Call me a sap, but I have to admit that on this morning’s drive from the polling place to grab a free cup of coffee at Starbucks, I got teary. Who would have thought that the simple act of voting could result in a free cup of joe?
Okay, so some of the tears were coffee anticipation, but most of the rest had to do with the act of voting. I’ve done it many times before, of course, but something about this time got to me.
I reflected on the conversations I've had with family, friends, and coworkers over the last six years – uh, I mean, year and a half – of this historic presidential campaign. Some people, including me, are actually pinning hopes on the outcome of this thing. Waiting in line for hours has heretofore been reserved for rock concert tickets or those wild day-after-Thanksgiving electronics sales. When people are willing to spend two, three, five hours waiting in line to vote, something is up. Perhaps they believe that change really is possible.
I thought about folks in Chile and Indonesia whom I count among my friends thanks to church-to-church relationships. When I visited Chile in early November 2002, four years ago next week, the first question asked by people I met, even those I was meeting for the first time, was, “Who did you vote for?” Church leaders in Indonesia pay close attention to how we talk about Muslims and the ways in which our nation relates to nations like theirs. Our sisters and brothers around the globe care deeply about what happens in our elections. Their daily lives will be changed by the results of our vote.
I rehearsed the promise and poop of the seemingly endless campaign process we endured to get here: The accusations, the mudslinging, the half-truths told about others, the cavalier crimping of truth in service to self-interest…and the hope, the vision of a world (local and global) in peace, hands joined to address poverty, feed children, care for the earth and for one another. In the midst of it all, the stark truth stands that by tomorrow morning, however this election turns out, standing on the shoulders of so many who gave so much before us, together and despite ourselves we will have whacked cracks in all sorts of ceilings, glass and otherwise.
And I thought about what lies ahead. I was teary-eyed, not starry-eyed. There is still so much work to do and so much to overcome. As the hobbit Frodo (and others before him) sang, “The road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began.” Some other theologian somewhere some time said something about the call to rise from our knees to become the answer to our prayers. The mist in my eyes between the polling place and the Starbucks this morning also twinkled with the realization that the vote I cast today wasn’t the end of the campaign after all. The work is just beginning and the question is, “For the sake of the world in which I live, how am I going to be what I voted?”
The Reign of God is Like a Cat that Went Missing
My family and I recently returned home from four days away to discover no food eaten, water dishes full, and our home eerily bereft of the warm orange presence of our beloved feline, Nacho. We quickly looked through every room, every closet, every corner, flung open every door, calling her name and clucking. All we found was a growing communal collection of self-recrimination, fear, and despair. “She must have escaped when we were packing the car,” we finally concluded. She had already been gone, outside, on her own, exposed to the elements, for four days.The search quickly moved outside. We called into the night, flickered light through thickets, and listened for that familiar meow on the wind. Each of us made our way around the house, scanning the bushes, calling her name. And then we did it again. We walked around the neighborhood, calling, searching, desperately hoping. And then we did it again. At one point, I heard rustling in the bushes along a pond when I clucked and cooed, “Nacho." I ran home for a flashlight, but whatever had rustled was gone, silent, unfound.
No Nacho.
We left the outside lights on that night. My wife held vigil downstairs, near the door to our deck where Nacho loves to lay in the sun and watch birds at our feeders. None of us slept well. And Nacho didn't come home.
Day after day, the search continued from inside the house and around the neighborhood. We wandered the streets again and again, day after day, looking, hoping. Every time one of us passed the front door or the back from inside the house our gaze lingered at a window in hope of seeing the familiar eyes begging for admission. We left the door lights on every night and, each in unspoken turn, rose in the middle of the night in hope of spotting those cat eyes in the night. Even our dogs, Koda and Karley, wandered through the house, scanning under sofas and sniffing open doors in hope of finding their oft harassed chasee.
But no Nacho appeared.
At dinner we told stories about the cute stuff Nacho did, recounting the more than nine years she had been a constant presence for us. Our daughter began to carry a crumpled photo of Nacho in her school backpack. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the photos of that beloved feline scrolling though the digital frame on my office desk. We even dragged some coworkers and friends into our grief. They listened empathetically, offered to pray (even to St. Anthony), and sat with us in sad silence. They shared our emotional burden, felt the loss, kept proclaiming hope. “You know cats! I just bet she’s going to show up soon.” There was comfort and not a little hope in the arms of this community, but I couldn’t keep my mind off coyotes and cold and pelting rain and the deep darkness of night.
Finally, on the eighth day of Nacho’s absence, a trip to the humane society, that great gatherer of lost pets and strays, did us in. So many cats looked like Nacho, but were not Nacho. Heavy finality wafted the silent car toward home.
That same eighth evening the telephone rang, an unknown caller interrupted a tearful dinner. “Are you missing an orange tabby cat named Nacho?” Stunned disbelief and wavering hope quivered from my wife: “Is she okay?” We stared at Janet's eyes, listened for some betraying tone in her voice. “She’s thin, but looks quite good,” she repeated for us. “They found her in their driveway when they opened their garage door just now. They live around the corner and are bringing her to us.”
Good news! Wild welcome! What was lost coming home in the loving arms of a stranger! Even the dogs seemed excited to have Nacho home, sniffing and looking at Nacho, nuzzling each other as if to say, "Do you see? Can you believe it?"
Of course, Nacho is a cat. Already, days after her unexpected return, she reminds us that her presence in our midst is on her terms, not ours. But we’re keeping a close eye on her. When she’s absent from the room, we go looking for her. Inevitably, we find her in favorite spots, resting, purring, greeting with a meow. And I, for my part, can’t keep my hands off her. In the evening I stretch my legs from a comfy chair to its ottoman in hope that Nacho will sense a welcome. Most of the time she obliges and settles in lengthwise like she used to, before she went missing. But now, I kid you not, her fur seems softer, her purr deeper, and those big orange eyes glimmer like gold.
The reign of God is, indeed, like a cat that went missing.
Colorful Prayer
During a staff retreat last week, one of our colleagues spent an afternoon teaching us to pray in color. I must admit that I had earlier seen that topic on the agenda through whatever color of lens skepticism superimposes.
I once had a rich, full, wordy, time-consuming prayer life. I still pray a fair amount throughout the day, but these are short little things compared to the hours I once spent every day on my knees in my bedroom or at a kneeler in some chapel on a college or seminary campus. In recent years, I have struggled to carve out daily time for focused prayer. When I do, it is most often contemplative, rooted in deep breathing and physical and spiritual postures that open me to the presence of God. Brief readings from the Bible usually lead me into this prayer time (Moravian Daily Texts) and a prayer word or phrase focuses my meandering mind. Otherwise, prayer for me is most often wordless silence that is more like listening for and to God coupled with trust that God is also listening for and to me and the various aches and concerns of my own and those of others that I carry in my being.
I must admit that I have agonized over this change in my prayer habits. I was taught in late adolescence that prayer is about speech and specificity: we need to tell God what we need, what the world needs, what we have done wrong, what we are thankful for, and so on. I think someone once suggested to me that it was good to listen once in a while, but that was to be done mostly by reading the Bible; more words. Despite the myriad books I have read and the variegated forms of contemplative prayer I have tried over the intervening years, something about spending most of my prayer time in silence or, more accurately, finding my way toward silence, still doesn’t seem quite right, or enough, or faithful to my spiritual heritage. Yet, try as I might to do otherwise, this is the form of prayer that carries me into an awareness of God’s presence in the world these days.
So, when I saw “The Joy of Praying in Color” on the agenda, I was not convinced that whatever that was would work for me. In addition, the thought of some sort of coloring in the presence of other people – especially colleagues – also raised the rancor of “I can’t draw” anxieties that have been generously fed and indulged in over the years. Nevertheless, good team member that I am, I went to the session and opened my mired mind as far as I could.
As we arrived in the room Carol gave us each a half dozen colored markers and a thin tablet of drawing paper. Using a little book, Praying in Color by Sybil MacBeth, and the experience of a workshop with its author, she then instructed us to use these simple tools to pray a favorite name for God. Immediately, one of the prayer phrases I use in contemplative prayer came to mind and I slowly reflected on that phrase in reference to the colors I rolled over each other in my hand. Before long, unskilled artist that I am, I found myself doodling/drawing. And when Carol dinged a little Zen bell and told us to stop, I could not put down the markers.
The process was almost immediately prayerful for me! As we moved through other ways to “color” our prayers (e.g. praying for others, praying Bible passages), I found myself – despite myself – caught up in a form of prayer that is a sort of hybrid between the deeply silent contemplative prayer to which I have become accustomed and the more focused, worded prayers of my younger days. I was reminded of the monks I read about decades ago who wove baskets of reeds as they prayed. Something about the meditation focused on a person or situation or story found its way into my hands and, through pen put to paper in abstract and vaguely symbolic colored form, became an experience of the presence of God for the world and for me.
Color me purple with surprise and aqua with gratitude for this addition to my prayer repertoire!
Thanks, Carol!
I once had a rich, full, wordy, time-consuming prayer life. I still pray a fair amount throughout the day, but these are short little things compared to the hours I once spent every day on my knees in my bedroom or at a kneeler in some chapel on a college or seminary campus. In recent years, I have struggled to carve out daily time for focused prayer. When I do, it is most often contemplative, rooted in deep breathing and physical and spiritual postures that open me to the presence of God. Brief readings from the Bible usually lead me into this prayer time (Moravian Daily Texts) and a prayer word or phrase focuses my meandering mind. Otherwise, prayer for me is most often wordless silence that is more like listening for and to God coupled with trust that God is also listening for and to me and the various aches and concerns of my own and those of others that I carry in my being.
I must admit that I have agonized over this change in my prayer habits. I was taught in late adolescence that prayer is about speech and specificity: we need to tell God what we need, what the world needs, what we have done wrong, what we are thankful for, and so on. I think someone once suggested to me that it was good to listen once in a while, but that was to be done mostly by reading the Bible; more words. Despite the myriad books I have read and the variegated forms of contemplative prayer I have tried over the intervening years, something about spending most of my prayer time in silence or, more accurately, finding my way toward silence, still doesn’t seem quite right, or enough, or faithful to my spiritual heritage. Yet, try as I might to do otherwise, this is the form of prayer that carries me into an awareness of God’s presence in the world these days.
So, when I saw “The Joy of Praying in Color” on the agenda, I was not convinced that whatever that was would work for me. In addition, the thought of some sort of coloring in the presence of other people – especially colleagues – also raised the rancor of “I can’t draw” anxieties that have been generously fed and indulged in over the years. Nevertheless, good team member that I am, I went to the session and opened my mired mind as far as I could.
As we arrived in the room Carol gave us each a half dozen colored markers and a thin tablet of drawing paper. Using a little book, Praying in Color by Sybil MacBeth, and the experience of a workshop with its author, she then instructed us to use these simple tools to pray a favorite name for God. Immediately, one of the prayer phrases I use in contemplative prayer came to mind and I slowly reflected on that phrase in reference to the colors I rolled over each other in my hand. Before long, unskilled artist that I am, I found myself doodling/drawing. And when Carol dinged a little Zen bell and told us to stop, I could not put down the markers.
The process was almost immediately prayerful for me! As we moved through other ways to “color” our prayers (e.g. praying for others, praying Bible passages), I found myself – despite myself – caught up in a form of prayer that is a sort of hybrid between the deeply silent contemplative prayer to which I have become accustomed and the more focused, worded prayers of my younger days. I was reminded of the monks I read about decades ago who wove baskets of reeds as they prayed. Something about the meditation focused on a person or situation or story found its way into my hands and, through pen put to paper in abstract and vaguely symbolic colored form, became an experience of the presence of God for the world and for me.Color me purple with surprise and aqua with gratitude for this addition to my prayer repertoire!
Thanks, Carol!
Hope
We have a couple of bird feeders just off the deck on the back of our house. They attract a variety of birds, house finches, sparrows, cowbirds, mourning doves, cardinals, blue jays, and, once or twice, a woodpecker. A Cooper’s Hawk has even perched itself on the fence at the back of our suburban yard for an entire afternoon in hope of taking a bite or two out of the bird population we attract. Far and away, however, the crowd at the table we set is dominated by goldfinches, floating flicks of chattering black and gold jostling for a chance to slip their tiny little beaks into slim slits and gobble thousands of minute black thistle seeds.
Adjacent to the bird feeders is a rather decrepit, barely recognizable dogwood tree. We keep talking about putting it out of its misery and replacing it with something more vibrant and attractive, but the birds love it. They use it as both resting place and launching pad. The branches also provide a place to catch up on the latest avian gossip while the birds await their turn at the busy feeders. They actually fight a lot with each other over the limited seating at the feeders. I’ve thought about issuing teeny little light-up pagers in an attempt to bring some peaceful order to our busy bird restaurant. For now, in the corner of our deck, near the tree and feeders, is a small bubbling water fountain. We enjoy the sound and sight of it; for the birds it is a favorite watering hole and spa. This seems to take some of the heat off the wait for the feeders.
In the midst of a quiet Sunday afternoon given to frequent glimpses at the fluttering activity around the feeders, my wife and daughter together heard a small “crack” at the deck door window and looked up to see one of the restaurant regulars fall with an ever so slight “thunk” to the deck. A goldfinch lay face up, still as death.
My eleven year old daughter, Kira, ran to find me. We stood side by side looking through the glass at the little body on the deck. Maybe it’s just stunned and will get up in a moment, we said. Is its chest moving? We waited, held vigil, hoping the bird would rise and fly – or at least get up and wobble.
“I should probably scoop it up,” I said finally. “Wait,” Kira asked. “Such hopefulness,” I thought as she disappeared down the hall.
But it wasn’t hope, at least not the kind I assumed, that moved Kira to delay disposing of a possibly living bird. I would soon learn that it was a deeper, even biblical, hope requesting that I wait.
Moments later Kira reappeared with a shoebox and a scissors and planted herself in the study. I sat in my big red comfy chair and watched as dear Kira disassembled the shoe box and then skillfully reassembled it into a much smaller two-piece goldfinch-sized casket held together with purple staples and a good bit of TLC. On the carefully crafted cover she obscured the LA Gear logo with dark black script: Birdie II – Died of a Window – October 5, 2008. "Okay. Now," she said.
I grabbed a shovel from the garage and met Kira on the deck. The tiny body fit perfectly in the handcrafted casket. Kira lowered the lid, we walked around the outside rim of the deck, not more than 10 feet from the decrepit dogwood. I dug a hole and Kira placed the box.
“Do you want to say anything?” I asked, dropping dirt back into the hole.
“Not really.”
“How about ‘Bye-bye, Birdie’?” I tried.
“That’s good."
Adjacent to the bird feeders is a rather decrepit, barely recognizable dogwood tree. We keep talking about putting it out of its misery and replacing it with something more vibrant and attractive, but the birds love it. They use it as both resting place and launching pad. The branches also provide a place to catch up on the latest avian gossip while the birds await their turn at the busy feeders. They actually fight a lot with each other over the limited seating at the feeders. I’ve thought about issuing teeny little light-up pagers in an attempt to bring some peaceful order to our busy bird restaurant. For now, in the corner of our deck, near the tree and feeders, is a small bubbling water fountain. We enjoy the sound and sight of it; for the birds it is a favorite watering hole and spa. This seems to take some of the heat off the wait for the feeders.
In the midst of a quiet Sunday afternoon given to frequent glimpses at the fluttering activity around the feeders, my wife and daughter together heard a small “crack” at the deck door window and looked up to see one of the restaurant regulars fall with an ever so slight “thunk” to the deck. A goldfinch lay face up, still as death.
My eleven year old daughter, Kira, ran to find me. We stood side by side looking through the glass at the little body on the deck. Maybe it’s just stunned and will get up in a moment, we said. Is its chest moving? We waited, held vigil, hoping the bird would rise and fly – or at least get up and wobble.
“I should probably scoop it up,” I said finally. “Wait,” Kira asked. “Such hopefulness,” I thought as she disappeared down the hall.
But it wasn’t hope, at least not the kind I assumed, that moved Kira to delay disposing of a possibly living bird. I would soon learn that it was a deeper, even biblical, hope requesting that I wait.
Moments later Kira reappeared with a shoebox and a scissors and planted herself in the study. I sat in my big red comfy chair and watched as dear Kira disassembled the shoe box and then skillfully reassembled it into a much smaller two-piece goldfinch-sized casket held together with purple staples and a good bit of TLC. On the carefully crafted cover she obscured the LA Gear logo with dark black script: Birdie II – Died of a Window – October 5, 2008. "Okay. Now," she said.
I grabbed a shovel from the garage and met Kira on the deck. The tiny body fit perfectly in the handcrafted casket. Kira lowered the lid, we walked around the outside rim of the deck, not more than 10 feet from the decrepit dogwood. I dug a hole and Kira placed the box.
“Do you want to say anything?” I asked, dropping dirt back into the hole.
“Not really.”
“How about ‘Bye-bye, Birdie’?” I tried.
“That’s good."
Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground unperceived by your Father. [Matthew 10:29]
Hope.
Happy Place
I have disembarked from the USS Sabbatical. I have returned to the people and ministry that kept things afloat while I was gone, many of whom greeted me enthusiastically as I came ashore. In fact, it turns out that they covered things so well while I was gone that I sort of wish I had given in to the temptation to wander off for another month or so, hoping I wouldn't be missed! Truth be told, it is good to be back in the midst of the community and ministry to which I am called. Co-workers and folks among whom I minister alike have been gracious in expressing gratitude for my return.
As much as I am glad to be back in the saddle (to jarringly switch metaphors and geographic references!), I must admit that already, after just a few days back, I yearn for some of the "happy places" I found during my sabbatical sojourn. I hope that my daily rhythms will be different because of the time I spent away. I am working hard to make it so: identifying and adhering to priorities and boundaries with my time, focusing on relationships and people first and responsibilities and tasks second, taking mini-sabbaths throughout the day for prayer, meditation, deep breathing, and refocusing, and stopping by my Happy Place once in a while.
This is why I just had to share this video. Peter Mayer is, by far, my favorite musician. He is my go-to musician. His CDs are the ones I put in the player when I am down, when I am unusually happy, when I am in the mood for thoughtful reflection, and when I just want to listen to a stunning acoustic guitarist who writes and sings amazing lyrics with a unique and, for me, captivating voice. He is a folk musician from my home state of Minnesota who gathers up the breadth and depth of life, in all of its holiness and hilarity, and sends it wafting into the world to take root in the hearts of anyone who has ears to hear.
After you've enjoyed this video and song, I hope you'll check out more of his stuff on YouTube and, better yet, visit his web site, buy a CD or two, and look for him in concert somewhere near you.
As for me, if you'll excuse me, I am off to spend some time in my Happy Place. May you find the way to yours at least a time or two today!
Sabbath for Others
As my three-month sabbatical leave winds down I’ve begun to realize that this leave has been as much for others – especially the people with whom I work – as for me.
Most of what I have read about Sabbath-keeping and sabbatical leave focuses on the Sabbath-keeper him or herself. Sabbath is a spiritual discipline that deepens one’s relationship with God and with oneself. Sabbatical leave is a time for renewal, reconnection, research, retooling, and reporting. Taking this guidance to heart as I stood on the deck of the USS Sabbatical nearly three months ago, with a gallant wave to those gathered to bid me a bon voyage, I shouted over the rail, “I am off to remember who and whose I am!”
The journey has gone well; I have, indeed, begun to remember who and whose I am. About a week ago, however, just as the Sabbath-going vessel began to turn its big floating frame toward the same shore I had left, a warm sudden spray of a wave broke over the bow and splashed me awake while I sat reading in my big red comfy chair. It was the third paragraph on page 167 of Jonathan Sacks’ fine book, The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations (Continuum © 2002/2007 reprint):
Systems thinkers would probably also suggest that these weeks that I have been asea on Sabbatical have given folks a chance to reflect (intentionally or not!) on my role in our office system and, more importantly, their own roles, which have likely been highlighted or changed by the absence of a member of the system. What gifts do we each bring to the team (system)? How do we aid and abet, or hinder and harm, one another? How might we re-imagine our various roles and do our various tasks differently for the sake of our common mission?
I am confident that when I return to work next week I will experience the truth behind the old adage, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Thanks to Sacks I now suspect that as my sabbatical ship reaches shore, along with those who gather to greet me on the pier I will also discover the power of a new one: “Sabbatical leave makes the whole team grow stronger.”
Most of what I have read about Sabbath-keeping and sabbatical leave focuses on the Sabbath-keeper him or herself. Sabbath is a spiritual discipline that deepens one’s relationship with God and with oneself. Sabbatical leave is a time for renewal, reconnection, research, retooling, and reporting. Taking this guidance to heart as I stood on the deck of the USS Sabbatical nearly three months ago, with a gallant wave to those gathered to bid me a bon voyage, I shouted over the rail, “I am off to remember who and whose I am!”
The journey has gone well; I have, indeed, begun to remember who and whose I am. About a week ago, however, just as the Sabbath-going vessel began to turn its big floating frame toward the same shore I had left, a warm sudden spray of a wave broke over the bow and splashed me awake while I sat reading in my big red comfy chair. It was the third paragraph on page 167 of Jonathan Sacks’ fine book, The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations (Continuum © 2002/2007 reprint):
What the Sabbath does for human beings and animals, the sabbatical and jubilee years do for the land. The earth too is entitled to its periodic rest.Whoa! There is much good to be gained for human beings from adhering to the prescriptions for various lengths and sorts of Sabbath. But getting humans to take an extended Sabbath gives the world around them a much needed break from their own ever-imposing presence! NRGV (New Revised Gafkjen Version):
What the Sabbath does for Bill, his sabbatical leave does for the people with whom he works. They too are entitled to periodic rest from him.As far as I am aware, I have good relationships with my co-workers. And we work quite well together as a team. I am also painfully aware that my extended leave has meant more work for most of them. But it makes sense to me that my extended absence has also been good for them, as individuals and as a community. They certainly need a periodic rest from my idiosyncrasies, eccentricities and ways of working that may foster tension or stress. Some of the areas in which I work have also needed some fallow time in hope of rejuvenation or redirection. And, just as this sabbatical sojourn has provided me with the strong reminder that I am not indispensible, perhaps those with whom I work have come to see that even more clearly as well (though I hope not to the point of dispensing with me!).
Systems thinkers would probably also suggest that these weeks that I have been asea on Sabbatical have given folks a chance to reflect (intentionally or not!) on my role in our office system and, more importantly, their own roles, which have likely been highlighted or changed by the absence of a member of the system. What gifts do we each bring to the team (system)? How do we aid and abet, or hinder and harm, one another? How might we re-imagine our various roles and do our various tasks differently for the sake of our common mission?
I am confident that when I return to work next week I will experience the truth behind the old adage, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Thanks to Sacks I now suspect that as my sabbatical ship reaches shore, along with those who gather to greet me on the pier I will also discover the power of a new one: “Sabbatical leave makes the whole team grow stronger.”
Beautiful Day
It’s a beautiful day in our suburban Indianapolis neighborhood.
Through the open study window I can hear the large leaves of our
quaking aspen doing their best imitation of waves lapping on the shore of Lake Michigan. Mourning dove wings whistle as they take flight, making room at our feeders for chirping goldfinches and ratcheting blue jays. Children, including my own, home from a half-day of school, dribble basketballs and laugh at each other’s jokes (and, of course, at each other). Some seem to be playing a running game that elicits an occasional scream over the barely audible rhythmic slap…slap…slap of one foot pushing a scooter down the street. Our neighbor’s mower is now parked in his garage, but the aroma of his lawn’s offering to the day lingers. Blue sky, light breeze, snoozing dogs at my feet, a good book laid open on my chest, saving the spot where I stopped to soak it all in. “It is good. It’s very good,” said God. And so it is.
I am in the last two weeks of a twelve-week sabbatical leave and I wonder: Have the last ten weeks prepared me for this moment, this Edenic moment of receptive rest? This sabbatical leave has provided myriad moments of goodness and joy, of course. But, until this moment, nearly every one of them has been infiltrated – in mostly small ways, but occasionally quite large ones – with struggle, disorientation, worry, or weariness. It has been so hard to let go of doing, of the need to produce or accomplish something. Always something looms on the horizon, around the corner, or in the middle of my view, begging to be done, given attention, obscuring whatever is right in front of me.
I suspect that part of my problem is Continuous Partial Attention Syndrome (CPA). I don’t know whether Linda Stone first coined the term, but she is one of the best at describing it. As a former Apple and Microsoft executive she knows what she’s talking about:
Through the open study window I can hear the large leaves of our
quaking aspen doing their best imitation of waves lapping on the shore of Lake Michigan. Mourning dove wings whistle as they take flight, making room at our feeders for chirping goldfinches and ratcheting blue jays. Children, including my own, home from a half-day of school, dribble basketballs and laugh at each other’s jokes (and, of course, at each other). Some seem to be playing a running game that elicits an occasional scream over the barely audible rhythmic slap…slap…slap of one foot pushing a scooter down the street. Our neighbor’s mower is now parked in his garage, but the aroma of his lawn’s offering to the day lingers. Blue sky, light breeze, snoozing dogs at my feet, a good book laid open on my chest, saving the spot where I stopped to soak it all in. “It is good. It’s very good,” said God. And so it is.I am in the last two weeks of a twelve-week sabbatical leave and I wonder: Have the last ten weeks prepared me for this moment, this Edenic moment of receptive rest? This sabbatical leave has provided myriad moments of goodness and joy, of course. But, until this moment, nearly every one of them has been infiltrated – in mostly small ways, but occasionally quite large ones – with struggle, disorientation, worry, or weariness. It has been so hard to let go of doing, of the need to produce or accomplish something. Always something looms on the horizon, around the corner, or in the middle of my view, begging to be done, given attention, obscuring whatever is right in front of me.
I suspect that part of my problem is Continuous Partial Attention Syndrome (CPA). I don’t know whether Linda Stone first coined the term, but she is one of the best at describing it. As a former Apple and Microsoft executive she knows what she’s talking about:
Continuous partial attention is an always on, anywhere, anytime, any place behavior that creates an artificial sense of crisis. We are always in high alert. We reach to keep a top priority in focus, while, at the same time, scanning the periphery to see if we are missing other opportunities. If we are, our very fickle attention shifts focus. What’s ringing? Who is it? How many emails? What’s on my list? What time is it in Beijing?
It seems that no matter what I am doing, I am also waiting for the phone to ring, or a child to ask for assistance, or the dogs to give that stare that says they need to go outside – now. My mind flits about: Are the bills overdue? I really should fix that faucet. When am I going to get that form filed? Just now, as I was typing that last sentence, my phone alerted me to the arrival of five new email messages. What did I do? I set you aside, good reader, and turned my attention from this computer screen to the much smaller one on my phone to see who might want my attention!
Of course, there is also the long and ever-lengthening list of things that beckon for my attention from my place of employment. Ten weeks they’ve been piling up, and many of them were already undone or piled high when I left them behind to embark on this sabbatical sojourn. Like spirits in a haunted house they beckon to me from the edges of consciousness, wisping into and out of my sight.
Very little gets my full attention for a significant length of time. Most everything gets short shrift, is dishonored by inattention, partially appreciated. I suspect that others have offered to me gifts that I have not seen or received. I know that many of the gifts I have to offer lay dormant, ungiven, thanks to Continuous Partial Attention. Consequently, my days are often littered with mini and maxi regrets and I’m left exhausted, somehow overfull but not fulfilled.
Frederick Buechner, whose writing has shaped me in ways too profound to propound, has said this about paying attention:
Of course, there is also the long and ever-lengthening list of things that beckon for my attention from my place of employment. Ten weeks they’ve been piling up, and many of them were already undone or piled high when I left them behind to embark on this sabbatical sojourn. Like spirits in a haunted house they beckon to me from the edges of consciousness, wisping into and out of my sight.
Very little gets my full attention for a significant length of time. Most everything gets short shrift, is dishonored by inattention, partially appreciated. I suspect that others have offered to me gifts that I have not seen or received. I know that many of the gifts I have to offer lay dormant, ungiven, thanks to Continuous Partial Attention. Consequently, my days are often littered with mini and maxi regrets and I’m left exhausted, somehow overfull but not fulfilled.
Frederick Buechner, whose writing has shaped me in ways too profound to propound, has said this about paying attention:
When Jesus comes along saying that the greatest commandment of all is to love God and to love our neighbor, he too is asking us to pay attention. If we are to love God we must first stop, look, and listen for him in what is
happening around us and inside us. If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors. With our imagination as well as our eyes, that is to say like artists, we must see not just their faces, but the life behind and within their faces. [Beyond Words, p. 27]
Sabbatical leave has given me time to relearn that sort of attention giving, person by person, task by task, day by day, moment by moment. I began in a simple, small, even mundane manner. I started by giving long hours to the reading of books, rather than skipping through them snippet by snippet over lunch at Donatoes or, believe it or not, at stop lights on the way home from the office. I’ve read magazines and other periodicals from cover to cover as they arrive, rather than skimming headlines and piling them up for later (never to happen) perusal. I have even tried to complete the Indianapolis Star’s daily crossword puzzle in one sitting each day.
With less success, I have also tried to move more deeply and regularly into contemplation and mediation. A few times each week I have set the kitchen timer for 10 or 20 minutes (to minimize the probability that my attention will be diverted to wondering about how much time remains) and then sat in my big, comfy, red-leathered chair. There I have breathed deeply, sat quietly, let my mind go as blank as can be, and surrendered myself and my full attention to Divine Presence.
By engaging my attention in these and other disciplines (especially in relationships and conversations) for most of the past ten weeks, I now realize how deeply I am infected with CPA and how difficult it is to be set free. I’ve made some progress, but I have a very long way to go. The real challenge, of course, awaits on the other side of sabbatical. So, I plan to give most of these last two weeks of extended Sabbath-keeping to plotting the path through CPA toward FFA (Frequent Full Attention – don’t blame Linda Stone for that lame acronym, it’s mine).
For now, however, thankful that some small fruit might be emerging from this extended break from routine, I’m going back to my big, red, comfy chair next to the open window and give my full attention to the sights, sounds and smells of this beautiful day.
With less success, I have also tried to move more deeply and regularly into contemplation and mediation. A few times each week I have set the kitchen timer for 10 or 20 minutes (to minimize the probability that my attention will be diverted to wondering about how much time remains) and then sat in my big, comfy, red-leathered chair. There I have breathed deeply, sat quietly, let my mind go as blank as can be, and surrendered myself and my full attention to Divine Presence.
By engaging my attention in these and other disciplines (especially in relationships and conversations) for most of the past ten weeks, I now realize how deeply I am infected with CPA and how difficult it is to be set free. I’ve made some progress, but I have a very long way to go. The real challenge, of course, awaits on the other side of sabbatical. So, I plan to give most of these last two weeks of extended Sabbath-keeping to plotting the path through CPA toward FFA (Frequent Full Attention – don’t blame Linda Stone for that lame acronym, it’s mine).
For now, however, thankful that some small fruit might be emerging from this extended break from routine, I’m going back to my big, red, comfy chair next to the open window and give my full attention to the sights, sounds and smells of this beautiful day.
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