Listening

The winter rain has begun to fall. My small room is surrounded by trees. I can hear the drops of water as they fall gently from leaf to leaf, and then to ground.

Listening to the world is effortless. We hear the sounds of the busy world in the voices of our family, friends, neighbors, co-workers. Some noise is necessary. Other noise is distraction.

Whether in village life, or city life, silence is precious and hard to find. The search for quiet requires effort.

But, it is in this silence that we are able to hear, and properly discern, the voice of God.

We all have the ability, and the on-going opportunity to listen to God. It takes practice, patience, and trust.

We must be certain though, that it is the voice of God we are hearing and not the cacophony of our own thoughts and desires. We must struggle to quell the inner tempest of emotions, in order to prepare space for the Sacred. This process takes great practice.

And even when we provide the space for God, it is not a visit that occurs on command. God's time is not to be measured by human convenience. Patience is necessary.

The voice of God, when it is heard, is a deeply personal experience. World wars have been fought in misguided attempts to claim ownership over the language of God. Ionesco may well have been correct when he surmised that "philology leads to calamity."

There is no one experience or definition for He whose Name is so holy that It cannot be named, or quantified.

Certainly, there are tools that can aid us in our yearning to be One. Silence, sacred scripture, nature, chores, work on behalf of others, structured prayer; all can help us to become more receptive to God's voice living all around us.

We listen trustingly. We trust that which we hear is that which must be heard.

In fairness, building such trust may require a lifetime. But, we strive to listen nevertheless. We can't help ourselves. Like the earth receiving the falling rain, we long to hear the gentle notes of God's love.

Hesychia

The humble goldfish has much to teach us. Like the goldfish, we too are hand-selected, and are led to the specific setting or environment in which to serve and live out our charism. Some of us live in a small bowl, others of us in a large aquarium, and still others of us are led to roam freely in thriving ponds. But, all of us have the following trait in common; we have been chosen by God.

The goldfish has its own language. It is a language that speaks of contemplation, discipline, detachment, stillness, patient endurance, and peace.

The goldfish is wise, yet, requires constant care, as do we.

From our infancy, it is God who has been leading us. And, being so loved, we remain consciously grateful to the hand that generously continues to provide for us.

At all times we pray.

The goldfish bowl itself is a visual metaphor for the hermitage within. It is the place we retire to for quiet. But, though set apart, we remain open and accessible to others, and the world around us. We become a living symbol for our community.

Life in the goldfish bowl may make us vulnerable, but we serve an ineffable purpose. Perhaps we become a reflective surface for others, reminding them of a slower, more silent, pace in which to reconnect with that which truly matters.

Forgiveness

When the storm comes, it is best to stay out of the rain. Due to stubborn pride, I did not listen to the gentle instruction of Wisdom. I chose to go out into the storm, though I distinctly heard the Voice of God urging me to stay in.

Despite the lateness of the day, and the harshness of the weather, I convinced myself that errands could not wait until the morning. In the tiny public transport van, en route from the post office, it happened. Evil is like that, striking at will. On that day, at that hour, in that moment, on that van, a bully chose to target me. Abusers have no impulse control, like a hungry lion, they pounce on their prey.

When very bad things happen to us, we suddenly remember our authentic self. Though we may not have listened to Wisdom before the catalyst event, we do manage to finally listen when face to face with Evil.

Sometimes, we are fortunate, and are allowed, by circumstances, the means to escape, unharmed, unscathed. Sometimes, we are not so blessed. Evil comes upon us. The abuser delights in our pain and discomfort. The bully strikes repeatedly with threats and intimidation.

In this specific case, I did my best not to antagonize. I even changed seats in an effort to disengage. Abusers confuse our desire for peace with weakness. Lacking all self-control and respect for personal boundaries, abusers seek to destroy that which they perceive to be a personal affront to their way of life.

As I moved and changed seats, the bully followed me, changing his seat as well. We were in a small confined space; a moving public transport van. No physical escape was possible. No passenger came to my defense. The driver was either unaware, or unwilling to get involved. I was all alone against the bully, as is often the case when we find ourselves in battle against Evil.

The sky darkened, and the rain began to fall. As I could not physically escape my tormentor, I chose to leave my body, and surrender my spirit to the light of God. My abuser could then hurt or mortally wound my body, but my true self would be one with God. To be thus threatened, bullied, and abused; that journey through hell lasted an eternity.

At the bus shelter, in front of the food market, a woman cradled an infant in her arms. I hurried inside the store to buy bread and bottled water. The air was bitterly cold. I longed to return home. Having made my purchase, bags in hand, I huddled by the shelter, and noticed the infant in the woman's arms was actually a doll!

I stood there and watched the nameless, homeless woman tenderly cover her doll in a blanket. She rocked her baby gently, back and forth, while singing a lullaby. My knees buckling, I sat down next to the woman on the bench, as we waited for the last bus Home.

The wind blew. The rain continued to fall. It was cold, snow was imminent. and the woman continued to rock her baby. I recognized the cherubic cabbage-patch features of the doll. I had once owned one, in my youth. Instinctively, I understood this woman was the Universal Mother. Her baby doll was a symbol for all children, all those orphaned, abandoned, exiled, unloved, and imprisoned.

It is written that the word "angel" denotes function not nature. This woman next to me was a angel of Mercy. Her function was to deliver God's message. "God is Healing."

The soothing notes of her lullaby washed over me. I felt the tears flowing freely down my cheeks. I heard myself crying, sobbing. "Oh, God!" I cried out, "I'm hurting!"

Sometimes in life, we who are for peace must live among those who are not for peace. We who profess to be for love are tested by those who are not for love. We who say that we are for non-violence are challenged by those who are for hate.

So, do we bite the hook, and respond in kind? Is vigilante justice to be the law of the land?

For some people, it is absolutely appropriate to pick up the sword to fight the good fight. We are all warriors, each in our own way.

Discernment is key.

I was not chosen for battle with a sword. The angelic visitor sitting next to me on that bench was sent to deliver a message of healing, not vengeance.

People who passed by, stared at the woman and her doll. "She's crazy." They hissed, as they walked. I would submit to these worldly men and women of the jury that true crazy is destructive.

The young man on the bus would be considered normal by society. His dress, speech, countenance were fair to behold. By contrast, the woman and her doll were dressed in soiled tattered clothing. The woman's speech was labored and clumsy. But, of the two individuals, who was truly crazy? True crazy is evil and destructive!

The angelic messenger waited with me, and she and her doll, and I rode the bus Homeward Bound.

Mercy is not something we practice when only convenient. Mercy is a way of life. In forgiving ourselves, and those who seek to harm us, we free ourselves from the tragic event, or on-going abuse.

As for Justice, in time, the Truth will out. It always does.

That night, I went to sleep, and dreamt that I was in a large toy store filled with white-clad cabbage-patch dolls, all smiling, dancing, and singing.

Amen.

Love

In the movie musical Oliver!, there is a scene of an orphan awakened by the light of a new day. He opens the window, and gazes out. He sees love in the Morning, and love in the faces of all those in the margins. He is able to see love in others because it lives so abundantly within his own heart.

It is not enough to ask, "Where is love?" We must be willing and open to answer by saying, "Love is here."

A good friend sent me a photograph of her husband and daughter blowing out candles on a birthday cake. It is one of my favorite photographs. It is not posed, nor is it perfectly in focus, but it is natural, spontaneous, and genuine. In it, a father and daughter express an exuberance of emotion. He holds his hands to his mouth in joy-filled surprise. His daughter blows out the tiny flames with earnest concentration. The cake between them, taking up most of the frame, has the added symbolism of the familial bond connecting the two figures.

I keep the photo out where I can see it, for this photograph is a visual reminder to seek out that which connects me to others, and more importantly, I am reminded to love others as myself.

What value is there to prayer, service to others, preaching, teaching, study, hard work, sacrifice, if empty of empathy and compassion?

It is not enough to bake and serve a cake. Are we willing to share it as well? Are we willing to sit down with one another, setting aside differences, and just meet as equals? Love is radical, yes? Love presupposes that no obstacle exists, or could ever exist, between itself and the object of its affection.

Yes, I do use the word, "Affection." It is not enough to say we love, we must demonstrate it, earnestly, joyfully.

Spiritual lessons don't always come in a leather-bound book, or vaulted cathedral. Sometimes lessons can be found in the mail, in a simple photograph. I am grateful to my friend, for though we are physically separated by a vast distance, she nevertheless continues to share her life and wisdom.

Love is like that. Knowing no boundaries, it can do all things.

Quality of Mercy

As teenagers, April, Robert, and I were classmates and friends. we lived in the very nice suburbs of Westchester, New York. April came from a good family. So, it was all the more shocking when it was reported she had used a gun to shoot herself in the head outside, on the steps of Grand Central Station. It was a violent death, for someone who had never previously been violent. Robert, my kind, loving, and gentle friend threw himself in front of the Metro-North train. He was killed, horrifically.

Robert came to be known by some in the local and national media as the last of the Westchester Suicides. That year, a long string of teenagers from Westchester County had committed suicide in consecutive order. Though their deaths were not coordinated, the general public wondered if there were a connection, other than the obvious connection of having lived in the same geographic area.

April had cried out for help. Her family responded by institutionalizing her. April had just wanted to be heard, not locked up in a heartless facility. She ran away. And, like so many homeless teenage runaways, she fell prey to the underworld. In a final effort to escape the pimp that had so decimated her life, she shot herself.

In death, her desperate cry for help had finally been heard. The New York Times magazine wrote a special feature on her. April would have liked seeing her photo in the paper. Robert had also been prominently featured in the papers.

Their deaths have haunted me throughout my life, inspiring me to reach out to those in pain, or in crisis. I felt guilty for many years, because both April and Robert had reached out to me for help, but at the time, I had chosen to ignore the signs. "I'm too busy with my problems," I remember saying to myself. Thereby, justifying my indifference.


It is always so much easier to criticize others for their lack of mercy. Did I kill April and Robert? Had I pulled the trigger of April's gun? Had I pushed Robert into the on-coming train? No, of course not!

But, silent indifference can be just as unmerciful, just as deadly, as the most deadly act.


Let us be Mercy itself, within balance, to all those who come across our path.

The spiritual path is not a selfish or self-serving path. Whatever spiritual gifts one nurtures, or accumulates, must be freely shared. In this way, we all benefit. We all grow. We all heal. We are One.

In The Whisper

"One Who Knows Patience Knows Peace."---Ancient proverb.


Stillness teaches us Calm.
Stillness teaches us Patience.
Stillness teaches us to Listen.


One of the seniors who lives near me was feeling alone and isolated. So, I asked her to accompany me to the toy store in town. Toy stores are mystical places filled with wonder.

Time passed as we searched the shelves. My neighbor was delighted to find a blue horse. Her eyes were filled with glee as she began her tale. As a little girl, she once rode a blue horse. As a summer treat, her father had taken her to a ranch. She had been allowed to choose any horse to ride. There had been one lone blue horse. She had never known such horses really existed. She thought they had merely been the stuff of legend. But, on that blue horse, riding across the fields of wild grass, she had felt triumphant, invincible, like a warrior princess.The owner of the store sat on the carpeted floor. I sat on a wooden treasure chest. We were transfixed.

The elderly woman before us became young again. It was an enchanted moment. Beaming, transported through time, reconnected to lost innocence, my neighbor was beautiful. And, her happiness was contagious. We all felt it, in that room, in that moment.

I sat quietly; thus, I was able to hear.

When those moments of starry wonder happen, they don't always announce themselves with sound and fury, but in a whisper. We can easily miss these moments, we are too busy, too distracted by real world events. We make excuses for ourselves. "No, time to stop," we say. In most cases, justifiably so.

But, when we do stop, the moments of wonder are there, waiting.

Inner Vision

There is a man who lives in the county. each day this man begins his day at three-thirty in the morning. He drives a little bus from the country into the big city. He drives the people who live in the country to their very important jobs in the big city. He knows their jobs are very important because they tell him so. He believes them because his heart is pure. ------- In the early evening, the man, whose name is Michael, waits patiently for the people to finish their work, at their very important jobs, to board his bus. Michael, whose name I have changed out of respect for his privacy; I have given him the name of an Arch-angel, as the purpose of the man who drives the bus is to keep his passengers safe. From the city to the country, Michael must drive over many hills. He must navigate his bus full of passengers through the daily chaos of traffic. Their safety and comfort is his main concern. ------- Michael works very hard at his job, but never complains. He smiles at his passengers when they board and disembark. He smiles at each and every one of them, whether they smile at him or not. ------- At the end of his work day, he returns to his cabin in the deep woods, in the country, where his family, and three dogs, wait eagerly to greet him. They eat their evening meal together, and retire early. ------- Each day is much the same as the next. Until one day, a stuffed monkey boarded his bus! Michael had driven a bus for many years, but had never seen such a thing. A stuffed little monkey, dressed in blue, paid his fare, and sat down as politely as possible in one of the empty seats. The other passengers eyed this stuffed monkey suspiciously. ------- The little brown monkey was old and worn, his stitching was loose, and frayed. He was missing a nose, and one amber-colored eye. ------- The other passengers were rude to him. They made fun of him, and spread cruel lies, rumors and gossip about him. ------- The little brown monkey did not respond in kind. He remained silent, but Michael, the driver, could sense there was a deep sadness in the little brown monkey in the sky-blue suit. The other passengers were not impressed with this strange new passenger, after all, they had very important jobs to go to. "That stuffed monkey obviously does not!" They said to themselves. ------ The little brown monkey simply liked to ride the bus each day, as he had no family, or friends, nor did he he have a home. -------- Time Passed. -------- The passengers with very important jobs grew more and more emboldened in their cruelty towards the little brown monkey, who as usual would never respond in kind. ------- The other passengers confused his gentle nature with weakness, and they chose to be all the more hate-filled towards the monkey. ------- Michael would witness their behavior through his rear-view mirror. ------- Years Passed. ------- The little brown monkey rode the bus less, though he he never told a soul, it began to hurt too much to be the byword, the laughingstock of an entire town. -------- "Better to be alone," He thought. "What good am I?" He asked himself, "A stuffed monkey, old and worn, with no nose, and a missing amber-colored eye. Only God could love one such as myself, and God does not seem to be on this bus, or to live in this town." ------- The little brown monkey's perceptions were based on the way the passengers treated him on the bus, and by the way the people ridiculed and shunned him in the town. ------- Then, one day unlike any other day, Michael the driver of the bus had seen enough through his rear-view mirror. ------- He waited for the passengers, with the very important jobs, to disembark. Michael stood up from his seat, and approached the little brown monkey, and gave him a warm embrace. ------- "I have something for you, " Michael said in a soothing voice. He took out a travel-sized sewing kit, and began to repair the little brown monkey's frayed stitching. Michael also produced, from his pocket, a beautiful black button. "I know this is not amber, but it will do for an eye. I'm afraid I couldn't find a suitable nose, though. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me?" Michael said, as he severed the last thread. ------- He gave the little brown monkey a very long good-bye hug. "I won't be driving this bus anymore. It is time for a change, so, I have asked to be assigned a different route. But, I just wanted you to know before I left, that I SEE you." Michael smiled as he held the little brown monkey's tiny hand. -------The little brown monkey looked lovingly into the eyes of the man who drove the bus, and said, "I SEE you too." ------- The heart enables one to attain Inner Vision, to see that which matters, all else is unnecessary distraction.