Ryoken, a Zen master, lived the simplest kind of life in a little hut at the foot of a mountain. One evening a thief visited the hut, only to discover there was nothing in it to steal. Ryoken returned and caught him in the act.
"You may have come a long way to visit me," he told the disillusioned prowler, "and you should not return empty-handed. Please take my clothes as a gift."
The thief was bewildered. But he took the clothes and slunk away.
Ryoken sat naked, watching the moon, "Poor fellow," he mused. "I wish I could have given him this beautiful moon."
Sometimes I feel like that thief. Standing--in my own home, or in front of an audience, or in a crowd, or all alone--I am looking for something, for whatever ails me or creates a hole or emptiness; but, like that thief, not finding it. "What am I missing?" I ask myself. What am I wanting, yearning for, that I find myself in such a pell-mell-hurry or weighted down... hoping to fix it, or find it, or mend it. So I run and race and call on God, or the sky, or roll the dice with some prayer from my childhood. This will solve it, I tell myself. But the more I push, the more I ask, the more I beseech, the further I move from the center.
Here's the deal: In my state of distraction, I cannot see that the core of my identity, the place where I stand in this moment (even at times without clarity, or stability, or faith, or answers), I stand smack dab in the center of an awesome and illogical grace. Smack dab in the center of the sacred present.
If I do have the permission to see that place, I know that I am grounded.
I am now able to breathe in
and out,
and rest in this acceptance.
I leave my house, pre-dawn. I walk, pulling our garbage container, the quarter-mile down our drive to the main road. Outside our driveway's entry gate, I happen to glance up to eastern sky, where the moon, a slivered crescent hangs on a deep-royal-blue sky. It is momentary, but visceral, arresting, piercing. And for whatever reason, reassuring. I stop. Literally. My legs quit moving. Now this snapshot is imprinted, and I know in my heart that it is in some way vital, essential, indispensable. I accept this gift of the moon, even though I don't yet know why.
As the day welcomes dawn, the sky on this morning is an enchanting pageant. The cloud cover is layered, like some sinfully rich and dense marbled-cake. In other places, I see billowed fabric, with an occasional rent in the cloth, revealing the softest blue of morning sky. As the backlighting increases, the cloud formations become more substantial, as if a permanent, marbled sculpture. And the band of light just above the Cascade Mountain range changes to a deep tangerine.
Yes, this scene is a tonic. There is something about these moments that carry significance, because they are reminders, and they are sacraments. Partial, yes, but containing the full sustenance of grace.
And I think of the question a friend asks me, "What holds you?"
In other words... What sustains you, and carries you gently through your days?
I don't know what to tell you to do, exactly. However, thinking of my pre-dawn moment, I wish I could give you the gift of that crescent moon.
I do know that there is a direct correlation to openness: I need to give up my need to protect stuff, reputation, resume, accouterments and security.
And when I laid down my preoccupation and worry, I was gifted the moon.
Let's make the jump from Zen to baseball. The movie The Rookie (based on a true story) begins in Texas, where Jim Morris (played by Dennis Quaid) is a Texas high school chemistry teacher and coach of the school's baseball team, his career path the result of a shoulder injury that prevented him from pursuing his own dream of professional baseball. Frustrated with his team's play--and their tendency to "quit" or give up--Jim vents his frustration after one lopsided loss, "You better give some serious thought as to how you live out the rest of the season."
"Why?" says one player, "what difference does it make?"
They turn the question around, and ask, "What about your dreams coach?"
"Scouts aren't looking for high school science teachers," he tells them.
As a way of motivating his players, Morris agrees to go to a professional try-out, if the team wins the championship. Inexplicably, they win. And Jim shows up at an open tryout (both his very young children in tow). An endeavor many considered crazy. Why? Because a 35-year-old man doesn't play professional baseball. To add fuel to the doubt, his own father discourages Jim, telling him it is time to accept reality and put aside impossible dreams.
Fast forward. Morris is drafted by Tampa Bay and given a shot to play for their minor league team. But the wear and tear of bus travel, keeping up with his wife and young children by pay phone, concern due to mounting bills (the pay in the minor leagues minimal), an aching body and a disquiet knowing that some of the organization's younger prospects view him as a publicity stunt have all taken their toll, and his spirits sag.
He's ready to call it quits.
To give up.
On the night before he heads home, he sees the lights from a little league ballpark. Morris stands at the center-field fence and watches as the young outfielder--maybe 10 years old--jogs out to his position during an inning change. As the two make eye contact, Morris nods and the boy grins.
Morris decides not to quit.
The next day in the locker room, he says to his young teammate and companion, with his own grin and high spirits, "You know what we get to do today Brooksie? We get to play baseball."
Here's what I think happened. In the exchange with the young boy, Morris laid down his preoccupation and worry, and was gifted the moon. You see, this is not just a story about pursing a dream, it's a story about paying tribute to your heart.
I know this for certain: when we do not pay tribute, we are like the thief in the Zen story--without even knowing it--and we settle for less. So much less. So it is not just a question of what hold us, but of what holds us back... from being wholehearted, true to our self, fully alive, unafraid of uncertainty, and grateful for the gift of this moment.
Lord knows we look for ways to bottle it and sell it, when I reckon we should just get out of the way.
