FAINT OF HEART

Photo by Lindsay Alessandrini

I have heard it said that “Growing old is not for the faint of heart.” And indeed, as the body ages there are issues, or as Leonard Cohen sings, “I hurt in the places where I used to play.”   And the mind—the mind—that too seems to slow down and not recall things as quickly—and when it does finally recall them, the conversation has moved three steps beyond.

But, as I think about life, “Parenting isn’t for the faint of heart” either. After all, the heart explodes in a panic as we are awakened by cries of terror from the nursery. The mind “awfulizes” as you sit in the mid-hours of the night, long after the curfew has past, and your son isn’t home from his date. And what about the ache that fills in around the hole that is left when your daughter drives away, heading for the college.

And while we are at it, I don’t think that “being a teenager is for the faint of heart.”  Remember those years?  Remember the confusion when the body, racing with hormones, chased the longing for love and the urge to connect with unrelenting energy? Remember when you wanted to be your cool, unique self almost as badly as you wanted to fit-in and belong?  And then when you were left out? Ouch!

And maybe being a child is “not for he faint of heart.” The 5 year old in Indianapolis or Honduras stands at the door of the school, kindergarten waiting for him, trying to steel himself by getting a glimpse of what is to come. The unknown reaches around the half-open door to signal a hint of hope for the unsteady heart.

Maybe all this simply points to the fact that to live almost anytime and any situation in life requires a strong heart. Courage (heart, or inner strength) is required as we face the changes, losses, discoveries, unknowns of life.And maybe we can gain some strength in knowing that what ever stages of life we are in, we are not alone. Others around us are also drawing from deep wells of courage to stand in the midst of their fears and challenges. Maybe it helps to know that to be human is to have the capacity to face the unknown future to find heart enough to love life in the midst of the troubles.

IST

1941 Chrysler Dream Car 

Ideals are good.  They are principles toward which we might reach. They help give shape to images of what we hope can be. We imagine something different and maybe better than what is and that image or ideal gives energy to our growing and changing.

But, where ideals are good, being an idealist can become problematic.  When people attach “ist” to ideals, the ideals can become so powerful that we are unable live and love the life we have. To add “ist” to ideal is to allow those images of what we hope to be true to block our capacity to see value in what is true. If I have an ideal of how I want to look and become so obsessed with making that happen that I can’t be contented with how I really look, then life can become a daily grind of discontent.

I have been an idealist in my life. I have had images of what life might be and have sought to live up to those images. One of the problems I have discovered is that I not only have images of what I want to be, but I develop images of what I want others to be as well. And when I try to measure life according to those images that others may not have bought into, I find myself disappointed by them. 

So, what I try to do with this idealism that has been part of my DNA is to allow the images of a better self shape my actions, but also allow the grace of forgiveness to keep me from becoming overwhelmed by my inability to live up to the ideals.  And what I do for myself, I try to do for others. I have values and dreams. I work for the kind of world that I believe is loving and just, but I know that reality can never be what my images conjure. And I hope that growth toward that just and loving future will improve my life and the life of those around me.

STOPPED

The sun-dappled porch was quiet and cool. I was lost in my thought. The ideas were stuttering their insight. The yellow legal pad tried to capture them before they wafted away on the breeze. 

In my effort to stimulate my thought, I was reading snatches of “The Writing Life” by Annie Dillard. As I work to carve out space for more writing, I thought it might help to read how others did it. It was liberating to read that it takes 2 to 10 years to write a book. Patience, Moseley.

As I reveled in Annie Dillard’s spare but vivid words, I turned the page and there, hiding between pages 32 and 33, as if waiting to disrupt my revelry, was a bookmark. The picture was of a cat standing on top of some books, underneath were the words
                Your Personal Bookseller
                 Mills Bookstores
                 Belle Meade
                 Brentwood
                Hillsboro Village
 And hiding under the bookmark was the receipt, still legible, $12.89.

And my mind whipsawed back some 25 years when I was trying to figure out how to write a book. And back to the old, tightly packed and chaotic Bookstore in Hillsboro Village in Nashville, TN, where I frequented not only when I was served a congregation there but also 50 years ago when I was studying at Vanderbilt Divinity School.

And there I was stopped in my tracks. My musings were hijacked as I was swallowed by the warm memories of small privately owned bookstores where books spilled out of the shelves, crying out for me to pick them, open them and have my mind introduced to new worlds. It was a place where you could talk books with those who knew them. I am so grateful for the chance to be embraced by such places.

I know there are still places like Mills Bookstore, but, I don’t live near them. And anyway, there are times when I just want to revel in warm memories. This is one of those days.

SURPRISED

The gold flashed in the sunlight as the Monarch butterfly flitted and flapped in and out of the shadows and sunlight. The Prairie grass waved its toast colored tops in the wind. A few of the trees were tinged with red on their edges. The cool morning air wrapped itself around me. I was hiking in the state park absorbed by the day.

And then my hand went to my chest.  It patted my heart. I felt bubbly inside. It was like a fresh breeze in my breast. It wiggled and danced for a moment and then it was gone.  What was that?

Then I remembered something I had read yesterday. I read about depression and its opposite. Roland Rolheiser believes that most adults live with chronic depression.  He is not talking about clinical depression, but the absence of energy and interest in life. He contends that we are often weighted down with the choices that we have to make. Our spirits drag around the weight of unfulfilled hopes and dreams.

And he says that the opposite of depression isn’t necessarily optimistic, upbeat, fun-loving. But, he says, “[t]he opposite of depression is delight, being spontaneously surprised by the goodness and beauty of living.”#  

And I realized that the involuntary hand to the chest was a sign of my being surprised by delight. I had not been trying to find it. I had just been doing my daily discipline of hiking, wandering around in my mind, sorting through the stuff of life.  And there it was—delight—right there for me to taste, to feel, to sense. And for a moment, I discovered the delight in the beauty of living.

I am not sure how delight found me. Maybe it just visits from time to time and when I am not too distracted by the compulsion of my own plans and desires it invades my soul and I am reminded how glad I am to be alive.

#(“The Holy Longing: The Search for a Christian Spirituality,” by Ronald Rolheiser, p.26)

GOOD MORNING SIR

As I was hiking the trails yesterday, the warm summer breeze was blowing helping me clear my brain. A young, solitary runner passed me. “Good morning, Sir!” he said with conviction.  What did he mean by that?  Sir? Does my gray hair and slower cadence belie my age?  He didn’t say, “Hey Dude,” or “Yo Bro,” or “g’day mate”.  No, he said, “Good morning Sir!”

And then I thought, “Am I afraid of getting old?  Of not fitting in with the younger crowd?” Why does it bother me that someone calls me “sir?”

But, then I decided, “Sir” means respect. As he passed me, he greeted me with respect. And he was not a friend.  He didn’t know me  or know if I was worthy of respect. He was a stranger.  And his greeting was a way of showing me, a stranger, respect.  He didn’t say, “Hey, old man,” he said, “Sir!”

And I began to wonder what our lives would be like if we showed respect to strangers. What if we assumed the strangers we meet are worthy of respect? What if others always greeted us with respect? Would we start living in a way that warranted their respect? I thought , “I need to reflect on my own life and live it as respectfully as I can.  I need to assume that the strangers I meet are worthy of my respect, not my suspicion or fear. Maybe the world would be more respectful if we treated strangers with this kind of regard.”

Toward the end of my hike, the young man lapped me. (obviously faster and younger). I stepped off the trail and let him pass. He said, “Thank you, Sir!”

And I quietly replied, “Thank you. . . Sir.”