Not 11:59.
Not 12:01.
Noon. Every day.

Until the day of a minor accident when he found himself in an Emergency Room, his arm being stitched by a nurse as the clock approached the noon hour.

"I need to leave," he said ill at ease.
"Hold on," she told him, "we're not finished here."
"But I must visit my wife at noon," he said.
"Well," she told him gently, "today you can be a little late."
The man told the nurse the story of his wife and of the facility where she lives and how when he visits she does not even recognize him, does not know who he is. The nurse patted his hand and said, "That's okay hon. You can relax. If she doesn't even recognize you, there is no harm in being late this one day."
"No," the man insisted. "I need to go. I need to be there at noon. I know she doesn't recognize me.  But I need to be there because I still recognize her."

(An video version of the story is available--click here.)

Invited to guest preach at another parish, Rev. Barbara Brown Taylor asked the priest, "What do you want me to talk about?"
"Come tell us what is saving your life now," he told her.
Taylor writes, "I did not have to say correct things that were true for everyone. I did not have to use theological language that conformed to the historical teachings of the church. All I had to do was figure out what my life depended on. All I had to do was figure out how I stayed as close to that reality as I could, and then find some way to talk about it that helped my listeners figure out those same things for themselves." (From An Altar in the World)

The husband who visited his wife everyday at noon understood. He knew what was saving his life today.

Joseph Campbell says that we must "have a room, or a certain hour (or so) a day, where you don't know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don't know what you owe anybody, you don't know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be. . .if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen."

There was plenty of disquieting news this week. The kind that makes me want to go sit in my garden, ignore the creditors, pull a few weeds, eat dark chocolate and listen to Otis Redding. I avoid all conversations that presuppose the very worst.

Yes, I know that bad stuff happens. But I also know that it's not about what can go wrong, it's about where we choose to look, or see, or how we pay attention.

Every spring I spend a few days with some old friends. It's a ritual. We gather about the same time every year. And yes, they are old, as in we've been friends a long time--over 25 years. And yes, they are old, as in they (like me) take an odd pleasure in getting their AARP discount at the movie theater.

We spend the days on a friend's boat, swapping stories, talking about the way life is, and the way life should be if we were in charge. And how life is not easy for some of us--struggles and challenges with kids, or jobs, or marriages, or expectations. Or all of the above.

We don't use our time making a Bucket List, but instead, enjoy the days with its endowment of gifts, taking great delight in the little things.

Einstein once said, "Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted." That's a good one to bank on. So that's what we do with our days together; Allow ourselves to be enchanted. Giddy at the sightings of soaring manta rays, in awe watching gentle manatees play in the Gulf near our boat, silenced in amazement at a family of osprey (mom and dad with four young), imperial and imposing in their nest above the sign that read "Manatee Zone. Slow speed. Minimum Wake."

We point at dolphins and herons and egrets. And enjoy sunsets that make us forget everything on our worry list. (Sitting on the beach my friend asked me about my worry list from the year before. "What was on that list? You know, the things that paralyzed you, made you think you wouldn't make it another day?" "I can't remember," I told him. "I rest my case," he said.)

When the sun dissolves on the horizon, and the water turns the color of spewed lava, my friend Ed blows a conch shell. It is his variation on a Benedictine Compline, a prayer to end the day. We raise our glasses and toast life and these moments of grace.

One night, on the boat we returned from dinner late, well after dark. This is a dicey affair (I had no idea). We were in the intracoastal-waterway, a stretch along the western coast of Florida from Sarasota to Long Boat Key to Manasota Key and Boca Grande, filled with islands and peninsulas, and vast mango groves, looking prehistoric, or like perfect hideaways for a Carl Hiaasen novel.

In places the water is shallow, only a foot or so above sand bars. So, traveling after dark is not just an adventure. It can be dangerous (on the shoals and all that, not to mention pirates, although retired Floridians in polyester shorts don't provoke the requisite amount of terror and panic.)

Ed's tone is clear, "Watch that red blinking light. Pay attention. We need to stay left of that. If we don't, we're on a sand bar." This is a trip that requires watchfulness.

I've come full circle. Back with the husband, sitting with his wife at lunch.
To navigate any difficult water in our lives, we need markers.
"I need to visit my wife at noon," the man told the nurse.
"Everyone needs a sacred place," Joseph Campbell reminds us.
This is a non-negotiable.
So where is you sacred place?
We do not go there merely to fulfill an obligation.
We do not go there just to be a good person.
We do not go there to impress people we know.
We go there because if we don't go, we lose a part of our soul.

That night we paid attention to the red light.
And we made it to the harbor safely.
Here's what I learned: One light at a time.
I hope the same for you.

What is saving you today?
For me, it is my garden.
Yesterday, I had a day between trips.  It is a Seattle autumn day, uncertain if it will commit to anything predictable.  Clouds move across the sky like sets or props on a grand stage.  The breeze rifles through the trees, and a few leaves begin the autumn confetti parade.  I tell myself there's work to do, but can't conjure a compelling reason to do it.  So, mostly I sit and stare.  And for at least a little while... 

I am not Phoning.
I am not Blogging.
I am not Twittering.
I am not Texting.
I am not Emailing.
I am not mentally editing the to-do list in my head.
I am resting. And for at least a little while... I am in safe harbor.

Terry's schedule   

a pause reminder every day