It is coffee hour on a summer Sunday--that time after church service when we sip coffee (or if we're brave, some unidentifiable fruit juice) and chat about the weather, the week's news, or if it's memorable, the sermon. Whatever we're talking about, there are times when we're aware of a self-conscious nudge to keep up appearances; this is, after all, church.

The laughter of children drifts in from outside. One boy, maybe five-years-old, runs into the fellowship hall looking for his mother--his face flush, his hair supercharged, his pants grass-stained. His mother hides her irritation with skill, but not without effort, "What in God's name happened to you?"

"Mom, I just needed to tell you that I made a new friend," the boy reports, and he bolts back out the door. Sympathetic onlookers shake their heads, many thankful that their days of dealing with such shenanigans are over. They return to their conversation. Most didn't notice that one of their own, he long past 70, snuck out the back door to join the game of hide-and-seek on the church lawn.  

Yesterday morning, I walked my garden, and I see shoots of Nepeta, surrounded by clusters of fading columbine blossoms and weeds that need tending. I am taken aback at orange poppies (their blooms like delicate paper), smile at the new fronds of fiddlehead ferns, and am quite literally speechless at the sight of this season's peonies their blooms extravagant, plentiful and abundant. From our weekly rainfall, the canes of Rosa Rugosa and Penelope bow almost to the ground, deferential. The garden today is unabashed, unencumbered and, best of all, unafraid of imperfection.

In other words, my garden and the five-year-old boy are kindred souls. They have tapped into something (Jung called it numinosity). Numinosity is the potential for unexpected mystery and insight where one comes into the unshakable presence of the divine; a sacred transformative space that integrates and heals the mind, body, soul, and spirit.

Yes, I do know that it is essential.
And that whatever it is, I want it.
How? Well, that is the question.
This past week, I actually overheard someone say, "Finally, this is what I've been waiting for." I don't remember what the THIS was, but, even so. I know what he meant. I have the same kind of list. You know, WHEN. . .

But let's not get our shorts in a knot chasing regret.
Every one of us knows the sadness that comes with missing the moment.
Every one of us has kept parts of our soul in check.
And yes, we all have days that are not in the script (you know, days that feel like the complete absence of anything divine).

Like this past week. I was out of sorts, so I spent afternoons pulling weeds, fighting with my son and wife, angry at my dog, and frustrated with my work. I lived petty. And to top it off, gave myself a good deal of grief about it, thinking I was above all of that. But then, that's where we get off track. We think that spiritual experience--the sacred present--is like a stock portfolio. Something we accumulate and measure.

But here's the deal:  

Being present (numinosity), begins with acceptance.
Of this day.
Of this self.
This imperfect, fractured, flawed, sometimes torn-to-pieces self.

If I had great advice, this would be a good time to give it.
But I'm not sure what I can tell you.
Except that I agree with Thomas Moore. "I'd rather be a dysfunctional soul than a well-adjusted robot."

Last week Zach and I watched Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Indiana Jones: "Get back to Cairo, get us some transport to England. Boat, plane, anything... Meet me at Omar's. Be ready for me; I'm going after that truck."
John Rhys-Davies as Sallah: "How?"
Indiana Jones: "I don't know. I'm making this up as I go."

Okay. I have a couple ideas:

One. Let music be a salve. In the quirky movie, Joe Versus the Volcano, Tom Hanks character tells a Mariachi band, "Play us a song what would drive us insane, that would make our hearts swell and burst." It reminded me of Kerouac's little bar in Mexico (from On the Road). He says that was the only time he ever got to hear music played loud enough.

Two. Take a piece of paper and write. Tell me what you love (from the heart of a five-year-old standing grass-stained beaming at his mama)? You know, what takes you, even momentarily out of an overtly conscious view of the world (away from public opinion, or what is correct or appropriate). What transports you, unburdens you, allows you to wallow in the expansive reach of grace, letting it wash over you, suspending explanation and justification?
It is not easy, this catch 22 of literally being in the moment, suspended by joy, without the safety net of cerebral clarity.

When the young boy walks back into the fellowship hall, he's holding the hand of the older man. Both are flushed in the cheeks. They've come in for another cookie. You hear comments whispered by others in the room.
"What's he thinking? He's going to have another heart attack if he's not careful!"
"That poor mother. That boy is a handful."
"I wish those kids wouldn't come in here with those dirty shoes."
One of the women serving coffee asks the older man, "We'll see you tomorrow night? Can I ask you a question about the agenda for our committee meeting?"
"Not now," he says, "First, I've got to tell you about this frog we found near the back of the church." 

Try this.  If someone asks you what you did today (don't worry, someone will ask), say, "I made a new friend and found a frog. Can I tell you about it?"

 That's why I keep the  

gates of my heart open

'cause you never know  

where love might be

I leave a crack in my defenses

and let the unexpected carry me