Christmas

You come and go. The doors swing closed

ever more gently, almost without a shudder.

Of all who move through the quiet houses,

you are the quietest.

We become so accustomed to you,

we no longer look up

when your shadow falls over the book we are reading

and makes it glow. For all things

sing you: at times

we just hear them more clearly.

      - Rilke’s Book of Hours, I, 45

I love Rilke’s characterization of the Divine—especially this time of year, when the holiday bustle makes it harder to notice the glowing shadows and quiet songs.

*

Somewhere in the bowels of a POD in which most of my belongings are stored is a plaque bearing the motto, Home is where your story begins. Home is certainly where this chapter of my story begins.

Since setting out in the RV on April 20, I’ve driven nearly 18,000 miles through 30 states, investing more money and consuming more cinnamon buns than I care to admit—ostensibly in search of God in America.

People ask, “Are you tired of the travel?” And, “What have you learned?”

I’m not tired. And what I’ve learned so far is that this country is absolutely breathtaking. Everywhere. Mountains and valleys, forests and deserts, rivers and lakes and oceans—they all merit determined protection and preservation. Many of those with whom I’ve spoken find nature the most direct path to God. I too have felt the deep contentment and harmony that are so visceral outdoors. Yet I still find humans more remarkable—and worthy of reverence.

Like Anne Frank, I continue to believe that people are basically good. And kind. And well meaning. Notwithstanding conspicuous examples to the contrary. Yes, evil exists. Bad stuff happens. But compassion and generosity are far more common. Which is probably why they get so little press.

Despite our differences, we all long to love and be loved. And we share a burning desire for connection—with each other and with something greater than ourselves. As for our sense of the Divine? Again, Rilke captures it best. “To each of us, he writes of God, “you reveal yourself differently.” While many prefer (and some insist upon) a more neatly packaged version of the Almighty, I find the nuanced revelation far more intriguing.

God—by whatever word one refers to an immanent and transcendent reality—is a visceral experience, not an intellectual one. The connection takes place in the heart, not the head. It’s highly personal. And it can’t be ordained or mediated by another.

No philosopher or theologian—not Augustine or Aquinas or Chardin—can prove that God IS. Likewise, not even the most brilliant scholar—Sam Harris, Richard Dawkins, and Christopher Hitchens included—can prove that God ISN’T. God is beyond comprehension. Arguing over the existence and nature of something that defies irrefutable knowing is inherently futile—a form of mental gymnastics, undertaken at considerable cost to our spirits (which don’t deserve the abuse).

When I use the word “God,” what I’m referring to is great love and great mystery. Other descriptions and understandings are fine. Let’s just not beat each other up over them. Rather than agreeing to disagree, though, I would propose agreeing to appreciate. To explore. To respect. To learn. And to love. If nothing else, to love. For if love is not God’s primary essence, what else about God would be worth our engagement?

*

“The important religious distinction,” writes Anthony DeMello, “is not between those who worship and those who do not worship, but between those who love and those who don’t.”

When I asked a young man in Boston how he experiences God, he responded with his own rhetorical question: “I wonder how God experiences me?”

Such curiosity frames Christmas quite nicely. It’s not important to me whether Mary was a virgin or Jesus the only son of God. What matters is that I become, like the Christ child, a light in the darkness. That I exhibit love. That I extend mercy. That I embrace wonder. And that I continuing asking: How does God experience me?

*

I’ll be home for Christmas. Not the large house on Southwest Texas Street I sold to fund my trip. Nor the small rolling nest that has held me so comfortably these past eight months. But I’ll be with two of my three daughters and their growing families, and many of the close friends I dearly miss. Susanne will join us to ring in the New Year.

Something else I’ve learned. “Home” is not so much the tangible space we inhabit, as it is a hallowed place within. While we often appreciate it more from a distance, it truly comes to life in the presence of loved ones. Much like God, I imagine...

(St. Augustine, Florida)

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)