Category Archives: Inspiration
“Nixon wears the presidency like a comfortable suit of armor. There is every indication that he will burrow even deeper into its splendid solitude during the next four years . . .” —Hugh Sidey, November 17, 1972
Ten days after Richard Nixon won a whopping 60.7% of the popular vote, LIFE magazine asked the question, “What will Nixon do with it?”
Even though Watergate was already public knowledge, and the country was still engaged in the contentious Vietnam war, a president with that kind of popularity could survive anything, right? At a time when the Cabinet Room was the domain of older white males smoking pipes, Nixon’s presidency appeared unimpeachable.
Sidey wrote, “He [Nixon] has been given almost everything by America─security, education, opportunity, wealth and position. Now he has been given an overwhelming trust and vote of renewal. It is once again Nixon’s turn. This is the turn that really counts.”
Less than two years later, Nixon was out of office, and his place in history secured for all the wrong reasons.
What can we learn from this?
We remember, once again, Martin Luther King Jr’s words: “The arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” We remind ourselves that compassion is more powerful in the long run than security, education, opportunity, wealth and position.
We learn that even the most powerful man in the world has to do the right thing.
A child about 7 or 8 years old enters with a parent.
“Daddy, do they have books about (dinosaurs . . . Lego . . . dolphins . . .),” the child says.
“You’ll have to ask.”
The child slinks behind the parent’s leg. “You ask.”
“No, you go ahead.,” the parent urges. “It’s okay. They won’t bite.”
The child peers out from behind the parent and tentatively makes the request.
We are library staff, so we love both kids and books. We happily lead the child in the right direction.
Last week a scenario exactly like that unfolded right beside me. As I worked I heard a young boy ask his father about a book, and I heard his father tell him to ask me. When the young boy worked up his nerve, he said:
“Do you have The Mysterious Benedict Society?
“Yes!” I said. “Right over here.” We walked together to pick up the book he wanted.
“See?” his father said. “Asking is better than wishing.”
The boy and his father left with the book and I went back to work thinking, What excellent life advice: Asking is better than wishing.
The rest of the afternoon I pondered, Have I been wishing for things without doing the asking? Could receiving those things be as simple as voicing the request?
Something to think about: Asking is better than wishing.
I made the decision. I took the first step. An unforeseen event blindsided me.
Now I’m feeling lopsided and discombobulated.
The decision: Lens exchange eye surgery to improve my vision.
The first step: The operation on my right eye. (They do the left eye next week.)
The unforeseen event: The sudden death of the woman who was the child and youth minister at our church. Sarah was 34 years old, the mother of two young boys.
I am typing this with one eye closed as I deal with the day-to-day of lopsided vision. I’m typing this with eulogies from Sarah’s heartbroken father and husband running in a discombobulated jumble through my mind. I’m typing this feeling like I can’t see clearly and I can’t pin down the best words.
But then, I remember a theme that ran through the reflections on Sarah’s life:
Everyone does what they can.
Maybe writing about feeling lopsided and discombobulated will help someone. I hope so, because for today it’s what I can do.
A theme ran through my conversations this weekend: darkness.
We skied at Mont Tremblant, QC on Friday, swooshing in and around magical tree sculptures created when large wet snow flakes followed quickly after freezing rain.
The mountaintops for miles around glistened with the fairy-like creations. The unusual accumulation on the wires also made the ziplines of the Mont Tremblant Zipline and Tree Course stand out against the clear blue sky. Our skiing friends told us how they had navigated those ziplines on a summer trip. They went on to talk about a different ziplining adventure at the Louisville Mega Cavern where the ziplines run underground. At Mega Cavern brave souls stand on platforms and contemplate leaps into darkness. They must decide on faith to leap, or not, when they cannot see where they’re going.
Darkness is full of uncertainties, but taking the plunge into the mysterious unknown strengthens our faith.
On Sunday morning our minister spoke in her Epiphany reflection about overcoming fear of darkness. She spoke about dualities where one extreme as perceived as being more favourable than another—reason/emotion, adult/child, light/dark—and how we can re-think those perceptions. She referred to the opening paragraphs of Barbara Brown Taylor’s book, Learning to Walk in the Dark, where the author writes about children being summoned back to the family home before dark, the fearful gathering in of loved ones to protect them from that which lurks in the dark. Our minister also talked about how, in the new children’s book The Darkest Dark, Canadian astronaut Chris Hadfield faced his childhood fear of the dark.
Darkness is scary, but when Hadfield learned to embrace darkness as the place of dreams and possibilities, his dreams came true.
“For the first time, Chris could see the power and mystery and velvety black beauty of the dark. And, he realized, you’re never really alone there. Your dreams are always with you, just waiting. Big dreams, about the kind of person you want to be.” —From The Darkest Dark by Chris Hadfield
Later Sunday afternoon, I went to the movie theatre with friends to see Hidden Figures. I don’t remember what led our conversation in the direction of darkness, but somehow the theme reappeared. “I’m not good in the dark,” one friend observed. “I would not be comfortable with that.” A few minutes after that brief conversation, the theatre lights dimmed and we all sat—quite comfortably—in the dark. The darkness made the enjoyment of the movie possible. Without light, the picture was clear, not washed out. Any light—from a cell phone, for example—would have been an unwelcome distraction. At a movie theatre, dark is good, light in the wrong place is bad. At a movie theatre, like a person wielding a flashlight in the dark, the light shines only on what is most important.
Darkness makes us uncomfortable, but it narrows our focus to a sparkling clarity of what’s important in any given moment and let’s us choose where to shine the beam.
At this time of year where I live in Ottawa, Canada we wake up in the morning and prepare for work in darkness. We leave our offices at the end of the day in darkness. We have to work to appreciate the gifts this season of growing light brings to us.
We have to choose gratitude for the faith, for the dreams, and for the focused, sparkling clarity.
“This is success, starting a new day, every day, with freshness and vigor.” —Pamela Wight
On December 31 at 20:17 p.m. my friends and I stood below Canada’s Parliament Buildings and watched the 2017 fireworks that kicked of the celebrations of our country’s 150th year. I said, “One of the things I love about fireworks is they force you to stay in the NOW.”
Don’t blink. Don’t let the mind wander away to other preoccupations. Don’t look away. Stay focused. Stay Present. Stay in the NOW or you’ll miss them.
It reminded me of the post Success NOW that went up on Roughwighting before Christmas. I thought I would share it with you NOW. This is your 2017 success, starting a new year, every year, with freshness and vigour. (I’m Canadian. I have to add the “u.”) 🙂
(Read it to see the NOW clock. You’ll love it.)
I wrote this post in December 2012. I’m re-posting it now, because some of us might have to re-consider our “cats.”
Are you trapped in your traditions? Do they serve you, or do you serve them?
I pondered this question after reading a Paulo Coelho blog piece about an ancient Japanese story, which I will paraphrase here:
A great Zen Buddhist master had a cat. The cat was his constant companion even during the meditation classes he led. When the old master passed away, another disciple took his place and continued to allow the cat to join in meditation. When the original cat died, the disciples missed its presence, so they found another.
Disciples from other regions heard about the cat who attended meditation classes, and spread the story around to others. These disciples believed that the cat was the reason for the greatness of the Zen Buddhist master. Other temples began to bring cats to class.
Eventually, writings began to appear about the importance of cats during meditation. A university professor studied the issue and wrote a thesis about the effects of cats on concentration and energy. Disciples began to believe that cats were essential to meditation.
Soon, an instructor who was allergic to cats decided to remove the animal from his daily classes. Other disciples were aghast and reacted negatively, believing the cat to be essential to their success. But his students made the same progress even without the cat.
Generations passed and, one by one, monasteries began removing cats from meditation. After all, it was a burden feeding all those cats. In fact, students began to study the benefits of meditating without animals. More time passed until “cat,” or “no cat” was no longer a matter of consideration. But it took many years for the full cycle, because “during all this time, no one asked why the cat was there.”
Christmas is one of the most tradition-bound times of the year. Christmas trees, shortbread, gifts, overspending on gifts, turkey, family gatherings, family fights, church services, candles, crèches, Santa, pageants, parties with too much rum eggnog, carols . . . These things have been part of our current version of the holidays for so long we have started to believe that Christmas is not Christmas without them. If we were to suggest not including them, people would react with aghast negativity.
Why are those “cats” in the room? Is feeding them becoming a burden?
Christmas means different things to different people. For me, it recalls the birth of a compassionate movement toward “all is one.” It recalls the birth of a man—an activist—who sought social justice and lived the idea that every person contains the divine spark.
As I meditate my way toward Christmas this year, whether I invite some of those “cats” to join me or not, the movement toward “all is one” by all of us divine sparks continues regardless.