Calmness of mind. Does that mean calmness of everything else, too? Does my body—my heart, my nerves, my sweat glands—does it all need to remain calm in order for me to possess that gem of virtues, equanimity? If so, I’ll never be adorned by its fineness, the sublime mist which showers grace upon the just and unjust alike. Equanimity is a gift to everyone standing near. Not that I don’t aspire to possess equanimity. I do. I practice all the appropriate disciplines. I sit in quiet spaces; close my eyes; breathe. I listen carefully to the minutest of sounds—the radiator tink-tinking, the cat as it jumps down off the bed—and do my best to watch my train of thought be just that: a train headed into the hills out of sight. I earnestly try to pay attention wherever I find myself, whether it’s in the kitchen with my daughter or out by the curb checking for mail. Everywhere, smells, sounds, and sights abound. If I am present in the right frame of mind, everywhere is wherever I am. These are fine moments, shining with the ordinary presence of eternity. But what about during calamitous times when anxiety spills steadily from the collective unconscious like water from a dislocated faucet? What happens to time when it is flooded with fear and denial and anger and anguish and no part of the day is without its own share of damp? That’s when my heart gets involved, sputtering like a gas burner trying to ignite after the pasta has boiled over. That’s when my nerves are so overstimulated even a long spell of silence can’t quell the thrum. As for sweating, I’ll only hint: the laundry is piling up. This time of extraordinary worry—however painful, however horrible—cannot obliterate the ordinary which rests settled at the bottom of its raging riverbed. Plain pebbles, everyday moments, remain for the sensing even as we seem swept away in a torrent of difficult feelings. This is my current strategy: When I am ready, I step straight into the day prepared to get pummeled. I drag my feet, keep my senses open to what is clustered underfoot. There, ordinary moments await, dim but alight with eternity. There is no bling. Nothing to hold onto. However, in the absence of calm, I can be content with that. Karen Jessee Please join the conversation. . . and invite your friends to visit www.searchandknow.org.
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What is the difference, exactly, between a wish fervently made and a prayer fervently offered? What is the difference between begging Fate or Life or Time for deliverance and begging God for the same thing? Nothing in experience is exact, it turns out—not differences, not similarities. Fire is fire yet never once replicates its flames. Desire is desire yet each moment we are made new to experience longing in new ways, to suffer distance or absence, and the sometime irrevocable silence that goes with them. I remember when I was young the precious moments of approaching a fountain in some public square or formal garden and waiting for my father to produce coins for me and my brother to toss in. “Make a wish,” was the instruction offered with the unspoken assurance that my wish would be heard somehow, would resonate with the music of the scientifically unexplored celestial spheres. Holy moments, these. Last week, my husband and son and I came upon just such a fountain in a public park—a grand octagonal pool around an urn spilling ardent waterfalls. There were no cherubs carved in the marble or cast in bronze, but the fountain seemed celestial enough and full of promise. Coins glittered on the pool’s bottom, copper and silver stars in the deep space of blue tile. We could see them perfectly. There was no doubt what they were for. I asked my son, “Do you want a coin to toss?” At fifteen, he stands five-feet, ten-inches tall, no longer a child in any sense. “It’s silly,” he said. I turned back to the fountain and into an intense, interior silence, full of my father, rippling with longing. It turns out, I’m not done with wishing. Even without a coin, I offer my prayers. Even without spheres, the heavens still sing for me. Karen Jessee If you would like to contribute to the reflection and share with other readers, please press on the word "comments" below. Thank you!
Recently, again, for the gazillionth time, I wonder whether it is foolish to believe in God. When I was young and inebriated with Divine love, I was convinced of the foolishness of not believing. But that’s a harsh assessment when leveraged against my daughter or my friend Nancy, or a host of acquaintances who are committed non-theists and no more foolish than I am or any of my friends in the faith. The world is roomier than it used to be even if it’s less magical, less celebrated for being intrinsically creative and more celebrated for observable wonders than for mystery.
About mystery: some would say delusion. They are no more right than I was at my least tolerant. They’re "muggles" through and through, the Uncle Vernon’s of Harry Potter’s world, conceited and thick as caked mud---people who, when crushed by circumstance, suggest they'll revert to the dust they’re made of and nothing more will happen. They don't celebrate their share of the fertile dust the rest of us magic folk and sympathizers are made of, capable of nourishing the ground, making our contribution to forest or garden, to cemetery or sea. Some brittle anti-believers sound as if they'll wind up the grey sluice of concrete left over and dumped after a job. We, the willing, thrilled with wonder, assume we are like trees, like grass. We are lilies of the field and mustard plants, sheep and stars and grains of sand. We are, in fact, at one with the universe that atheists and others are so fond of. It is super important to us, too—us fools for Love, us believers. Here is what I say to my daughter: She has a story of life which goes back to the Big Bang and covers history since then; I have a story which precedes the Big Bang and covers all of history and eternity, to boot. “. . . Who was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever” as the Glory be goes. Every person on the planet shares animals and insects as companions. Christian believers, after the example of St. Francis of Assisi, call them brothers, sisters. Native cultures have often done the same, which only proves humans have lived in Narnia since it arose during its first sunrise animated with the breath of Aslan, his mysterious presence the source of all blessing. For those who haven’t read themselves into the fantasy worlds of Narnia and Harry Potter, suffice it to say these elaborate stories are wonderful, if simplified, versions of the Christian myth, its ethos and understanding of reality. Their authors chose language which brings people along into the magic non-believers abandoned when God became just one more character in the Bible books series. But the Bible books are extraordinarily wonderful, infinitely more elaborate and colorful than any fantasy, shot-through with genius and portraits of the ineffably creative universe, full of gifted animals and even more gifted humans. These books haven’t grown old; their living Power never dies. Even if the Bible is fiction, it tells a true story—and I am a believer, a perennial, eternal, fool for God. Iris Reid We live in the present, we dream of the future, but we learn eternal truths from the past.
---Maylin Soong Chiang Interesting, this idea eternal truths emerge from the past. They're eternal! Present as much in the future as in the past, and in the present when we could be awake to them if only we would try to be. Eternity, we think, is a far-off place, the Emerald City awaiting us at the end of a long road, or back home in Kansas where we really are loved, even if we didn't realize it or it didn't feel that way. But, the eternal lives close to us, as a pulse within our pulse, a breath within our breath. It's never not there, but always IS, just like it says. We can learn from eternity, sure, but we need to recognize it when we see it. Jesus said, "the Kingdom of God is at hand," meaning now, within our grasp--both a where and a when we can participate in. The Realm of God--infinite and eternal--is present every moment, a sort of parallel universe within and throughout ours which we can step into and help bring to light. If we believe in scripture, or simply the power of love to fuel positive change in the world, we recognize the Kingdom can only come to light if we choose to find it, seek it, sense it, and then share it. For, what good is a pulse if our life isn't shared? What good is our breath if we don't use it to speak loving words? The Realm of God sings resonant with the voices of mothers and fathers, activists for justice, teachers, prophets, librarians, mechanics, gardeners, garbage workers, nurses, and all children--everyone who seeks to calm, to heal, to set things right for themselves and the world around them. There's an alternative to our limited, sleepy vision, an antidote to dreariness, doubt, and despair. Eternity is here and now, embedded in our lives--present, past, and future--wherever we find ourselves, awake and willing to step into awareness. Iris Reid |
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