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In just over two weeks, I head down to the city to begin orientation at Union Theological Seminary. It’s been so far away for so long, it is surprising to realize how close it is now. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been resigning positions on boards, finishing terms on committees, closing up projects, generally putting my house in order so that once classes start, I can concentrate on work and studies.

A few weeks ago, I first identified a certain good melancholy – a bit sad to be no longer seeing these people on a weekly or monthly basis, but knowing I am leaving on good terms and heading for something more.

But the last week or so, I’ve been sad in an unsettling, unclear way.

Now I have tied some of the sadness to a particular fear I carry with me – an odd academic fear. I’ve always been good at school when I put my mind to it – I grasp things easily, see connections, know, and excel. But since the surgeries in 2007-08, I’ve noticed that my memory is compromised – it is a strikingly noticeable effect of the pain meds and thrice-in-one-year doses of general anesthesia. And I know, once I get into it, I’ll likely see my strengths come back and add more tricks to those I currently use to get by with a diminished short term memory.

But even with that nagging worry, and recognizing the loss associated with ending certain activities, I’ve been sad. It became sharpest last night, when Carl and I were talking. I was telling him about my day – the many good things that happened. Normally, I’d be smiling and triumphant in the good stuff (finishing a hard project, getting a new one, having a great experience with an author, etc.). But I was still terribly unsettled and weepy. When we hung up, I should have gone to sleep, but I was left wondering WHY the things that would normally signal a good day didn’t have the same effect.

And then I remembered the Edward Hays poem:

Don’t make friends with an elephant trainer unless you have room in your home for an elephant.– saying of the Sufis

O Blessed one, you whose voice calls me
to the sacred path of the pilgrim,
I wish to seek you with all my heart.

Yet I am often half-hearted in that desire
when I realize the cost of such a quest.

My life is rather comfortable and well-ordered
and fits me like an old shoe.

I fear the knowledge that if I romance you
I may lose what I hold dear.

Be compassionate with my hesitation
as I measure the cost of loving you.

I have read in the holy books
and know from the lives of the saints,
that you, my god, come as purifying fire
to burn away all that is not true.

I tremble at the thought
of you consuming those things that I love
and even my prized image of who I am.

Yet, I also want to know you more fully;
help me to embrace the awesome implications
of my inviting you to enter my life.

Enlarge my half-hearted love
with the ageless truth
that if I seek your kingdom first,
seek to be fully possessed by you,
everything I need shall be given me,
and happiness beyond my wildest dreams
shall be mine.

Come today, Creator of elephants and saints,
and be my friend.

And I realized that there is a lot more going on.

I realized that I’m not just giving up or changing parts of my life, nor am I intentionally making changes to my life. Rather, I am giving myself over to a change, giving myself over to the service of God. I am stepping into a role that carries a holy and sacred calling. I am saying Yes, I am willing to be different. I am allowing the reality of God to change my reality. Like a magnet being wrapped in copper coil and run through with electricity, my very polarity is changing. Like a length of iron being heated up and hammered into a sword, I am being strengthened. Like a piece of wood burning in a fire, my chemical makeup is altering.

And as hard as I have worked to change myself for the better, God is taking those things and changing me for good.

The change is indeed unsettling. And I don’t know if everyone who enters seminary goes through this – maybe others have always just known, or have had an easier time letting go of control, trusting God. I know it’s been hard for me to put my weight down on the “trusting God” thing; I’ve been angry with the Divine for many years, and I’m unsure of my footing.

And that in itself is a little sad.

But as unsettled as I feel… as sad and unsure… I know that even this is a good sad.

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For the record, I am estatic that New York State is now allowing any committed couple to legally wed – gay or straight. It’s been a hard fight and a sweet victory… and yes, there are still many battles for LGBT rights left to fight (repeal of DOMA, federal marriage equality, etc.) but..it is a sweet sweet victory.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the last couple of days viewing pictures of newly married couples, some who have waited decades for the day to come. I’ve read their stories, heard their cheers. I have cheered with them. And I’ve cried.

And not all the tears were tears of joy.

This seems to be giving me an opportunity to talk a little about my own history… to explore a rich piece of who I am, and begin to find language to explain where I have been and where I am now without people freaking out. I am, as it happens, one of those people – like Holly Near and Anne Heche – who have loved both men and women, and after many years being actively and happily labeled a lesbian, now consider myself bisexual. No, I didn’t “get cured.” No, it wasn’t “a phase.” As a teen, I was attracted to men and women… and in my early 20s, after some meandering, found that I was most comfortable identifying myself as a lesbian. I had a couple of great (and a handful of terrible) relationships. I embraced my phsyical and emotional attraction to women. I fought for equality. I marched in parades, protested with the Lesbian Avengers, even appeared on local news, and was on the front page of several state-wide newspapers, me kissing my girlfriend in front of a parade banner.

In other words, I was out, I was proud, and I was active.

In the mid-90s, I had met the person I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. Tricia was vibrant and brilliant – she lived life large. She was passionate, funny, earnest. And she loved me fiercely. In 1997, we decided to make steps toward as legally permanent a relationship as we could have in North Carolina. We were beneficiaries on as many policies as would allow us. We had medical power of attorney for each other. We were on our way to buying a house together and working with a gay attorney to ensure we were as protected as we could be, even as we began to talk about plans for a ceremony.

Parallel to this, I was completing my bachelor’s degree at Meredith College…. and Tricia was slipping back into a narcotics addiction I thought she had beaten in the late 80s. Using debilitating migraines as her excuse, and not telling her several doctors about the previous addiction – or in fact, even about each other – she amassed a stockpile of narcotics and used them to “help” her headaches.

I should have known, the day she got a new doctor to give her methodone as as way to manage the pain. But I didn’t. I didn’t know about addiction, about prescription drug abuse. I hadn’t had any experience with it. So I trusted her doctors… trusted her… and on April 7, 1998, Tricia had a heart attack, likely induced by the narcotics, and died that afternoon.

Now I tell you this because for a long time after she died, I was convinced I would never love again. And then, as I crawled out of the cave of blinding grief, it was men who offered the kind of comfort I seemed most to need. Women seemed harsh, or overbearing. Men were more measured, giving me space, and time, and a rather appealing kind of support.

Several years later, in considering relationships again, I found I was turning toward men – something I hadn’t done since my early 20s. It wasn’t that I suddenly found women revolting – it was just that, well, something had changed. I went from looking for women, to “if it really is about loving the person, not the gender, I have to be open to it being male or female”, to simply knowing I wanted a relationship with a man.

Since Tricia’s death, I have had a small handful of relationships with men – all were what I needed at the time, although I think I spent a few years learning the things always-straight women learned about men  in their early 20s. I also spent a few years learning how different relationships with women and with men can be. This is NOT a judgment on either one – both are great, both are terrible, both are what they are.  I am blessed right now to be in a great relationship with a man who is kind, open, funny, brilliant, and charming. I am unsure where the relationship is heading – but it is steady and positive, and I feel loved and supported. I still have moments when I miss Tricia, but they are fleeting, and I – like many young widows and widowers – have moved on to a new phase.

But I have cried the last few days because I wish she was here to see these pictures…to have the chance to marry me, legally, in my home state… I wish she was here to see that the work we did in the 90s was NOT in vain… I wish we could have been part of that celebration.

But it’s not reality.

It’s just bittersweet.

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“You bring a sense of humility.”

My friend Nan said this to me yesterday while we were having coffee to discuss the practical arrangements of my staying in her home while attending seminary. We were talking about what I want to do in ministry, and she was telling me what she saw as my gifts – my theatricality, my practicality, my gentleness, my insight, and my humility.

I agreed that on the first few, I could see it too. I have a deep background in theatre, which I know helps me when it comes to preaching and the worship arts. I have been both onstage and backstage, so I know the practical side of things. And being a GenXer, I have a bit of that pragmatic streak common in my generation. Gentleness, well, I’m working on that. I think I still have sharpness around the edges that are offputting to me and others. Insight? Well, I suppose it smore that I have a little more confidence that if I’m thinking about something, others may be too, and may wish to hear what I have to say on the topic.

But humility? How do you react to that? “Why yes, I do bring humility” sounds so… well, NOT humble. “Nah, I have no humility” is too self-depricating or snarky. I’m reminded of that funny Mac Davis tune (remember him?), “Oh Lord, It’s Hard to Be Humble”:

(Ah, Muppets. But I digress.)

So what IS humility? And how do you accept it as a quality you own?

Or… is it more like Grace… something that is a gift from the Divine, something you really only notice once it’s passed?

Or… is it something that you can’t ever own, or name for yourself, but only hope to achieve it in the abstract?

A dictionary definition calls humilitythe state of being modest, respectful, egoless. Interestingly, its Latin root, humilitas, means “grounded”…. something I never thought of until I looked it up just now. So maybe (wow, talk about abruptly altering the course of a blog post!), when we embrace being grounded – rather than being too much in our heads, too much in our personalities, too much in our ego selves – we are humble.

Now this is something I can wrap my head around. I know I am my best self when I get out of my own way. This doesn’t mean I don’t exist; I’m not a fan of the kind of egolessness that makes us disappear. I believe we are here, as ego-filled, individual, thinking humans for a purpose, and that purpose can’t be to disappear again  into a singularity. Rather, when I get out of my own way, I am less likely to take things too personally, less likely to see things only from my point of view, less likely to measure myself against others. When I get out of my own way, I am more likely to have clear thoughts, enjoy the situation, and hear the joys, pains, sorrows, anger, and contentment of others. I am more likely to notice those moments of grace. I am more likely to be awed by all of Creation. And I am more likely to share that awe with others.

So…the paradox. Maybe it’s not such a paradox after all. Maybe accepting a compliment such as the one I got from Nan yesterday is about knowing a different meaning for humility and responding, “yes, thank you, I feel it is important to get out of my own way and let things happen.” How others interpret that may not matter – but it may be easier to handle being called humble and being graceful enough to accept it.

I will end with this quote from William Temple, Archbishop of Cantebury during the Second World War: “Humility does not mean thinking less of yourself than of other people, nor does it mean having a low opinion of your own gifts. It means freedom from thinking about yourself at all.”

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At the end of the Friday morning worship at General Assembly, one of my fellow offsite delegates typed into the chat box, that was a moving service. Worship is my least favorite part of being a UU.

As someone whose probable program focus will be preaching and worship, I was floored. Isn’t that kinda the point of belonging to a congregation? If it’s for social or justice reasons, there are lots of other places to go, whereas a congregation puts all that together with a spiritual dimension.

As I contemplated this, I remembered a conversation I had with a member of another local congregation about the CRUUNY joint service. I was excited because we were going to have a lot of music – organ, choir, congregational singing, and even a multigen rock band. She sighed and said, I don’t think I’ll go then. I dislike music in a service. I’d rather just hear a sermon and some readings.

Again, I was floored. I was in the first class to pursue the Music Leadership Credentialling certification (which I dropped when a back injury kept me out of commission/having surgeries for 18 months). What’s the point of worship services if there isn’t music? If all you care about are the words, there are plenty of books and lectures.

 

 

And then I recalled a conversation in our Stewardship committee about Time, Talent, and Treasure. We all agreed that members should be willing to make an investment in all three, but what did Time mean, exactly? Was time the hours spent in Sunday services and at church-wide events? Or was it okay if someone didn’t come to church but attended a small group ministry once a month? Do we ask for a commitment to the one hour a week that everyone shares (as opposed to the many more hours we share in small groups, committees, task forces, etc.)? If you’re all about the small connections, then…what?

All of this leads me to a larger question, one I’m not sure I have the answer to yet, but one which I’m willing to entertain discussion on: does worship matter? Does it matter to a person’s spiritual development, to their connections, to their expression of compassion/acceptance/courage/love/trust/justice/service? Does going to a worship service (whether in person or online) make a difference?

My gut says it does. My gut says that without worship, we are nothing more than a social club with a service focus. Without worship, we forget how to enact the deeper parts of ourselves, which long remember the rituals of our ancient ancestors. Without worship, we become isolated, away from the interconnected web of which we are a part. Without worship, we lose touch with the sacred.

And more…without all the elements of worship – sights and sounds, touch and scents, words, music, movement, and silence – we are missing ways to access our own Divine spirit, as well as that which we define as Divine that is outside ourselves.

I think, too, worship matters for groups. For several years, I was what they call a solitary practitioner in the pagan tradition. I held rituals, by myself. I meditated, sang, danced, incanted, by myself. And half the time, I gave up before I had finished, because it felt empty or I felt silly. When I was in ritual with even one other person, suddenly there was meaning. A shared experience. A connection.

It’s this connection that then leads me on to act. just being with other people in scared space makes me want to be a better person, more engaged, more connected. They don’t tell me to, I feel it. I sing it. I smell it and touch it and taste it.

And…if we are to understand who we are and where we are going, it helps to share this experience time and time again, together, in worship, in community.

Worship matters.

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Offsite voting trialSo… I was blessed to be an offsite delegate to General Assembly this year – an experiment to see if having people connected remotely would work, not just for watching, but for participating – speaking, voting, engaging. Despite a couple of technical glitches and some need for adjustments to process, overall, it was great, and I’m pleased to say that the assembled voted to change the bylaws to include offsite delegates.

But that’s only part of the story.

What I’ve been reflecting on the last few days is the difference between my experience and that of onsite delegates. Namely, I’ve been reading a lot about escallators, rain, access issues, confusion on the floor, crowding. Yes, they’re talking too about the votes, about Karen Armstrong’s stunning Ware Lecture, Kaaren Anderson’s invigorating Sunday sermon, about being together when NY passed marriage equality… but it’s very gritty too.

Or to put it in Woodstock terms: muddy.

As an offsite delegate, there was no mud. No crowding, no endless escallators, no rain on the rally (although here in upstate NY we had plenty of rain… one plenary session was interrupted by a knock on the door; an old man with a beard asked me if I knew what a cubit is…). Instead, the experience let me immerse in the messages. I was in a comfortable chair in a comfortable space and I could get a drink or a snack and not disrupt the procedings. I could listen in rapt attention without disturbances of those around me. And I didn’t get muddy.

I bring this up, because I think that while there is something amazing about incarnation – being IN PERSON – there is something a bit magical too about being present remotely, much as Joni Mitchell was during Woodstock. (For those who don’t know, she was slated to be there toward the end, but by the time she arrived, access was blocked and she stayed in town.) She instead caught the spirit and vision of the event, and wrote the seminal song about it:

And so… I feel a bit like Joni Mitchell. I got to hear the incredible messages, catch the spirit and vision, which I think can be summed up in Kaaren’s phrase “Connection and Compassion”…. something happened at this GA; we coalesced as a denomination. We found our heart, we found our message. We are preparing for an incredible journey at next year’s GA, and thank God we know what we’re saying now.

I’m not sure if on-the-ground observers could see the change…maybe they did. I know I did, watching it, unmuddied, open to the spirit and vision and voice of our faith.

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It was amazing.

The joint service, I mean.

I’m exhausted…but thrilled. And I feel invigorated.

Rev. Scott Alexander, lately of the Vero Beach congregation, shared a message of hope, excitement, and invigoration. He woke me up when he said that there are more people who believe they were abducted by aliens than are Unitarian Universalist. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE? What are we missing? How are we not getting our message out?

For me, it helped me even more clearly define why I am hearing the call to ministry. Namely, I want more people to know. I have been so helped and healed by this faith, so invigorated and comforted by this denomination. If it can pull me from the depths and help me with major crises, surely it can help others. I want others to KNOW it can help them.

And of course, the question is “how”? We tend to be a cold and cerebral crowd… it seems the heart is missing sometimes.

I remember Kaaren Anderson speaking at District Assembly a few years ago (she did the Gould Discourse), and she used the “E” word: Evangelism.  Her point was that we too have incredibly good news to share, so we should share it. Indeed, much of what she shared was practical – getting feet on the ground, getting the congregation organized to handle the effects of outreach. But I have kept the word “evangelism” in my pocket since then, wondering how we can do it effectively and not offensively, wondering how to share our message, or at times, even what our message is.

It seems to me we’ve not done a very good job defining who we are and what we’re about. No wonder our symbol is the Question Mark…

 

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Just a short note, as I am tired and District Assembly goes into full swing too early tomorrow. Rev Deane Perkins gave the Gould Discourse tonight…on “Becoming a Religion for our Time.”

It was amazing… he outlined a perspective that he called “paradisical theology” – the idea that in Early Christianity, it was “Heaven on Earth” that was core to Christianity, not the crucifiction and resurrection. Deane suggested that our denomiation already is perhaps more “Christian” than later Christians… that we are the inheritors and must be the proclaimers of this new perspective.

He said (transcribing from my feverish notes)

We have never lost sight of paradise. W have never lost sight of beauty and truth. We have never lost sight of the struggle and search for more just ways to meet all peoples’ needs. We have never lost sight of our task as caregivers and stewards of the environment.

And so now it is up to us to live it, do it, be it.

 

UPDATE: 5/19/11: Here’s a link to the text.

 

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Holy cow! I’m in! Union accepted me!

What’s funny is that just last night at Wellspring, I was expressing my deep fear that this had all passed me by… that I would not get in, and then what?

The “then what” question has been weighing on me for a while. What if I didn’t get in? What path would I pursue? How would I manage to find my ministry? Would I apply elsewhere? Would I say “this is a sign”? Would I slink back to my congregation with failure on my face?

I was actually thinking about writing on this today…and then I got the mail.

Of course, first was the panic, as it was a VERY SLIM ENVELOPE. That’s never a good sign… that’s usually a “thanks, but no” letter.

So imagine my surprise and joy when I read “congratulations!”

I’m still floating…and grinning… going to meet with my minister shortly before choir; she’ll be so pleased.

 

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So… I visited Meadville Lombard – a great trip, great place, great people. (Shout outs to Justine Urbikas, Tina Porter, Qiyamah Rahman, and Christine Robinson!)

After visiting, I sat down with Carl and outlined the pros and cons of Meadville v. Union. And I’ve made a decision, largely based on a question put to me by Tina Porter at lunch. She said, “are you going to seminary to become a minister or are you going to seminary to go to seminary?”

Truth be told, I don’t know what my ministry will look like, but I know I don’t want traditional parish ministry…and to their credit, Meadville Lombard knows that is what they do. Their program is amazing, getting you immersed in the congregation and on the ground as much as possible. By the time you get your M. Div, you’ve Been There and understand more about the administration, politics, stewardship, and caring that goes into parish ministry than you’d get from books. It’s focused, the way a technical school may be focused on getting you ready for a system admin position; you walk out “shovel ready”.

And that’s not what I want.

I am more excited to let my sense of ministry grow organically… see what’s out there, what the conversations are, see how my experience in a multi-cultural, multi-denominational, multi-multi-multi instution like Union might shape me.

So now the waiting… will I actually be accepted?

 

 

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Any minute now my ship is coming in I’ll keep checking the horizon And I’ll stand on the bow And feel the waves come crashing Come crashing down, down, down on me

And you said,”Be still, my love Open up your heart Let the light shine in” Don’t you understand? I already have a plan I’m waiting for my real life to begin

– Colin Hay, “Waiting for My Real Life To Begin“

They say that we teach what we most need to learn – and that is no truer than it is at this very moment. I’d like to tell you some things about me, and maybe the story will shed some light on today’s theme, starting here, starting now. I realized about a month ago, rather sheepishly I might add, that I’ve always been waiting for something in order to get my life on track, waiting for something so I could accomplish my goals.  “Just as soon as I finish school”… “Just as soon as I get a raise”… “Once the check comes in”…“As soon as I meet someone”… “Once I move”… “After I lose weight”…. And the second part of those sentences promises a wonderful future. An educated, rich, loving, beautiful, thin future.  The “just as soons” got even sharper in 2004, when I quit my corporate job due to mental and physical stress. I moved back here from NC, full of “just as soons” – getting a new job, moving out of my sister’s house, then of course the 18 months of “just as soon as the next doctor’s appointment… test… surgery” as I dealt with a severely damaged lumbar disk. It seems I have spent my adult life waiting for something to happen, or get finished, so that I could begin approaching something called a goal. This is further complicated by a vision I once had. Maybe it was a dream, maybe it was a sleep-deprived hallucination, but it has stuck with me for over a decade. In my vision, I was in a spa, with women pampering me – manicure and pedicure, facials, peeled grapes, handsome, shirtless men fanning me with palm fronds – the whole nine yards. An older, attractive man (who was some sort of divine god-figure) leaned in behind me to kiss my cheek. But instead of a kiss, he whispered two words: “Not yet.” I have no idea for certain what he was referring to, but it was clear I wasn’t ready, that I must wait some more. And so, I have been waiting for “yet” for a decade.   Now some of you may remember the last New Year’s sermon I gave in 2009. It was the first sermon of Linda Hoddy’s sabbatical, and I felt the weight of it. I spoke about the Church of 80% Sincerity – that when we give ourselves permission – the 20% or so – to mess up, we actually allow hope, love, and grace to come in. I spoke about being open to possibility, and not waiting for the other shoe to drop. I encouraged you all – and me – to allow for the ‘other shoe’ to be something good, not always something bad. It’s two years later now, and I have been better at this – much better.  In these two years, I have been more aware that grace is there for the taking. My editing and publishing business has gone in some interesting directions, because I was open to the possibility rather than focused on a strict business plan. I let love in from a surprising place – Minneapolis – and that relationship daily reminds me of the possibilities of love without bounds. And – perhaps most significantly – being open to possibility, open to grace, and open to the messages the Divine has for all of us if only we have ears to hear, has led me to realize that the sermon I gave in early 2009 was the first major clue that it is time for me to pursue ministry as a formal path, one I decided to follow actively a month or so ago. Now you’d think that all is sunshine and roses. Business! Love! Ministry! Joy unbounded and rapture divine! And “yet” is finally here! But… no.  Because just like my life before 2009, I am still waiting. Maybe the other shoe is Cinderella’s glass slipper, rather than a heavy work boot that’s going to knock me out. But I am still waiting…and the waiting is driving me nuts. On the professional side, I am waiting for a number of clients to say “go” on their projects. I am still waiting for book sales to take off, for the right reviews, for the million dollar project. My relationship is in waiting mode – waiting for his youngest to graduate from high school, waiting to see what will happen with my career path, waiting for something to make the future more clear for us. And ministry – I have begun applying to seminaries, but there’s waiting for acceptance, waiting to see if I can afford to go, waiting for some sign that this truly is the path I’m supposed to be on and not just a diversion. All of these things seem dependent upon each other, as if I’ll know what to do on all counts if even one of them breaks loose. As Colin Hay sang, “I’m waiting for my real life to begin.” I realized this while speaking with my spiritual director last month. I suppose it was appropriate that I started talking about waiting during Advent – `tis the season, you might say. I spoke to him about feeling paralyzed by the waiting, as if the waiting was stopping me from doing anything else. He said to me, “stop stopping” – in other words, stop letting the promise of “just as soon” keep me from living now. After we spoke, I thought of Moses, leading his people through the desert for 40 years. Now I have a feeling that the actually number is quite different, and that after following a man who refused to ask for directions, it only FELT like 40 years, but let’s assume it is true. Forty years of wandering, seeking the promised land. “Just as soon as we get there”… a big “just as soon” – perhaps the biggest there is. But during those 40 years, people died, babies were born, grew up, fell in love, had kids of their own. Food was found and prepared. Life happened – a whole new generation finished a journey started by their parents and grandparents. But what we remember is the big goal and 40 years, not the life that happened in the meantime. For Moses and Company, the “just as soon” was all that mattered. It was indeed a test of faith, and I don’t mean to dismiss that in the least. As I sit with my wondering about seminary, a certain amount of faith is required that if it is meant to be, all will work out. But what happens in the mean time? As we know, the “meantime” can be a mean time – full of pain, angst, and worry. Now I’m not sure this is true, as I’m just now thinking about this, but I suspect that the meantime can be less mean when we live right now, in this moment, not in the meantime. In other words, be here now. I know, I know, it’s what the Buddhists have been trying to tell me for years. Or at the very least, Eckhart Tolle. I will admit: I resisted reading The Power of Now; I’m one of those people who gets put off by hype, and once Oprah had this author in her sights, that was it for me. But now, after the hype has died down, I’m willing to look. I haven’t read it all yet, but I did get a good start, and fortunately, Tolle presented the real gem of the piece early on, on page 35:

Realize deeply that the present moment is all you will ever have. Make now the primary focus of your life. Whereas before you dwelt in time and paid brief visits to the now, have your dwelling place in the now and pay brief visits to the past and future. Always say ‘yes’ to the present moment.

Easier said than done, I know. Frustratingly so, I’d add, especially since our culture is driven by “just as soons.” After all, we are immersed in an ego-driven, over-hyped, ambition-led society. We believe, thus, that we are incomplete. Tolle points out that this sense of not being whole “manifests as the unsettling and constant feeling of not being worthy or good enough.” We then enter a spiraling pattern of gratifying that need to feel worthy, to feel complete – and as soon as we do that, there’s more holes to fill. Sometimes we try to fill the holes we see in ourselves with material objects, sometimes with degrees, sometimes with relationships. We are always striving for something more, and we measure the size of those holes to determine our self-worth. Whether we think we need more knowledge, more skill, more love, more toys, or more experiences, it never seems to end. We are so good at striving, we have an entire industry built around goal setting and planning. We all know the aphorism, “those who fail to plan, plan to fail.” But it seems that our goal-setting ways leave Now behind. As Linda Hoddy once said to me, setting goals kills the moment. And yet, goal setting and future planning is important. Having a vision of our life five or ten years out with a strategic plan for implementation does give us direction. It helps us figure out where to go next. And heck, entire religions are built on an ultimate goal – heaven, or some form of life after death. But being focused only on the goal means we probably aren’t living. And it probably means we are trying to control too much. There is a Sandra Bullock film called 28 Days, which takes place at a rehab center in the woods. Among her fellow patients is Eddie, a major league pitcher played by Viggo Mortensen. Having received a box of balls from his coach, Eddie goes into the woods to pitch balls against a mattress with a strike zone drawn in. Bullock’s character, Gwen comes up behind him, picks up a ball, and pitches it wildly at the mattress, missing by a mile. As she turns to go, she grumbles, “great, another thing I suck at.” Eddie stops her and asks, “what were you thinking about when you threw the ball?” She responds that she was thinking about hitting the mattress. Eddie tells her it’s all wrong: “You get locked in on the strike zone, next thing you know, it’s looking the size of a peanut. And you’re thinking, ‘Damn, I gotta get that little ball in there?’ You’ve psyched yourself right out of the game.” He tells her to think about the little things – the things you can control. “You can control your stance, your balance, your release, your follow-through,” he says. “When you let go of the ball, it’s over. You don’t have any say in what happens down there. That’s somebody else’s job.” Eddie hands Gwen another ball, helps her get into position, and tells her to close her eyes. She thinks he is nuts, but she tries it, and lands the pitch clearly in the strike zone. Letting go of control. Being focused on the moment. Seems to me this might be a good way to get life going. But now the pragmatist in me is thinking about this and saying, “yeah, so? Now what do I do with it? How do I do it? It’s easy to talk about letting go and being in the now. But talk is cheap, Debus.” Yes, my inner pragmatist has an attitude. But she’s right: how do we make it happen? I think the first clue comes from the Bible. Any time some pronouncement is being made, the person (or angel) saying it begins with one word: “Behold.” “Behold, the king walks before you.” “Behold the lamb of God.” “Behold, I bring good tidings of great joy.”  “Behold the things that are in heaven and on earth.” Behold. Look. Hold on for a moment and be in this present place. We know it works – consider the mother at Wal-Mart scolding a child; she usually gets down to eye level and starts with, “now look at me”… to get the child’s focus. We value eye contact in people we’re speaking with, and making eye contact is the difference between catching your waiter’s attention and sitting with an empty cup of coffee. We gaze into our lover’s eyes, being present with them. We don’t look ahead, we look at. We hold. We stop. We get our attention focused. I’m sure this is what the whole “focus on your breath” thing is about when we meditate. I think my mind wanders too much when I do that. But when I look at something and focus on it, I am absolutely focused. For that moment, I stop. I look. I behold. The “just as soon” thing I’m waiting for doesn’t matter. The thing I look at – the words on a page, the image on the computer screen, the cat insinuating herself on my lap, the onion I am chopping, the flame of the candle – those are all happening now. And there is joy in that. Writing down the things you’re grateful for each day helps keep that joy fresh. It makes you focus on what’s happening instead of what may happen eventually. It doesn’t dissolve the worry forever, but in time, with practice, we can be more present and productive. I think that the more we let go, the more we focus on the Now, the more we enjoy the life we are living instead of pining for the life we want to lead, we might find joy in the living. We might find that our goals are actually easier to achieve. And, we might find we’re more open to possibilities for a brighter future, because we are paying attention to those things that are in front of us now.