On a stormy night, rain drums on the giant bird of paradise outside my bedroom window, but it stands steady in the gale, for evolution designed ribs in its broad leaves: wind will split them rather than topple the plant. Before I knew this, the rips and fraying in the leaves seemed to mar the beauty of the garden, but now I understand them as its salvation.
So too do I understand the gift of tears. The sorrowing speak of heartbreak because that is how much loss hurts and how shocking the face of evil is to the good person, but red eyes and a salt-streaked face mean that the heart opened instead of breaking.
So take off your armor and lay down your sword, let the grief blow through you, for whether you be tender or hard of heart, the gift of tears will save you.
Since childhood I have been a list maker. Mom encouraged me to write a list of gifts I hoped Santa might bring, and the nascent librarian made my own little card catalog from index cards of the books I owned. Eventually this obsessive/compulsive behavior channeled itself into a checklist of homework and chores. At 53, even after years of therapy and daily meditation, the to-do list is still my compulsion of choice.
The Wunderlist app, which lets me create as many lists as I want that automatically sync among iPhone, iPad, and computer, is the app I click on more often than Facebook or Flixter. It is a marvelous master list of lists – the grocery list, the gardening chores, the all-purpose inbox that includes everything from “send Halloween cards to my nieces” to “write a will,” and even a honey-do list that I can send to my honey’s Wunderlist. Yet as miraculous as it is, Wunderlist is no match for the manic and multi-pronged list constantly streaming through my brain like ticker tape.
Yes, I love my lists. Any sort of worldly success I may have achieved in this life I attribute to them, but lately I’ve been saying a prayer before I go to sleep that has got me thinking about my deathbed: “May God grant me a peaceful night and a perfect end.”
God alone knows what a perfect end might be, but I am certain that when mine nears, whether it is prolonged or lasts an instant, I want to reach for a ball of golden thread spun from poems and prayers, not a spool of errands and chores. In the moment of crossing to the far shore, I want to see the lady in blue with a crown of stars, smell the scent of redwood and cedar in my backyard on a hot summer day, feel my beloved’s hand stroking my hair.
“Life and death are one thread,” Lao Tzu said, “the same line viewed from different sides.” Is he suggesting that the kind of death we wish for can teach us how to live? For me, gratitude seems like a good place to start. My final list of the day is not an inventory of tasks, but a catalog of what I’m grateful for, from the mundane to the profound. As I am about to open the door into the great mystery, I hope this is the golden thread my mind will reach for, that I can follow to the far shore.
The leaves of the liquidamber tree flame into orange and red,
glowing in the hot light of Indian summer.
Even now a strong breeze can pull off
those that are ready to release their hold
or that the tree is prepared to relinquish.
Without pain or sorrow the leaf lets go
and floats into a current of air,
a wanderer now after a lifetime of vowed stability
with one tree in one place.
The new gypsy may know, but doesn’t care
that this grand adventure will end with a crumbling into mulch,
for the gift of the autumn wind is liberation,
and the songs of spring are just a sweet memory.
The bereft trees will stand naked
and this is why they never forget who they really are.
The annual stripping of all finery
reduces each to its pure form,
and in this integrity
they offer their bare branches to the long winter night.
No one who knows me will be surprised that some of my favorite Gospel stories revolve around food and drink, for example, Jesus changing water to wine at the wedding in Cana. Another is the miracle of the loaves and fishes. In this story, Jesus crosses the Sea of Galilee and climbs up a mountain to spend some time alone with his closest disciples, but he has become a popular preacher and healer by now, so thousands of people follow him. But does Jesus get annoyed or set a boundary to protect his private time? No. Instead he asks, “Where can we buy enough food for them to eat?”
In fact, even if they had the money, “two hundred days wages worth of food would not be enough for each of them to have a little,” and besides, they’re in the middle of nowhere! The disciple Andrew finds a boy with five barley loaves and two fish, “but what good are these for so many?” Undeterred, Jesus has the people recline in the grass, blesses the loaves, and starts distributing the bit of food to the crowd. In this impromptu picnic the crowd ends up eating their fill, and afterwards the disciples collect twelve baskets of leftovers!
I grew up appreciating this miracle as an example of divine abundance and generosity, but several years ago I heard a fresh interpretation in a homily. Father Mike thought it likely that the wives and mothers who’d come along on this trip across the sea and up the mountain had brought provisions, but here in a remote place surrounded by hungry people with barely enough to feed themselves, they were afraid to bring out their food. Father Mike suggested that nothing supernatural happened, only that Jesus’s example of sharing inspired the crowd to do the same.
I was a little disappointed at first with this take on the story. Sure, it was plausible, but couldn’t we just let a miracle be a miracle?
I heard this gospel most recently last month, and this time it made me think of my uncle Donald. When I was 24, my dad and I hiked the John Muir Trail, two hundred miles from Tuolomne Meadows to Mt. Whitney. To keep our packs bearable, we arranged with my uncle to meet us at a halfway spot where the trail came within a few miles of a road; there he would resupply us with freeze-dried food for the rest of our trip.
In the solipsism of youth, I didn’t recognize what a generous act this was on Donald’s part, to spend several hours driving to a remote point in the Sierras to deliver supplies and camp one night, then drive several hours home again. My father did, though. Early on the appointed morning he got up early and hiked out to the trailhead to meet Donald and carry our food back to camp.
Later my dad recounted his surprise at how bulky Donald’s pack was. Here was an experienced backpacker out for just one night, yet he looked to be carrying sixty to seventy pounds of stuff. All became clear, however, when they arrived at our campsite on the south fork of the San Joaquin River, and Donald pulled out three personalized mugs along with a mini keg of beer. My uncle the teetotaler had brought us BEER! For ten days we had drunk nothing but freeze-dried coffee, instant cocoa, and water purified with iodine tablets. Now we sat on the riverbank, dangled our feet in the cool water, and drank beer.
But that was not all. Next a mysterious smoky parcel emerged from Donald’s pack: a quart of mocha almond fudge ice cream packed in dry ice! I cannot describe the bliss. Ten days of freeze-dried food, and now ice cream! For dinner we ate steak and a green salad, for breakfast bacon and eggs and cowboy coffee. Feeling like fattened bears that morning, Dad and I bid my uncle farewell and continued down the trail with our laden packs. Nine days later we would climb Mt. Whitney and complete our quixotic adventure.
In 2001 Donald was killed in a car accident. The night before the funeral family and friends gathered for dinner with the minister who would perform the service, and because he hadn’t known my uncle, he asked us to share stories about him. Of course, I knew immediately the one I would tell. I was not alone, though. One after another, relatives and people I didn’t even know related similar incidents, not just nice things Donald had done for them, but acts of crazy, over-the-top kindness. It turned out that profligate generosity was the theme of his life.
My disappointment with Father Mike’s interpretation of the loaves and fishes miracle has long since faded, and I’ve come to appreciate what a wonder it is for humans to overcome our greed and fear of not having enough. Uncle Donald inspired me by making it seem like an everyday occurrence.
When I am in nature, I don’t think in words and commas or feel guilty for not being good enough. The forest asks nothing of me, nor does the ocean require an answer when the waves roll to shore. Yet nature seems to offer something for nothing. In the forest I have found holy writ and homily, absolution and communion. Trees soothe my soul in the intangible way that reading a poem by Rumi or listening to the Moonlight Sonata does.
Now, before you accuse me of getting all poetic and gooey, let me point out that many studies have shown that nature is an antidote to the stress of modern life, and forest bathing, or shinrin-yoku in Japanese, is now a thing. The Atlantic and Mother Earth News have published articles about it, and you can even get certified as a Forest Therapy Guide!
Yesterday I sat for half an hour in a friend’s garden. A pair of butterflies danced concentric circles in the air, and aspen leaves fluttered in the breeze like a baby giggling when her feet are tickled. Water murmured sweet nothings to the world as it trickled from a fountain, and all around desire burst forth: of roots for damp earth and of leaves for light. In every moment this desire was quenched and arose again.
The forest vibrates with desire, as does your own backyard. Just looking out the window at trees can deliver the benefits of shinrin-yoku, but it’s best to go outdoors. Breathe the same air as the trees, take in their greenness with all your senses, let the same delicious light touch your thirsty skin. When you put your feet in contact with that same earth where roots are questing, you can breathe in beauty and exhale peace.
Bristlecone pines, the oldest living beings on earth, dwell in the high country, closer to heaven than most of us, in a land of little rain. Last week I made a pilgrimage to California’s White Mountains to see them. It was a sunny July day, and the mountains looked like desert from a distance, great slopes of savannah rising up from the Owens Valley. For me, accustomed to hiking beneath a feathery green canopy of coastal redwoods with ferns and forget-me-nots at my feet, the spare, swept-clean beauty of the landscape looked naked in its openness. It was almost ninety degrees in the valley when we turned east off Highway 395 and the car began its ascent. We noted the elevation markers: six thousand feet, seven thousand, eight. The car turned onto an even narrower road, twisting higher into the mountains until we reached the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest at 9800 feet.
Although I had seen photos, my first impression of a bristlecone pine in person was … well, compact. With little to sustain life in this harsh place, they grow exceedingly slowly; it may take a century to add an inch to their girth. Bristlecones typically grow no more than fifty feet tall, with stubby branches and short needles, and lack the symmetry of most conifers. Yet they are lovely.
Trees measure time by the seasons, and their rings count each cycle. On this mountain, bristlecone pines know sun, a little snow, and the precious short time to grow, but for eons they dwelt apart from the doings of man. Now they have been discovered, and visitors come because we want to be in the presence of antiquity, to enter this other slipstream of time for a moment. Yet somehow I can only make sense of it by comparing it to the time I know. The saplings on this mountain are older than the United States; I touched trees that took root a millennium before Buddha found enlightenment under the Bodhi tree, before Jesus told the parable of the mustard seed. Our trail took us to the Methuselah Grove, where the oldest tree in the forest stands. It is 4700 hundred years old and unidentified for its protection. As I wandered here, I looked at each tree, wondering, are you the one?
Perhaps most beautiful among the bristlecone pines are the snags. The density of the wood makes it almost impervious to decay, so the trees may stand for thousands of years after they die, all whorls and corkscrews with striations of color from golden to black. Walking in their midst is like touring a sculpture garden or stepping into a convent chapel, where the unguarded face of a nun at prayer reveals the purity of her soul.
Bristlecone pines evolved to survive in a dry land in the alkaline soil of dolomite – in other words, to live with scarcity. They spread their roots a long way out instead of down because that’s where the water is, and they are satisfied with the infinitesimal growth they can eke out in a short growing season from what little the earth offers them besides sun and wind. This, I finally realized, was what drew me so far out of my way to see these trees. They are role models for dwelling in the kingdom of enough.
What do they have to teach us? Small is beautiful. Let your roots find their way to what will nurture you. If you meet adversity with skillful perseverance, it can strengthen the core of your being. Be patient – with yourself and with the earth.
I know I’m living in the kingdom of enough when a simple pleasure feels like a divine gift. For me this special treat is my morning mocha. One ordinary ingredient and two divine stimulants are required: milk, coffee, and chocolate. At home, with my espresso machine, I balance the three each morning to concoct not just a beverage, but a ritual.
First, I pull two shots of decaf espresso and take a whiff as I pull it out from under the brewhead. Then comes the cocoa. My favorite is Dagoba, which has little bits of dark chocolate mixed in with the cacao powder and is made in Ashland, Oregon from fair trade ingredients. The quote on the can says it all: “You can deprive the body, but the soul needs chocolate.” I pour nonfat milk into a small metal pitcher, add the cocoa, and place it under the steam wand as hissing fills the morning silence.
A tough barista can tell when the milk is hot enough by touching the bottom of the pitcher, but I prefer a thermometer. When it gets to 140 degrees, I briskly stir the steaming liquid to make sure all those chocolate bits are suffused into the hot milk and then pour it into my go-cup along with the espresso. Now the drinking ritual can begin.
If I correctly estimated how much milk to pour into the pitcher before steaming, I now have a small amount of intensely flavored hot chocolate left over, which I pour into a tiny espresso cup. For the past forty minutes I have been in high gear getting ready for work, but now a moment of stillness blesses the morning, like stepping through the door of a church when the sounds of the city fade behind you. I stand still, look out the kitchen window, and swallow my few sips of hot chocolate. The mocha itself, sealed in the thermal go-cup, comes in the car with me, not to be drunk until I am at my desk forty miles away in the Foothill Library.
What is it about a mocha? The alchemy of the espresso machine achieves a balance between intense flavors along with a sensuous mouth feel. A Dagoba mocha is hot and velvety, dancing the tightwire between bitter and sweet. It is elegant, complex, and completely grounded in nature. But I don’t really need to analyze it. I simply accept it as a token of affection from the divine.
What is the simple pleasure that delights your spirit?
On the winter solstice a few days before I turned fifty, I rose before dawn, smudged with burning sage, and drove to a park overlooking the ocean where I could walk in silence and plan a ritual for my upcoming birthday. Although I didn’t know it then, my musings that morning turned out to be the genesis for this blog.
The sickle of the old moon hung in the eastern sky, and frost glazed the fields. As the sun rose over the hills behind me, I knelt and touched my forehead to the earth “for all my relations.” Two days earlier I’d asked a friend who was turning seventy if she had any words of wisdom to share. “Know yourself and accept who you are,” she answered. Her advice was in my mind as I pulled the hood of my down jacket up over my head and walked towards the ocean.
From the cliff I watched sandpipers on the beach below race away from an oncoming wave, then chase it as it receded, and they reminded me exactly of the frenetic way that I plunge into activities, then rush through them so I can hurtle into the next item on my to-do list. I work fulltime, I commute, and I never have time for everything I want to do: read novels, garden, knit a sweater, hike, cook dinner for friends, listen to my beloved play love songs on the ukulele … Sometimes I also worry about money and being alone in my old age and whether I’m a good enough person, but mostly I’m tormented by a lack of time. Who was I? A person afraid of not having enough.
Yet here I was looking out at the great expanse of the Pacific Ocean in a wide open morning lush with stillness and winter sunlight. The night before, my writing sisters had sent me off into the silence of this sacred world with laying on of hands and blessings, and now the whole day lay before me. How could I really feel that I didn’t have enough?
Then an NPR story I’d recently heard on my way to work suddenly came to mind: about how climate change is making the world’s oceans so acidic that many sea creatures can no longer survive there. I gazed out at the Pacific. From up here it looked peaceful and pure. Further out beyond the shelter of Monterey Bay gray whales were hurrying south to the lagoons of Baja where they would mate and give birth in a few months. This blue ocean that stretched further than my eye could see had always seemed to me like the great mother, the epitome of bounty, yet in her unseen depths the creatures that called her home might be dying.
We actually don’t have enough, I thought. Not enough clean air to keep our climate stable, not enough oil, food, water …
But on the heels of this thought followed a crucial phrase: we don’t have enough if we keep using it as we have been. If we as a species somehow decided to start being good stewards, there would be enough. Maybe not a superabundance, but enough. And what was true of the human population on the planet was true for me in my personal life too. Yes, there are limits. My time in this body is finite, and I can only do so much, but if I recognize my limits and use my time, energy, and money wisely, I have enough, not so much that I can squander it, but enough for what is important.
Is that what this blog is all about? Triage and time management? When I told my sister about “The Kingdom of Enough,” she said, “So it’s about simplifying your life?” Well, yes, I imagine writing about the virtues of thrift and sustainable living, but I also envision more. Life is short, and we live in a crazy, consumer culture that is busy bombarding us with demands and desires, yet in the cave of every heart peace reigns. I want to explore how to touch that grace.
Later on that winter solstice morning, I climbed down to the beach and collected small gray stones polished smooth by the ocean, cradled them in my hand and hoped the years were polishing me in the same way. A little cove offered a meditation spot, and for a long time I sat alone with the sound of the surf and chirping birds. I felt like I was in a temple in time. Yes, constraints exist for me as an embodied creature, but in the life of the spirit there are no clauses or caveats. The soul has all eternity, and the power of love is infinite.