A woman stands at the window and stares. We are on the morning commuter ferry, from Vashon Island to Seattle. A snow-covered Mount Ranier dominates the panorama. It stands prominent, imperial in the dawn light. (It is true. Here in the Northwest, the first time you see Mount Ranier, you do a double take. Some Divine-sleight-of-hand. Where'd that mountain come from?)
The woman is wide-eyed, as if she is surprised by the mountain. As if she is seeing it for the first time. All of the other early morning commuters (and there are many) go about their business. Reading the newspaper. Drinking coffee. Paying bills. Talking with friends. Napping on benches.
"Looook," she announces loudly, "we can see the mountain. Everybody looook!"
She has the demeanor of a person "not all there." You know what I mean. She is clearly one of those people who embarrass us. (Or realistically, one of those people we choose to ignore.) As other commuters walk by, they (we) knowingly smile at one another and roll our eyes. She's not normal, we tell one another in code.
"Looook," she says again, pointing this time, almost reverential, "the mountain."
I've seen the mountain a thousand times, but I figure, "What the heck." So I put down my book, and look. The rising sun has just crested the Cascade Mountain ridge-line. It looks as if it is sitting in a saddle between two peaks. The shaft of light from the sun glistens on the snow face of the Cascades, the color of a good English beer. It hits the Puget Sound, and dances across the water, now a golden pathway from the ferry to the sky. Ranier, backlit and venerable in this morning light, appears etched, as if a great artist rendered it in charcoal or pen and ink. The water of the Puget Sound is gun-metal-grey, and calm.To the south is Tacoma harbor, where a crescent moon hangs in what I can only describe as a melancholy blue sky.
I do not pick up my book again.
I look. A morning vista as sacrament--a dose of grace; a brew, fortifying and settling.
"Looook," the woman is talking again. "The mountain. Everyone looook, the mountain."
To exit the ferry, we walk by the woman (still standing, still pointing, still talking), wondering, I suppose, what went wrong in her life, what finally snapped, and what made her leave her senses. How sad for her. We walk hurriedly, you know, in order to take care of those more important obligations awaiting us in our day. However. On this morning, the "crazy woman" is my sage. My seer, my rabbi, my priest, my pastor. She is my reminder. For whatever reason, she sees the day without the extra layers of defense. (Or if you'll permit an impenitent play on words, she seizes the day, carpe diem.)
I tell this story whenever I can.
And if you've heard me speak, chances are you've heard this story.
Whenever I tell it I get gooseflesh.
This much is certain; every time I tell it, I absorb...
It's not just that she looked.
It's that she lived the moment wholehearted. There is for her a very visceral engagement. She is, literally, all in.
This is what I would love to bottle and sell...
She didn't need permission.
She didn't need approval.
She didn't need skepticism.
She didn't need a motivation to impress.
She didn't need evaluation or justification.
She needed simply this... "Looook how beautiful," she says, "the mountain."
This week I told this story to a group of Caregivers (an event sponsored by Evergreen Healthcare in Kirkland, WA). Many were professionals. Others caregivers not by choice, encumbered with the daunting responsibility of caring for a dying or ailing loved one. (No, I can't yet imagine.) My assignment? To talk about living a balanced life (I'll give you a hint--it's not possible). And, to talk about the reality of compassion fatigue and what it means to be a caregiver. But before I talked, I needed to listen. Tell me what you carry? I asked. We feel invisible, we try and try and still can't fix it, we feel the guilt, we juggle grief, we feel unwanted, we learn to cope only to find the expectations keep changing, we can't find time for refueling. And the list went on.
What they didn't need was more heaped on their very full plate.
Life is difficult. And sometimes, too heavy.
And we don't give ourselves the grace to be seen or embraced.
We don't give ourselves the grace to feel exasperated or disheartened.
Because to receive grace, let alone wholeheartedly, is not an easy thing.
Here's my take on the story about the young woman: To see (life in its mysterious and extravagant fullness) begins with an inner disarmament. Sooner or later we need to remove pieces of the armor we wear that keep us from allowing life in.
Most of the time, I prefer the armor.
My armor keeps me safe. But it also keeps me from seeing. From feeling. From paying attention. But, hey, it's a small price to pay. At least I'm not crazy.
It is no secret that we numb ourselves. And it's all too easy to point the finger at those whose drug comes in pill or needle form. Trouble is, I have found that resentment, fear, apathy, self-pity, being a victim and shame are just as effective. They all serve the same purpose: censor. Each one, numbing us, keeps troublesome feelings (grief, sorrow, sadness, dejection, anger) and wonder (ecstasy, awe, amazement and grace) at bay.
Public opinion is a powerful thing. I think about how we (on the ferry boat) conspired to agree about the crazy woman. "We're sane, she's crazy," we reassured each other. Is it possible that we need numbers on our side, because deep down, we know that only "crazy" people can see?
That the Spirit can madden us, and drive us, literally, out of our senses (or is it fully into our senses?), just like the Psalm which reminds us that " They shall get drunk on the fullness of thy house." (Ps. 37)
Is that what I'm afraid of, intoxication (what Rabbi Heschel called radical amazement) with this life? What if we are here to get lost, to fall in love with life, to give in to the courage to be mad with the wonder of it all, to live and dance on the edge of grace (where we have nothing to show to justify our existence)?
And the young woman's gift to herself? Gladness.
The gladness--to just be.
Here's the deal. This gladness doesn't tidy our life. It doesn't remove pain or sorrow or grief. It does however let us see the sacred in the midst.
Can we live smack dab in the middle of this life--wholehearted, no matter what comes our way?
I didn't say it is easy. Just that it is worth it.
To see is to change.
Seeing allows awe.
And awe gives birth to gratitude.
Which means, in the words of Meister Eckhart, "If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, 'thank you,' that would suffice."
Borrowing from Barbara Brown Taylor, that which draws me to faith is not the believing parts, but the beholding parts. In other words,
awe always precedes faith.
Today couldn't decide; rain showers, and the clouds move on like swift set changes giving way to sunlight and optimism. I found the time to begin spring cleaning on a couple of garden beds, one with lavender blooms of Iris Reticulata peaking through the debris. The first spring flower in my garden. And a reminder that there is always hope. In this case, a hope regally attired.
I perform admiration. Come with me and do the same. Mary Oliver
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