Impressions

In his collection of story meditations called Taking Flight, Anthony DeMello relates the tale of a congregation whose rabbi disappeared each week on the eve of the Sabbath:

They suspected he was secretly meeting the Almighty, so they deputed one of their number to follow him. This is what they saw: the rabbi disguised himself in peasant clothes and served a paralyzed Gentile woman in her cottage, cleaning out the room and preparing a Sabbath meal for her. When the spy got back, the congregation asked, “Where did the rabbi go? Did he ascend to heaven?”

“No,” the man replied, “he went even higher.”

A confession. If you’re following the map of my trip, it’s technically incorrect. While the RV remains in Atlanta, I flew to Minneapolis to celebrate Thanksgiving with Susanne. After enjoying two lovely gatherings with her close friends, I stayed another week to nurse Susanne after nose surgery (from which she’s recovering nicely). With little movement, there’s been more time for reflection. And, as I look back on my recent travels, three images stand out.

In mid-October, I visited the presumed site of America’s first Thanksgiving: The Plimoth Plantation in Massachusetts. Nearly 400 years after that 1621 feast, it’s difficult to separate fact from fiction. But historians agree that the party’s underlying spirit was conspicuously uneasy—and that relations between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag tribe steadily deteriorated from there. A widespread belief that the “natives” were sub-human contributed to the tension. And the prevalence of that attitude as settlers moved west helped rationalize centuries of genocide—arguably one of the most deplorable chapters in our nation’s history.

The Plimoth experience underscores a cultural tension that continues to taint America’s social fabric—events in Ferguson, Missouri being but the latest manifestation. Clearly, our fear of those who appear different has deep roots. Yet, despite the pain and sorrow associated with such tragedies, I remain hopeful. That’s because the overwhelming majority of Americans I’ve met are (as a New Zealander characterized them) “kind and nice and friendly.” And because, even in the worst of circumstances, I’m most deeply moved and motivated by our prevailing humanity. How else do you explain the viral explosion of the photo of a 12-year-old black boy hugging a white Portland police officer? Or the compelling yet challenging Facebook post of Benjamin Watson, a football player for the New Orleans Saints (http://www.thebenjaminwatson.com/2014/benjamin-watsons-thoughts-ferguson/)? At our core—at our best, we seek understanding. Unity. And hope.

Three weeks after the visit to Plimoth, Susanne and I spent an afternoon helping to prepare dinner for street people in Washington, DC—which we served outside, directly in front of the White House. It was cold and damp—and just as we finished, the intermittent rain returned in full force.

While some of those we served were slightly disheveled and others either physically or emotionally compromised, all were polite and genuinely appreciative. There were men and women—white, black, Hispanic, Asian, Indian. The effect of hard times was evident on most, though not all. The face of one man won’t go away. He wore clean clothes and sported a neatly trimmed beard; his overcoat stood up well to the weather.

“Thank you very much,” he said, as I handed him a full plate.

“You’re welcome,” I replied casually.

Unlike the others, he didn’t move on. Rather, he waited in place. He wanted me to see him. So he repeated, “Thank you.” Then, “I really appreciate what you’re doing.”

This time I made eye contact. Though there was a heaviness about him, he looked as if he could have just walked out of a nearby government office. Or been an old friend. Who knows, I thought, what fate resulted in his being on one side of that table and me on the other?

“You’re welcome,” I again responded, meeting his smile with my own. “And good luck.”

Two days later, Susanne and I visited Yogaville—an intentional community with approximately 300 permanent residents in rural Buckingham County, Virginia. Founded by Sri Swami Satchidananda, Yogaville’s mission is to “practice, live and impart...Integral Yoga teachings…to experience Supreme Peace and Joy, and to share that Peace and Joy with one and all.” At the core of Satchidananda’s teaching is this message, inscribed in the community’s Lotus flower temple: 

More people have died in the name of God and religion than in all the wars and natural calamities. But, the real purpose of any religion is to educate us about our spiritual unity. It is time for us to recognize that there is one truth and many approaches. The basic cause for all the world’s problems is the lack of understanding of our spiritual unity. The need of the hour is to know, respect, and love one another and to live as one global family. Our humble aim…is to spread this message.

While I found the place remote and perhaps not the “Nirvana” some have painted it, I can’t argue with the late Swami’s desire to advance peace and understanding—an aim that enabled him to bridge political, social, religious, and geographic divisions across the globe. However, I would have much preferred seeing the temple in mid-town Manhattan—or someplace equally prominent, where its beauty could be more widely enjoyed and, more importantly, its purpose more widely exposed.

Which begs a pair of questions: Can greater awareness of our inherent unity really advance our ability to “know, respect, and love one another and live as one global family"? Might we truly be able, as was the case with DeMello’s mysterious rabbi, to ascend “higher than heaven” by caring for each other right here on earth?

The further I travel, the more I believe in our capacity for both empathy and kindness. I’m equally convinced that every expression of those virtues—in public or private—affects the collective consciousness. We are all made better by the good done by any one. And doing good is easier when we’re able to recognize ourselves in the faces of others—even and especially when those others seem different. Finding God—well, that’s simply a matter of paying attention.

With a nod to the Swami, my humble aim is to spread that message.

(Minneapolis, MN)

P.S. Cinnamon Bun update: Moving into a tie for third place are the Pavilion Restaurant in the Sculpture Garden at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC., and Honey & Rye Bakehouse in Minneapolis, MN. The buns at both places were so good that I returned for seconds!

P.P.S. The price of gas: On November 14, I paid $2.84/gallon for Premium (89 octane) in Myrtle Beach, North Carolina—a whopping $1.73 less per gallon than the $4.57/gallon I paid just five months earlier for Regular (87 octane) in Santa Barbara, California. Go figure… But I’ll take the swing in that direction!