good wishes, my spiritual energy, everything I was feeling for him into the clammy flesh. I prayed that God would use me as a conduit for His grace.

There were probably ten other people around by this time, and I think some of them were trying to ask me and the victim questions. I'm sure others were trying to encourage him. But I’d completely tuned them out. I think he had too, because, when I opened my eyes after a minute or so, he was looking right into them, and the look of pain and terror was gone.

I’ve asked myself many times what this apparent connection was all about. I don’t know if my touch really played a role in helping to calm this poor guy or not. But I think, if for no better reason than my believing so strongly in the power of this connection, that it was indeed so.

The ambulance came, the EMTs immobilized the victim and away they sped. I looked for some reference to the accident in the papers, but I guess that, like the scores of other non-lethal injuries that happen to people every day, this one hadn't warranted a mention. I could only hope and pray that he’d recover enough to lead a good life.

WHO DO I THINK I AM?
I know I’m walking on thin ice to presume there’s power in my touch. After all, who do I think I am, God?

Well…yes, I am God. So are you and so is everyone and every thing. As a matter of faith, this is where the rubber meets the road. Whatever higher power we believe in, if we don't believe it can and will channel its grace through us, aren't we denying it the chance to use us as its instruments of love? Who are we to make such a denial? Author and lecturer Marianne Williamson puts it so well:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world.

Do you believe in the power of touch? How have you sensed it flowing to, from or through you? We'd love to hear about it here on OMW! -- Click on Comments below.

    "You are not here to save the world, but you are 
     here to touch the hands that are within your reach."
         MOTTO OF MISSION OF LOVE (KATHLEEN PRICE)