I spent this past week with my friends. Our annual gathering on Manasota Key (on the west coast of Florida). We live liturgically, which means we watch the sunrise, sip coffee, share stories, spend time on a friend's boat marveling at Manatees, cook dinner, and then open a bottle of wine at seven sitting on the beach to watch the sunset (the photo above from Friday night). As the sun melts into the Gulf of Mexico, my friend blows on a conch shell (sounding like a baritone Jewish shofar), a benediction on the day. This year I had gone with unresolved questions about my life, for which I needed answers. And it reminded me of another sunset, several years ago.

I had gone to Oahu, Hawaii to work. (I was working. Cross my heart.) My evening ritual: adjourning to write, at a restaurant with tables looking out onto the southwestern horizon and Pacific Ocean. One night, a man sitting at a table nearby asked what I was writing. I told him, "It's part of a book."

"What's your book about?"

"I don't know yet," I told him.

"That might not be easy to sell," he offered.

I tell myself I know why he is eating alone.

"Okay," I conceded. "Let's say it's about life."

"That really narrows it down." He said, probably assuming I had been in the sun too long.

"Fair enough," I admitted. "But check this out."  

I pointed toward the horizon. The sun slid into the Pacific Ocean less than ten minutes before. The western sky is still lit, as if backlit. The heavens are filled with a literal symphony of clouds. I can honestly say that I have never seen anything like this before, not even in a photo. I thought I knew clouds. But I count seven or eight different types in the panorama, yet know the names of only three. In the foreground, there are clouds made of some delicate fabric, like chenille perhaps, or something similar to the dollies on the back of my grandmother's sofa. Off to northwest, clouds form, bulky billows of ash grey, as if residue from the collapse of great buildings. From my table I see cloud shapes and figures, a pirate ship, a UFO, and a ballerina. Beyond the ash grey cloud to the north, the sky is pewter blue. As we sip our drinks and watch, the formations alter and dance and evolve, an unfolding drama, better than "must see" TV. Behind us we hear the music from an outdoor nightspot.

"That sky is something," my new friend says, after five minutes.

"Yep," I tell him. "It is. And that's what I write about."

"You write about clouds?"

"No, but about the music they make. That the day--this day--in its unsettling, quixotic, sensory ordinariness, still has the power to unbelievably astonish us."

I have a friend in Seattle who loves clouds. She tells me that they are a good metaphor, because clouds let us get lost in something bigger than our selves.

And yet. We never ask to go there. We don't go to our therapist or friend or pastor or rabbi seeking ways to be less certain, or asking them to join us to "raise a glass in celebration about our ambiguity."   

There is the story of the troubled and distressed congregation. They sent for a famous Rabbi. They were certain the Rabbi would help them see the light. That he would provide wisdom, clarity and solutions to the problems that plagued them.

The Rabbi arrived. The people gathered. No seat was empty. They were eager to hear what the Rabbi had to say.

He stood, for some time, silent. And then. He began to dance. Slowly, deliberately... and sang and danced and danced. Soon members of the congregation joined him. And after some time, the entire congregation danced around the sanctuary. They danced for two hours.

The Rabbi asked them to sit. And said to them, "I hope I have furnished the answers to all the questions you were asking."

We forfeit peace when requiring closure.  

And I think about all the ways I am not present. And I think about the resolutions I have made, in order to will myself to be present. Here we go again. As if this can be fixed, or contained. As if all I needed were the correct answers. These are the moments I know, without a doubt, I need to be back on the beach with my friends watching the clouds. Or, in the words of Jesus, "chill out, and consider the lilies of the field."

Because whatever my life is about, it is not a race or a contest or a beauty pageant.

Some people take exception to my talk about the art of doing nothing. They don't like the idea of "wasting time." Okay. Well, here's the difference between wasting time and just being bored. Wasting time really is intentional. You are, literally, spending time. On clouds, or lilies, or naps, or silence, or prayer, or providing a generous spirit, or coffee with friends, or listening to someone's story, or holding a hand, or caring for a flock of birds, or watching your cats fight it out for the best spot on the couch. Which means that you are not mortgaging your time or your life on any old distraction merely out of boredom. When you do pause, and pay attention, there is, literally, an internal recalibration. While nothing is "added" to your life, there is a new awareness of the light that is within. Call it a new perception of your internal wealth account.

One Sunday after guest preaching, a woman said to me (after I had preached about this topic). "Thank you. I've been wanting to have a conversation with a family member for many years. But I've been waiting until I had the right words. I wanted it to be perfect. Now I'm going to talk with them. Your sermon gave me permission."

Indeed. The sacrament of the blessed present. This present. This not-yet-perfect present. This not-yet-resolved present. This still-full-of-ambiguity-and-wondrous-possibility present.

I had something else I wanted to say, but I've forgotten already. I'll tell you this though... you should have seen clouds this weekend. They were layered and looked like Holy Week vestments. They were suffused with a deep tint of violet. That's very unusual for here. But then, the last two days have been unusual. The garden smells of spring now. A mixture of earth, leaves, lilacs and hope. I pulled over to the side of the road. Watching the clouds was more important than wherever else I had to go.