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!

Intersections III

“Well, that’s futile!”

Such was the immediate response of Cora Bett Thomas to the likelihood of my finding God in America.

I happened upon Cora Bett—or should I say, she happened upon me—during a self-guided tour of Savannah with my friend, Tony. While walking toward an historic home on our must see list, we stopped at the window of a real estate office on Oglethorpe Square. Not just any office, it turned out. And who should step outside to greet us but the founder and CEO herself—Savannah’s “Realtor of the Year,” and, as I would soon discover, one of the region’s more colorful and iconic characters.

When Cora Bett’s biography is written, I’m sure it will reflect Savannah’s salacious charm every bit as dramatically as that of her infamous friend, the late Jim Williams (subject of John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil). And while I was highly entertained by the twists and turns of both fortune and romance shared by Cora Bett during our 45-minute visit, what I appreciated even more were her ability to laugh at herself and her pointed answers to the revised version of my central questions.

Lately, rather than probing how others experience the Divine, I’ve begun asking, “What really matters?” And, “What sustains you?”

“Family and friends” sustain Cora Bett. And—having survived more than 40 years in business and a life-threatening case of West Nile Encephalitis in 2011—what matters most is “helping others learn and succeed.”

Succinct, spontaneous answers from someone I never would have imagined meeting. Such is the serendipitous nature of my trip.

While in Washington, DC, I had a pair of similarly fortuitous encounters—with men whose lives bear compelling witness to what matters and sustains them.

Susanne and I ran into M. Kalani Souza on November 4, in the restaurant at the National Museum of the American Indian. Intrigued by the ukulele strung across Kalani’s back, Susanne asked him if he happened to be performing in the building. “No,” he laughed. “I’ve been carrying this wherever I go for 15 years! It’s a conversation starter! I’m actually here for an environmental conference.”

As a staff member of the Olahana Foundation in Hawaii, Kalani is doing his best to stem the tide of climate change by helping native communities develop resilience around food, energy, water, and knowledge systems. Arguably, he’s fighting an uphill battle on behalf of people whose voices are seldom heard.

“Are you ever discouraged?” I asked.

“I’m actually more and more hopeful,” he replied. “Largely because agencies like Homeland Security are now working with people like me!”

Three nights later, I met Azim Khamisa at a Catholic Worker House. Following the 1995 murder of his only son, Tariq, Azim chose to cultivate compassion rather than vengeance. So he reached out to extend forgiveness—initially to the assailant’s grandfather, and later to the fatherless assailant himself. In an attempt to turn the tragedy into a bridge of peace, he established the Tariq Khamisa Foundation (TKF). Over the course of more than 18 years, Azim and the assailant’s grandfather have shared a message of love and reconciliation with hundreds of thousands of people across the country. The author of three books, Azim is now advocating to free his son’s killer—who is committed to joining the outreach effort upon his release from prison.

“Given the blessing of forgiveness,” Azim writes on his website (azimkhamisa.com), “I reached the conclusion that there were victims at both ends of the gun… I truly believe through forgiveness we can create peace in our lives, the lives of our families, communities, country, and the world.”

At his son’s funeral, Azim actually laid in the grave as the body was lowered to him. I can only imagine the depth of his pain then. But his commitment to reconciliation is unmistakable now. He admitted that the work he’s doing is as much for his own sake as for the benefit of others. And his eyes gleamed as he spoke privately of his son’s enduring presence. “I talk to him every time I’m preparing for a presentation,” he said. “’Are you ready to go on?’ I ask him. Because we’re doing this thing together…”

Are such encounters purely random? Maybe. Maybe not.

If, seven months ago, I had left Portland with definite notions about what the Divine might look or sound or feel like, I’d have to agree with Cora Bett that a search for God in America—or anywhere else—would be futile. “You know exactly where to look,” Anthony DeMello writes. “That is the reason why you fail to find God.” But barring such preconceived notions, I’ll say this. I’ve been in the presence of great love and great mystery. It’s been worth leaving home for—and equally worth writing about.

(Atlanta, GA)

Poems

For more than 20 years, I’ve been writing an annual birthday piece for each of my three daughters. It generally takes the form of a poem; occasionally (as in my last blog) an essay. I thought the practice would end when the girls became adults. But they wouldn’t let me off the hook—especially Mica, who didn’t start receiving the gifts until she turned 14—11 months after I became her legal guardian.

These days, I’m up to nine birthdays—the girls, their partners, and my three grandchildren—all of whom now receive a “home-made” present each year. I’m not sure how I’ll keep it up when I return to a real job!

I’ll confess, I’ve “cheated” a bit this year—tying the birthday pieces into my journey, while simultaneously addressing something unique and specific to each recipient.

It’s been said that the most personal is often the most universal. That, I believe, is the case this year with both Mica and her partner, Sal—whose birthdays fall on November 18 and 17, respectively. The poems I wrote for them are deeply personal; yet they also explore themes common to the more universal quest for a meaningful life. I share them below, in the hope that some small thread touches a chord with you as well.

Alignment

(For Mica)

“Don’t ask yourself what the world needs.

Ask yourself what makes you come alive. And go do that.

Because the world needs people who’ve come alive.”

- Howard Thurman

All soulful paths and practices

lead, ultimately, to the same place.

Chose one,

they say,

and dig deeply.

You’ve made your choice.

You’ve been a good student.

You’ve learned,

that a vocation is not so much discovered

as revealed,

found not through active pursuit,

but by accepting

and embracing

that which brings you life.

Your call finds you—

when you are ready.

Now

you give the world

a path

and a practice

that bring you life.

Draw from the well

of your deep inner knowing—

and continue to give

with great enthusiasm

and great heart.

God knows

the world needs it.

Savor,

each day,

both your delight

and satisfaction.

God knows

you deserve it!

Essence

(For Sal)

Deep within,

there is an innate wisdom—

an energy

rooted in the rhythm of the cosmos,

available to all who seek it—

but not through the mind.

When we open ourselves

to the creative flow

of the universe,

our hands,

our hearts,

and our voices

can all be forces of love.

In that space,

informed by intuition rather than intellect,

we become a bridge

between heaven and earth.

You are endowed

as a healer.

Casting fear aside,

and loosing any perceived limitations,

embrace your destiny—

and as you do,

know that you are loved

beyond your wildest imagination

by the One Source,

the One Light

that envelops all.

(Charleston, SC)

Namaste

(For Christine)

Today is my youngest daughter’s 28th birthday.  As a gift, I give her a word: Namaste.

A common Hindu greeting, Namaste is often accompanied by a modest nod, with hands held together prayerfully. Loosely translated, it means, “I bow to the divine in you.”  

Namaste. We could use such a word here.

There isn’t an English equivalent that comes close to capturing its essence. Unfortunately, even the most genuine Namaste comes off sounding pretentious—undermining its humble yet eloquent intent.

Can you imagine the difference such a welcome would make? By purposefully acknowledging the inherent divinity of another, we establish a ground of respect and reverence, inviting warm and authentic engagement. That simple alternative to “hello”—extended in awareness and sincerity—could literally change the world.

Sometimes it’s hard to recognize, let alone bow to the divinity of others. Judgment, fear, and any number of other unconscious emotions leave us wary and suspicious rather than open and trusting. All the more reason, I believe, to cultivate a spirit of Namaste.

It’s easy to bow to the divine in Christine. She’s naturally easy-going. She meets the world with a receptive heart. She welcomes friends and strangers alike. I’ve watched her grow and continue to appreciate her goodness. I could actually say Namaste to her, and she’d not only understand, but feel my intent—because she lives it.

Namaste. We need such a word here.

“The awakened,” writes Anthony DeMello, “have come to realize that there is never any need to change what they see—only the way they see it.”

Namaste invites us to see others in a different way—one that that makes peace a real possibility.

Namaste, Christine. I bow to the divine in you. I offer you that word—today and always.

Namaste. I wish I could extend that gift to the whole world.

Namaste. I’d love such a word in America.

Any suggestions?

(Mount Rainier, MD)

Tom and Christine