"Love and compassion predominate in the world. And this is why unpleasant events are 'news.' Compassion activities are so much a part of every day life that they are taken for granted and, therefore, largely ignored." (Dalai Lama)
"We must be purposely kind and generous, or we miss the best part of life's existence." (Horace Mann)
Outside the window, I'm watching our first major fall storm announce its approach with winds gusting to 60 kilometers, shaking down branches, bending trees, sending grey clouds somersaulting through the sky and creating cacophony with my normally docile wind-chime. Earlier this morning, Michael slept in while I walked the windy boardwalk in Parksville, and watched the sun tie-die the low hanging storm clouds orange and red shades of the 60's. There is an electricity in the pre-storm air: the dogs race each other on the beaches, pouncing and biting at the waves; the adults chat animatedly, and the Canada Geese circle overhead restlessly, before settling in the marsh, only to rise again in unison, and with great noise, fly back the way they had come.
Reports tell us that up-Island, Port Alice has had mud slides from the heavy rains, and Port Hardy is in a state of emergency with power outages and road closures. We are expecting heavy rains tonight, but the brunt of the storm will pass us by. For us, it's a good day for Michael to do some work at his desk, and for me, reluctantly, to continue getting the house winterized. My hanging baskets are all down, our yard toys are picked up, and the melancholy process of cleaning out cupboards and sorting clothes has begun. It is so fitting for this to take place with the feel of the shorter days and cooler temps of a harvest season, when the fecundity of the earth is also shutting down.
We look at each other, and wonder where the summer has gone. It surely must have been more than having rooms painted, and replacing the toilets, refrigerator and hot water heater. Trips we hoped to take were thwarted by heat, smoke or rain. Michael's unexpected business in Louisiana changed some of our timing. We've met new friends this summer, and deepened relationships with old ones. The summer becomes a dream montage, snippets of events, people, conversations, walks, landscapes, paintings, tears and laughter shared in moments that touched our hearts. There were successful fishing trips (Michael), dinners with friends, long evening walks together. We launched two eaglets again this summer, and felt more like residents than visitors. Sweet and deep conversations were frequent with my visually challenged friend, with her piercing insights and questions and joy about life. (I think Rumi had Laurine in mind when he wrote: "Anyone who asks a question already has some of the answer.") And our lovely Mickey has given us a lesson on the trials of living with Alzheimer's, and the realities of growing older in an impatient world obsessed with youth.
Almost every day this summer, I've walked into 'my' coffee shop, and each time I've been greeted with a genuinely cheerful, "Cindy!" by the owners, Lori and Steve. Every now and then, it becomes almost a comical chorus, with other customers joining in: "Cindy!," "LORI!," "Cindy!," "STEVE!," "Phil!," "Al!," "Barb!," "Rod!" and whoever else might walk through the door. I listen, though, as I sit there reading or writing, and observe every single customer singled out with the same enthusiasm. People walk in heavy with fatigue, or joyful and rested, but they all walk out a bit lighter. Some folks stay and discuss the ain't-it-awful headlines of the local paper, but somehow it all seems manageable when you've been acknowledged by name, and reminded that you have a place in the world.
Many years ago, I attended a weekend retreat in the piney woods of the Solomon retreat Center in Robert, La. After one of the silent meditation sessions, we stood in a circle, 50 or so of us, with the instruction that one of us enter the center of the circle, and say our name. Then all of the retreatants sang the name together, in unplanned but beautifully blended voices. The result was that often, the person whose name was being sung with such grace, would end up in tears. How often do we hear our names used indifferently? How often are we challenged, confronted, or berated in comments that begin with our names used unlovingly? "How could anyone ever tell you, you are anything less than beautiful?" Shaina Noll sings, "How could anyone ever tell you, you are less than whole?"
In our retreat, when each woman had a turn in the center, we were told as a group to close our eyes, and sing our own first names over and over. We started quietly at first, almost shyly, until gradually, and with increasing reverence, the harmony of the whole became a sacred chant. We were solo and we were in chorus, we were alone and we were unified with a song that was beyond each individual voice. This is what I think of as I watch the parade of people in the morning at the coffee shop, each one held precious in that one moment where their name is sung.
"I have called you by name," it is written in Isaiah, "You are Mine." A grammar school friend, now Episcopal priest, had a workshop on prayer years ago. She suggested that we personalize Scripture with the names of those we pray for, a powerful way of being connected in compassion to the issue at hand, and the Source of all comfort. We pray in God's name, and hold the space for our family and friends, praying them through illness, grief, stress, in moments of happiness and joy. So I use the Scripture from Isaiah as God might address those I pray for: "When you go through deep waters and great trouble, Michael, I will be with you." "When you go through rivers of difficulty, Tippy, you will not drown!" "When you walk through the fire of oppression, Michele, you will not be burned up; the flames will not consume you." "... you are precious to me, Jinx." "You are honored, and I love you, Tommy." When our names are sung in Divine voice, we receive a grace in that moment; we are touched.
When we come up to the Island at the beginning of the summer, we hear and give that same joy as we greet friends, acquaintances and neighbors by name. Then we find ourselves saying goodbyes all too soon, with hugs and promises to keep in touch, all of us knowing, as we grow older, that nothing is a given. This morning, Michael was out of blackberry jam, and I offered him the option of opening the jar we had just been given by our friend, or saving it for next summer. He said, "Well, you know what I'm going to say. Life is uncertain. Open the jar." So we did.
Cantor Ellen Dreskin observed that when the Divine completed creation it was called 'good,' it was not called perfect. When we remember to be "purposely kind and generous," we become part of that compassion which rules the day, and moves the world closer to its good. We sing our names from that compassion, and we sing another's when they have forgotten how to. And if the world itself is not perfect, we are at least in perfect harmony with the Divine song. We are touched with the inherent awe of finding the Name within each. We sing the songs of the seasons, of the winds that blow and change the world forever, of storms that bring new challenges, and new life. And if we are especially fortunate, we hear what we've been born to hear all along: "Behold, I am with you, always."
YAY GOD
"Just sit there right now. Don't do a thing. Just rest. For your separation from God is the hardest work in this world." (Hafiz)
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