The 60-Second Sabbath

Where Will This Day Take Me?

Morning. Yawning. Curious cat, purring. My life. New day.

Where will this day take me? Will I learn something of value? meet someone intriguing? do something helpful? find pleasure? satisfaction? hope? sorrow? Will I be in awe at some point? willI I be challenged? affirmed? rejected? respected? Will I feel content? frightened? understood? angry? joyful? alive? energized?

Each day brings all these possibilities. And to what extent are all of these choices? Is the initial question really not where the day will take me, but where will I take the day?

Where do I want to take this day?

I want to take this day to joy, pleasure, affirmation, peace and meaning. I want to encounter the holy, over and over again. I want to see with clear, calm eyes. I want to be amazed. I want to feel transcendent. I want to take this day in a new direction. I want to feel productive and competent. I want to love, and, if possible, to be loved.

That's not too much to ask, is it? Just your normal, divinely infused, extraordinary, ordinary day.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

On Writing

Sometimes, when I sit writing in my journal--a pen and paper affair, not on the computer--I am amazed how effortlessly writing occurs. I'm watching these words flow from my pen. What a remarkable thing!

I can communicate this way, and I'm really doing very, very little to make it happen. But what comes out, letter by letter, line after line, makes sense, says something, could be taken up by nearly anyone and read. I don't even need to think for this to happen. I can let the hand go, engage my thoughts elsewhere. In fact, at times I'm totally unconscious of the act of writing. It's like breathing; I can be aware of it, I can direct my attention to it, but most of the time I don't, and it continues anyway.

Amazing!

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Falling Apart, Coming Back Together

Disintegration leads to reintegration. Loss of the "I" (the ego, the self) leads to fuller integration into the greater "I" (which is ultimately union with all, with the divine, with God).

This is the pattern of life, repeated daily, even hourly, cycling through as we live the months, years, decades of our lives.

The periods of growth, healing, awareness and enlightenment always alternate with those of pain, loss, grief, despair, disappointment, confusion and self-doubt. The latter, though painful, are necessary; they signal (once again) the approach of restoration and movement toward wholeness.For this reason, disintegration can be welcomed when recognized. The letting go heralds the approach of something greater.

Have I experienced the truth of this? Absolutely, again and again, such that I can trust what will follow, the putting back together.

And this putting back together--this reintegration--predictably brings certain common elements, which I can anticipate and appreciate, even before they arrive: humility (the falling backward into the realization that I don't need to convince anyone, least of all myself, that I'm competent or complete or invulnerable); commonality (the awareness that I'm no different than anyone else--same fears, hopes, insecurities); perspective (recognizing that there's not much, finally, that's really important--just love.); gentleness, tenderness, kindness (handling myself and others like I might a kitten or puppy--protecting vulnerability, addressing needs, cradling).

So today may be a day of disintegration of the ego...a thing to be welcomed. Or it may be a day of unexpected integration...a thing to be welcomed. It will be what it will be.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Seeing Beyond the Clutter

I'm reading about Gregory of Nyssa, a 4th century bishop who helped define our understanding of the mystery we call the Trinity. The Catholic Church (and others) regard Gregory as a saint. From what I've learned of him, I'd agree.

It's easy for me to think of previous lives--especially those lived so many centuries ago--as unsophisticated and primitive. Because their physical reach was shorter (they experienced less in terms of travel and exposure to other cultures and ideas), I assume they also journeyed shorter distances in search of the truth. But that's not the case. Observe Gregory of Nyssa, an individual of expansive vision and wisdom, unhampered by the possessions and "privileges" that we have, without Google or Direct TV or a selection of 100 breakfast cereals at his local grocery store. In the ordinariness of his days, was he far freer to experience that which matters? In actuality, he seems to have had far greater freedom than we do, freedom to range to the heavens, to the depths, to the center.

So often, I can't see around or through the stuff that clutters my life; "things" block my vision; "noise" distracts me. Still, when I slow down and allow myself time with the timeless--like the writings of Gregory of Nyssa (or the words of Jesus, the poems of Rumi, the sacred hours)--something does open, and, even if briefly, I catch a glimpse of what lies beyond, beneath, within...

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Romeo Rests in My Arms

Romeo rests in my arms, purring, kneading my neck and face, allowing me to rub his chest, his head, his ears, the line of his jaw and mouth. Heaven for him. Heaven for me. He relaxes into the curve of my arm, the round of my shoulder.

Slowly his purring quiets and stops, his paws no longer reach, push, open and close in the air. His eyes are now shut. He's falling asleep.

I know he's asleep when he starts dreaming--tail twitches, whiskers flick.

What an honor to be so trusted, to be deemed this safe, this secure.

He suddenly lifts his head, eyes open, looking at me, wakened, I assume, by some dream image. I imagine him wondering, "What? Where am I? Ah, I see: I fell asleep in your arms." He may lay back again, or he may roll out of my arms, onto my lap, then pour himself onto the floor

I love these times. One of the few in my days when I'm fully present to the now.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

"If I Were to Seek My Own Glory..."

Jesus: "If I were to seek my own glory, my glory would be worth nothing" (John 8:54).

Yes, that's it exactly. Where did we  get the idea that Jesus would be pleased with us sitting around singing songs about how great he is? Did Jesus ever once encourage that in the gospels?

Had his disciples tried that, I suspect Jesus would have said, "Get off your asses and go do something for someone--feed them, comfort them, heal them--something!"

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

 

Cabo San Lucas

Everything here seems sharper, more intense. There are no grays--it's green (grass green, lime green, plastic-chair green, palm-leaf green), or blue (azure-sea blue, swimming-pool-aqua blue), or red (Spanish-tile red, mosaic-roof orange/red, veined marble red), or yellow (tanager yellow, straw-wall yellow), or white (sharp, clean, crisp, contrast white). The lines are all apparent; nothing blends into the other.

I'm vacationing in a coloring book.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Desolation/Consolation

Desolation and consolation: we cycle through both of these, constantly, endlessly. This is a part of being human.

How does God experience this cycle? Is there also an ongoing divine wheel of loss and rebirth, dissolution and reintegration? Would this not be a necessary part of the nature of God? How could God function in relationship with us if s/he lacked this most foundational of human experiences?

I can imagine God experiences desolation in the unraveling of creation: while struggling to reach the woman drowning in her attic in New Orleans during Katrina, while pleading with both sides to stop the senseless carnage of war, while listening to yet another political ad whose purpose is to distort and twist truth, to win at any cost, sacrificing respect, civility, dignity. God works for good; we--without gratitude or awareness--undo the good. God's own dark night of the soul.

And what about consolation? Where do God's creatures step in and step up? When they embody the Spirit of Christ. When neighbors band together to rebuild each others' homes and broken hearts; when people cross boundaries to listen, learn and find common ground; when humility replaces arrogance, love trumps ego, forgiveness overcomes self-justification; when fists once clenched open and reach out. God works for good; then, with awe and appreciation, we intensify that good. God on the mountaintop. God, once again, surveying creation and summing it up: "Yes, it's very good."

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

I Am

The "I am" statements in the New Testament aren't just about Jesus, they're also about us.

We're each intended to seek and embrace the "essential I," the I within. It's about each of us traveling our own unique path, the journey toward our most authentic, undivided self, which is that part of God within us, the union with Christ described repeatedly in the New Testament, though found using other language in other faiths as well.

Jesus said, "I am the good shepherd." "I am the way, the truth and the life." "I am the vine."

So what are your "I am" statements? "I am the candle." "I am the dog waiting faithfully at the door." "I am the star shooting across the night sky." "I am the baker of fresh, nourishing bread." "I am the autumn wind." Let your metaphoric right brain take over as you brainstorm these statements, then sit with them. In what ways are each true for you?

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

On Journaling

Journaling can be good and healthy and helpful. Journaling can also bog us down.

Some of us journal and rehash all the things that we obsess about anyway, so the journaling is just an extension of our usual mental clutter. This kind of journaling reinforces our negative neural pathways, the very ones from which we'd like to escape.

Some of us journal to establish new, healthier neural pathways, that is, we work toward clarity. Obviously, using journaling in this way is more likely to result in healing and growth.

I've done both over the years. When I look at some of my early writing--what pain! It was exactly that; I could see myself reinforcing the self-pity, the suspiciousness, the anger. It was like a friend reciting the same old litany of complaints I'd heard a hundred times before. "Stop!"

I do a lot less of that now. Now my journal is more likely to celebrate insights, explore new ideas, investigate possibilities and reach more deeply into creativity and joy and wonder.

Even journaling evolves and becomes healthier--a tool for establishing increasingly stable, less reactive, more loving responses. Satisfaction. Peace. Release.

So rewire. Here's to new neural pathways!

Text and image ©

2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.