Most of us can relate... you know, the itch (or burden) to make things perfect. The question lingers, "Did we do it right?" And we resonate with the return to the sanctuary of the "living room," that place of replenishment, where we can listen to our heart, regain our soul, hear the voice of grace... and let the music spill.

Even so, there's a part of us that wants to ask, "So; what exactly do we need to do, to get the living room back?" It is our knee jerk response, from a western mentality which finds solace in the five steps that allows for some resolution.  

This week, I re-watched Les Miserables  (Victor Hugo's great novel of betrayal and redemption).  There is a scene at the end of the movie version when Javert (the obsessive fanatic police inspector who has tracked Jean Valjean) has Jean at gunpoint, "It's a pity," he tells Jean, "the rules don't allow me to be merciful."  It's honest, to be sure. And tragic. But that's what happens when our identity is owned by fear.  We can be constricted by rules, or creed, or public opinion, or fear of punishment, or simply the obligation to just fit in.  Regardless, we don't listen to our heart. Which is another way of saying, we don't allow for mercy.  

Instead, we double down on the "rules." There is something comforting I suppose, being weighed and measured by the rules. Knowing somehow, we'll come up short. Lord help us, as we continue to be somehow tethered to an identity predicated on "getting things perfect."

Loved this story... about the adults watching a group of very young kids playing sandlot baseball, using discarded boxes for bases, a potpourri of equipment, and an odd formula for deciding teams and scoring. The air is filled with whopping and cavorting and unmitigated pleasure. The adults, however, wanting to be helpful, decided to step in, in order to give the kids instruction, tips and a clearer understanding of the "rules." And the adults wondered why some of the kids decided to quit playing because the game wasn't fun anymore.

Our good intentions for control don't necessarily benefit us. So focused on the right notes, we miss the music.

Here's the deal.
If I am to focused on evaluating, I cannot bask in the moment.
If I am measuring and weighing, I cannot marvel at little miracles.
If I am anticipating a payoff, I cannot give thanks for simple pleasures.
If I am feeling guilty about not hearing or living the music, I cannot luxuriate in the wonders of the day.

Did you see Mr. Holland's Opus? About Glenn Holland's lifetime of teaching music to a high school band. In one scene he is giving a private lesson to Gertrude. She is playing clarinet, making noises that can only be described as other-worldly. He is clearly frustrated. As is she. Finally Mr. Holland says, "Let me ask you a question. When you look in the mirror what do you like best about yourself?"
"My hair," says Gertrude.
"Why?"
"Well, my father always says that it reminds him of the sunset."
After a pause, Mr. Holland says, "Okay. Close your eyes this time. And play the sunset."
And from her clarinet? Music. Sweet music.

Sometime today; I invite you to set aside the manual, or the list, or the prescription. Sometime today; Take a Sabbath Moment. Find the "living room." Close your eyes, and play the sunset.

Mary Oliver describes such a moment this way, "...a seizure of happiness. Time seemed to vanish. Urgency vanished." Because, in such a moment, we are, quite literally, in a State of Grace. In other words, what we experience here is not a means to anything else. We can just be. And from that place, music or light or tenderness or compassion or forgiveness or grieving or joy can spill.

I have a friend who went into his garden to pray. The fragrance undid him. He was smitten by an Asiatic lily, intoxicating, mesmerizing. He spent the next twenty minutes giddy as a kid, he told me. "I was so undone," he lamented, "I forgot to pray."
"And I felt chastised and guilty. Until it hit me. Being undone by the lily, and savoring its beauty was my prayer."
In that moment, my friend got the living room back.

We say we like to live in the moment. It sure looks good on paper, doesn't it?

Here on Vashon Island we've had an amazing weekend of weather. Sun (rare in November). The kind that invites you to bask. The kind of sunny day that slows your gait, setting it to putter and futz. So you head outside, wander, and then forget what you're there for, which--in the garden--is always a perfect curative for whatever ails you.  

And then you notice, down near the vegetable garden, there's a pile of horse manure, so it's time to find a shovel and prep the garden for winter sleep.  The physical work is cathartic, after a week of traveling with more deadlines and travel obligations ahead. Even so, my list pales to real life trauma. Just from Sabbath Moment reader notes this week; a death of a child, a loss of a job, a battle with change and transition. And yet, in all of that we are invited to enter into the moment, fully and wholehearted.   

I do know this: There are times when I don't want to give my whole heart, when I just want to play the right notes. Gladly, there are times when the right notes aren't enough, and I want the living room back. Like tonight, when I put down my mental list, stood at the bedroom window, and watched the moon light (just waning from full), dance and caper on the bedroom wall.

When James Finley was a young monk at the monastery of Gethsemane, he shared with Thomas Merton (who was his spiritual director) his frustration at his seemingly inept efforts to experience God's presence. Merton responded: "How does an apple ripen? It just sits in the sun." Not that we don't need to continue to seek God, but by our own efforts alone we cannot achieve spiritual maturity. We must bring ourselves to the Light, where God's grace seasons us... into a sweet, flavorful ripeness.

This week... Be Gentle with Yourself.

Let us remember the living room.

Let us play the sunset.

Let us listen to our heart.

 In our marginal existence, what else is there but this voice within us, this great weirdness we are always leaning forward to listen to?