The day I discovered trees which shed their bark over time was a happy day for me. I’d walk along, see a tree in need of my attention and I would just flick off those loose pieces of bark. And so the walk went, tree to tree to tree popping off shaky bark. Occasionally, I would run into one that appeared to be transformationally complete! However, if I looked really, really close, I could discern yet another thin layer awaiting its right and perfect time to disengage.

One ‘popping bark’ day, I heard a bo-i-i-i-i-ng as an idea landed. It was an outrageous thought…good that only the dog was there to observe my insane giggle…but also a remarkable thought! What if, just what if, outworn beliefs could be flicked off with such ease. The bark hugged that tree until its time came, it loosened, it fell. So, why am I or anyone for that matter clinging so desperately to an outworn concept or two or three?

On one of my chaplaincy visits, I sat with a patient who really had an issue with using ‘old’ and ‘travel’ in the same sentence. She was horrified by her belief that she would ever be considered the stereotypical touring, white-haired woman staring out a bus window. I looked at her long and hard while she fleshed out her belief. Finally, I asked her why she cared what someone thought if she was doing what she loved to do, even though she was doing it with white hair and from a bus. –Eyes widened, smile filled her face. The bark popped off and landed.

If we allow, as does the sycamore, for beliefs to drop away when they have served whatever purpose they came to serve, we continue with a richer and deeper experience. As Neville Goddard indicated, too many people live lives of perpetual construction and deferred occupancy. Not so the tree. I don’t think it’s for me either.

Several weeks ago, a novel came across my path that provoked two live demonstrations of a fictional observation. The quote, by the way, was not one that I appreciated! Yet, it stayed in my head and I was subsequently led to the words of a modern mystic. Now, how is that for living in the connected universe?!

The novel’s characters, during the turbulent American Revolutionary War period, were struggling through an impossible drought at one point. In spite of the scant food supply, the community provided for those who were burying sons and husbands. The narrator remarks that “…those who have nothing, would give you half of that nothing.” She continues with “…and those who give nothing though they have all the riches in the world” must well and truly be subjects of scorn.

Wow! I thought. That is harsh.

A few weeks later I was sitting outside at Peet’s when a woman of few means sat down near me. While munching on a small bag of chips, she laughed and enjoyed the musician playing for “spare change.” When the fellow stopped, she said to any and all who would listen that she needed to let him know how much he touched her.  She dug around in that old, brown, cracked purse and pulled out a limp, much folded dollar bill.  “Here you go, darlin’, let me give you something for what that meant to me.”  That banjo player stood a good bit taller while a big smile took over his face. Me? I felt a bit besmirched by her generosity and so, I too, dragged some bills out of my jeans pocket and extended to him, getting the sweetest smile from both of them in the process.

The story doesn’t end there. A few days later, I walked by Grace Community Church where they serve breakfast every morning to those in need. I gathered that it was past meal time by a few minutes. Why? There, in the corner, against a window, one person in a mound of blankets slept on. Tiptoeing away was “a someone” who carefully and quietly put down an extra breakfast, clearly collected just for the sleeping individual.

My head remains abuzz with justifications as well as genuine inquiry. My Graduate Committee said that we all notice the giving by the destitute because it appears to be unique. Another said that no one makes such a huge thing of it when the money comes from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation because, “Well, sheesh, they’re richer than King Midas.” Then I asked, is there a strain of giving and a joy in giving that is unique to the poor, the homeless, the destitute that overlooks those who have much? Is there a confusion between giving of self and giving of dollars? Are we too-much valuing ‘goods’? Is there a connectedness missing in those who are not monetarily poverty-stricken? I have neither an answer nor a recommendation.

In reading Fr. Richard Rohr’s book What the Mystics Know, I’m getting a clue though!! Fr. Rohr stumbled on a homeless person’s graffiti that touched him profoundly. It said, “I watch how foolishly man guards his nothing, thereby keeping us out. Truly, God is hated here.” Fr. Rohr’s analysis opened my heart to another possibility. You see, Rohr admits that this street person “…so clearly recognize[s] the false nature of our self-image, [while having a] clear sense” of what it means to be included and excluded.

Is that it? Are we busily trying to be separate? Are we guarding our Nothing?

There are days when I believe that the epicenter of Life is the point where First Street and Santa Clara Avenue meet.  More specifically, I am preeettty certain it’s in front of Walgreens!! I have been shocked, intimidated, speechless, bemused, and knee-slapping laughing. The other day, I had one of the special ones.

Daydreaming while I waited for an acquaintance, I became aware of a mother and her child shuffling around beside me. Mother was putting on a pair of plastic gloves while giving instructions to her 5-yr-old. “Now, Shaneesha, I want you to stand back here by this lady while Mommy take care of things.” Take care of things, I thought, what things?

Curiosity triggered, I scanned the field. Then, it was an ooooh, yeah, that definitely needs to be taken care of!

I saw a tall, old fellow about three feet away. Head covered by a stocking cap, chest covered by a tattered shirt, and sweatpants drooping, oh dear, mid-buttocks in the back and upper thigh in the front. Talking to the trash bin, he stood there, seemingly incapable of bending down, pulling up his trousers, or moving. Shaneesha’s mother, giving one final snap to her plastic gloves, moved purposefully up to man. In a very common sense tone she told him that she was going to adjust his pants so that he would look presentable.

He continued his diatribe to some unknown person in some unknown language as he was made “presentable.” The woman was exceedingly efficient. She stuffed his male equipment into his sweatpants in the front; walked to his back and pulled that stretched out waistband up to his waist. Finally, she reached up and patted him tenderly on his bony shoulders.

Mouth agape, I watched her pull off the gloves, take Shaneesha’s hand and move down the street. The old man, sparked by some unknown impulse took a step, paused, hitched his bag up, took another step, and made his way ever so slowly toward ….

How, I wondered, can I be so privileged to witness such love, compassion, and respect in action? What comes across my path; well, let’s just say that it is wholly holy!

My mind can have the most implausible and intense discussions. On a moment’s notice, I can call the Graduate Committee together, announce the topic and, in a nanosecond, politeness is out the window and interruption is in. On this particular morning, the agenda item was “average and ordinary.” Why this topic? Well, I was bemoaning my belief that I was not living a particularly stellar life. Yep, maybe my life was ordinary; maybe I was average; maybe “stellar” should be consigned to the same box where I put used books.

The discussion was reaching a level of intensity that blinded me to anyone or anything as I walked down Santa Clara Ave. Somehow though, a series of erratic movements grabbed my attention. Momentarily, and reluctantly, dragging myself away from my internal debate to the outward reality, I saw….

An overly slender 50-ish man. Clean, neatly combed hair, grey trousers a few sizes too big and a billowing blue shirt defined his outward appearance. As I watched, he bent down picked up a cigarette butt, bent down and picked up a cigarette butt, got one more and walked to the trash bin to deposit his offerings. Over and over, one hand holding high his Peet’s coffee cup, the other engaged in delicately picking up the offending butts. He had clearly taken on the task of bringing beauty back  to the corner in front of Walgreen’s.

Was this an average man doing an average thing? Maybe. However, I thought it was extraordinary, if only because there was such congruence between the attitude and the task. I saw Spirit making this world a better place. If that is average, I’ll take it!

My, my–I got a new attitude that day. You just never know what will cross your path!!

A few weeks ago, I watched a skateboarder with his head buried in his phone sail off a curb. He began the frantic windmilling of arms and legs that accompanies such unbalancing. Eventually, and after a near collision with a parked car, he reached a certain embarrassed stability. His lack of focus and his momentum hinted that an inevitable event was about to take place. My observation and the feelings that went with it were the indescribable part! The best I can do is say that there was a stew of insane laughter mixed with a “told ya so” sanctimony and an “oh, my god” concern.

Sometimes, the inevitable/indescribable duo are just part of living. Growing up is one of them as is birth following pregnancy. But we also have experiences and events for which execution seems mandated by our DNA. At some point we will have them, for example, running a marathon, traveling to Antarctica, or owning our own home. The drive to do, be, or experience pushes us onward and, when it is accomplished, we discover that there are no words to describe it.

For years, one of my personal urges was to skydive. I wasn’t interested in hang gliding, bungee jumping, or zip lining. Nope. Just skydiving.

It was early in my 72nd year that I had the opportunity. I received an invitation to “Jump on My Birthday” from an acquaintance. Very calmly, I said yes. Didn’t think about fear, didn’t think about height, didn’t think about dying, didn’t think about my age. In essence, I did not think. And, that remained my demeanor for the entire experience: Do Not Think, Just Do.

I moved as if cushioned from everything worldly as though this were my mission and mine alone. Endless paperwork, gearing up, rolling down the runway–no thoughts, no feelings, nothing!

Inevitably, the moment came when we fell forward and down. Again, no thought — only sensation. Sensation of seeing green below us that was edged in frothy white. Sensation of speed but no speed. Sensation of cold. Sensation of increased visual acuity. Sensation of protection. Sensation of much wind past my ears. Wooosh! the chute opens.

At that moment, I began rocking in the “betweens” while I observed this universe, in silence. We drifted and I found tears coursing down my cheeks at the wonder of it all. The life of the land kicked in and woooof we were down.

My inevitable experience is quite indescribable, although … I seem to have been left with a mysterious sense of peace.

What’s your inevitable/indescribable? Did it meld your human and divine? Fabulous, no?

Night time Copenhagen is dark and damp; only weak pools of streetlights grant any semblance of life. Upon opening the door of the Ristorante San Marco, the noise of the pre-theater crowd slammed us with a life force made all the more vibrant in contrast. Waves of sound enveloped us as we swivel-hipped our way down the very narrow aisle to our table. I am the last of our party and I indulge my penchant for noticing the other diners. Everyone is in groups of four and six except–one lone woman.

“She”, of the heavily jowled face, sat silently and quietly. The workman-like hands erupting from amazingly delicate wrists, toyed with the stem of a wine glass while her eyes focused “out there”. Her dress was of relatively ancient vintage but appropriate. Makeup, well, the makeup was beautifully applied. The one false note was the wig. Oh my god, the wig! It was a blond, raggedy thing that perched rather haphazardly and precariously atop that heavy face.

I had great difficulty staying attentive to my companions that evening. More than anything I wanted to engage this person in conversation. But [sigh] I didn’t! She remained oblivious to us while I continued my vigilant observation of her!

Diners, ready for their theatrical experience, began to leave while our lone woman dawdled over wine and dinner. Eventually, even she had reach the conclusion of her evening. Standing, she was a big woman and a tall one. There was a grace in her movements, however, that spoke “feminine” as she smoothed down the front of her dress and leaned toward her handbag. Oooops! Wait a minute! She isn’t picking up her purse; she is bending over to touch the hem of her dress?!?

Hoisting her dress from the back while facing outward to most of the restaurant, she reaches to adjust her pantyhose. My oh my oh my, I had a splendid view of a perfectly beautiful naked male ass topping gorgeous legs. She yanked up those sheer hose, dropped the dress and proceeded down the aisle with an elegant stride.

Restraining my awestruck laughter, I felt, instead, just absolute delight regarding what falls across my path.

The past couple of weeks have been ‘difficult.’ Events, in and of themselves, were only slightly off-center but put them together, well, they were harbingers of doom! In my increasingly overcast world, I had trouble discerning whether the Oracle of Delphi had spoken or I needed to adjust my meds. As the month came to an end and one situation after another littered my path, I was definitely feeling devalued, unimportant, invisible, ignored, and unrewarded.

Wow! Should I weep, have a tantrum, or sit in my shell of hurt? Unable to decide, I waited just long enough to see a light (rather like my night light which features a ‘when pigs fly’ motif) flickering. It was not very bright but it was strong enough for me to sense a bit of dark humor at play. Uh-huh, I had a lot of negative thoughts bubbling and burbling. Ironically, there was one core belief that didn’t join … Love. Can you believe? I never once in that month felt unloved by Spirit or by myself. Even more intriguing was the awareness that there were great demands made on me for giving love. Here I was, sitting in sorrow for my life, continuing to offer up, to give. My, oh my!

All came together a couple of nights ago when I attended a class for which I was one of the assistants. In the middle of class, with no need for my services, I arose to take a walk. I gave way to a conscious, meditative stroll and relaxed into stillness. As I reached mid-block, I passed a fellow sitting on the curb, supported by an elbow in the grass and sipping from his pint of whiskey. Dear me, I saw the stunning sunset, felt the soft breezes and absorbed a fellow human consoled only by his flask of liquor.

Sinking into an even deeper contemplative space, I connected with him, for, as surely as he was creating cirrhosis of the liver, I appeared bent on creating cirrhosis of the soul. Really? Did I want that? Really? Was this well of hurt worth it? Am I actually separate? Is a sunset and a soft breeze for naught? No, no way! Okay, Doris, let us just give this up, jettison this stuff. Anyway, I said, you do know love.

Hmmmm! Think I will just chalk it all up to a bad case of indigestion.