It's been a demarcation week in the Pacific Northwest... the sky opened up and rain drummed the rooftop and windows, early warning for our first winterish storm, wind gusts up to 40 mph. Trees down, branches splintered, and hemlock needles litter the roadways, giving the appearance of a caramel colored sisal carpet. Small boughs of fir are haphazardly scattered about. I'm driving for a 5 am ferry, and a flight headed to the east coast. I tell myself that garden cleanup can wait. And that somehow this untidiness may have been intended to feed my soul. A landscape unabashed, unencumbered and, best of all, unafraid of imperfection. Now tonight, 2800 miles away, my host is navigating the meandering roadways near the Shenandoah National Park (Virginia). Tomorrow I will lead a retreat with a group from three Episcopal Dioceses. At the retreat center, I step out of the car and the night sky is a kaleidoscope of stars on a coal black canvas, save for the smudge of the Milky Way and a sliver of a moon, as if heaven's door was left ajar.

In other words, my garden, the Shenandoah sky and the five-year-old boy are all kindred souls of sorts. They have each 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.

Bottom line... where one feels fully and totally, alive.

Yes, I do know that this numinosity is essential.
And that whatever it is, I want it.
How do I "acquire" it? 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 yanking weeds, fighting with the people I love, 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."

Remember 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 is it, 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