On their return from the trip, the father asked, "How was the trip?" 

"It was great, Dad," 

"Did you see how poor people live?" 

"Oh, yeah." 

"So tell me, what do you learn?" 

The son answered, "I saw that we have one dog and they have four. We have a pool that reaches to the middle of our garden, and they have a river with no end in sight. We have imported lanterns in our garden, and they have the stars at night. Our patio reaches to the front yard, and they have the whole horizon. We have a small piece of land to live on, and they have fields that go beyond our sight. We have servants who serve us, but they serve one another. We buy our food, but they grow theirs. We have walls around our property to protect us, they have friends to protect them."  

The boy's father stood, speechless. 

It's easy to be confused. We live in a world with inverted price tags.

But it's not just about money. Like the father in the story, I can allow my agenda (or expectations) for any experience to overpower (or outweigh) the experience itself. In other words, I tell myself what I should see or feel or desire or experience or value or love. (As if life isn't heavy enough...)

And my agenda becomes a barrier (like some kind of coat of armor) between me and and the very essence of the day. I am sure that I wear this armor for a variety of reasons.

Perhaps because I am afraid of the vulnerability at being completely open to what life offers (reluctant to receive or embrace the gifts of the day), or perhaps because I still need to impress those around me with my stuff or my resume or my glittering image. Regardless, it is no wonder that I am often depleted.

And, I do know that this paradigm shift--to see the world through the eyes of the boy--is easier when we pause. 

We know we live in a world that bombards us with the notion that our value or esteem is predicated on stuff--on having, owning, possessing and preening. 

My week has been very full. With some good news, some bad. I spent some time generating financial paperwork (supposedly a snapshot of my "net-worth"). I see now that my heart needs--no, requires--that I create a different type of account. 

Consider it deposits made in a "savings account" for my well-being.
My friend Timo taught me the phrase, "Have you felt your heart catch?" When you do, you

 

I've been on Oahu for this past week. Yes, for work. Cross my heart.
Time with the Congregation of Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary (the order connected to St. Damien of Molokai), and with the good people at the Benedictine Monastery in Waialua, and at St. Augustine's by the Sea in Waikiki.
We talked about letting our light shine, and how easy it is to have the bushel baskets of life extinguish the flame. And someone asked, "So how do you get rid of these baskets--distractions, expectations, shoulds? What's the formula?"
That's just it; I don't have one. Which is not a good sales technique I admit. But what if we learn the lesson of the boy in the story; that our wealth (our abundance--in relationships, wonder, gratitude, delight) comes when we live, or let spill, what is already inside of each of us. Somehow, we don't yet believe it is there. What is it? Too good to be true?

When I tally the catches of the heart this week, I realize that I can see my life through the eyes of the little boy. And I can answer the question: "So, how did you replenish your savings account this week?"

My morning ritual: Drive the Kamehameha highway. It's my all-time favorite scenic route to a Starbucks. The Koʻolau Range (technically not mountains but the remains--the side--of a very, very ancient volcano), distinct and vertical, a great wall of Jurassic Park landscape, vertical accordion folds mantled in tropical green. Early in the morning, the moon lingers just about the crest, as if resting there, some kind of benediction on the day.
At St. Augustine's I listened to the doxology (Ho'o nani ka Makua mau) sung in Hawaiian.
I read and slept and daydreamed; and I had a friend willing to hold the pieces of my heart.
Replenishment and treasures indeed.