They order drinks. When the waiter returns he asks, "What can I get you?"
"What I'd really love," Patti tells him, "is a piece of toast and this side of avocado slices." She points to the menu.
"Oh. I'm sorry," the waiter says, beginning a statement (writes Digh) that would mark The End of Civilization As We Know It; "I'm sorry, but it's past toast time."
Blink.
"Past toast time?"
"Yes, ma'am, it's past toast time."
"Wow. And here I never actually knew there was an official toast time."
The waiter's demeanor, impervious.
She thought about asking whether they had a toaster... and bread... and electricity... but decided against it.

Talk about the light-bulb-of-enlightenment. There are moments that define our days. And it's reassuring to know that in certain restaurants, we have Official Toast Time.

I did laugh out loud when I read her story, but it's not that uncommon. We all live, or experience parts of life with some kind of wacky blinders. It has something to do with our need for control or security or comfort.

It reminds me of Robert Capon's insight that we live like ill-taught piano students. So concerned about the playing the right notes, we never hear the music.

There are a number of reasons for this preoccupation with right notes and all of them boil down to some kind of fear:  

What will people think?
Fear of retribution
Need to impress or get ahead
Apprehension about coloring outside the lines

In all these cases, we live self-consciously, focused on the notes (living the moment or experience correctly), and we have been known to squeeze the joy out of just about anything. Or worse, we rob ourselves of the very joy that has been gifted to our heart and spirit.

Or maybe, it is our self that gets squeezed out. This description from DH Lawrence, "He was always charming, courteous, perfectly gracious, in that hushed, musical voice of his. But absent. When all came to all, he just wasn't there."

In the end, too often we live by Official Toast Time.
It happens in ways big and little: 

In the middle ages, people were discouraged from exploration, because no one knew what was beyond the maps; "there be dragons there."

And as a child I remember running down the aisle in church, playing tag with a friend and laughing (it was empty on a Sunday afternoon, the laughter bouncing from stained glass to stained glass, until I was upbraided quite sternly by the pastor, who told me in no uncertain terms, "there is no laughing in church.") (Now as an adult, when I visit some churches I see that he is right, there hasn't been laughter there in years.)  

This week someone wrote me to ask, "How, exactly, does one find sanctuary in the middle of craziness?" Good question. But the last thing they need is someone adding more to their plate with an equivalent of Official Toast Time. I'm all for finding sanctuary even in craziness. But it starts with hearing the music, regardless of our circumstances. It's tempting to give rules. And suggestions are okay, as long as they don't become constraints.

That being said... if rules would be helpful for you, start with these four:
Rule #1 - Be gentle with yourself.
Rule #2 - Pay attention. Even if only for five minutes. What do you see, hear, taste, smell and touch?
Rule #3 - Take a deep breath. Let it out and say "thank you."
Rule #4 - Try it again tomorrow.     

This week we had some real rain--a November-Seattle-rain--where the sky feels cinched down at the corners. It's not what you expect in August. It's as if Autumn is sending a message: Don't get too comfortable, summer's almost over. And it's easy to feel cheated; although when we do, we miss the moments of light and laughter and joy. Like Saturday night, at an event listening to my friend Larry Murante sing. After we stepped outside at 8 p.m. to watch the remnants of the sunset, now a band of light, a layer wrapped between the southern horizon and an impenetrable night cloud cover, as if heaven's door had been left ajar.