please pass me the life in which i live...

I've had this one in the queue for a few days. Sometimes, I start a post...and the ideas, inspirations are there but come out slightly unformed and, therefore, involve a vague stabbing at and overall a mess to clean up. But I think I'll give some energy to shaping this one up.

Today (actually Friday) I saw my life through the eyes of a moving company appraiser. And I didn't at all like what I saw.

Stuff. Stuff. Stuff. I'm drowning. I've seen for quite some time that I can't enjoy the essence of a life lived because...I can't locate it in the mass. Actually, I'm pretty sure it's not even there, at least not in its entirety. Despite the inherent obvious horror of it, the thought of a fire consuming my life of THINGS has sometimes had a 'clarifying' effect: seeing with unencumbered eyes what is truly important. Except for family photos, my mother's paintings...hmmm...and not much else...I could live without most everything. Oh, yeah: and my one favorite outfit. Of course, as always, I may be exaggerating to make a point.

But - immediately - I see the baggage theme as one that requires some essential and deep soul-searching. The weight of things around me is directly related to the weight within.

During our time at Nashotah House seminary, Fr. C. shared a comment made by a professor (and former monk), who would - while divesting/dressing in the sacristy after service - say to someone "Please pass me the hat that I wear." His years of living in community had taught him to expunge the my from his vocabulary, substituting a longish phrase that itself was an icon of a journey of detachment. I was struck to the core by the implications of this some 20 years ago, as I am still now.

What grabs me now is the mound of baggage that comes with the qualifier 'my'. The sweetness of possession quickly sours as the terror of (false) credit or responsibility takes over. The hat is merely the beginning, the point of inspiration. What about...my dog the dog I enjoy (suddenly, I'm not as fearful of losing her)...MY food the food that I eat (the demands of my peculiar needs in this category that daily strangle me are more easily set aside)...my clothes which I not only bought off the clearance rack at Macy's but on perhaps, well maybe only one occasion found as the perfect complement to my personality the clothes I wear (gone is the pressure to conform, live up to, maintain, seek perfection in my - or others - expectations: hey -- simply wear it)... my self which I'm supposed to work hard to reveal in some of my musical endeavors the sometime gift of the Holy Spirit I occasionally and wonderfully undeservedly enjoy (freedom from false self-expectations and pressure). Hmmmmm: MY thirteen years in one place (open hands release this as I hear a sweet mourning dove flying away).

The costly weight of my perceived ownership of internal baggage is to be shrugged off. Amen.

Tonight, the cool Delta breeze wafting over my couch the couch with astonishing though imperfect grace-filled beauty that I caress with gratitude and I don't even care it has sprung a wayward innerspring...brings with it reminders of many cool occasions of sweet dreams in that spot, and lures me to a land of simplicity. Perhaps on a grand journey eastward I shall take with me that couch and that breeze (in spirit, at least)...and no other heavy furniture or inner or outer baggage. Yes, and a heart of gratitude.

"Lift the sash to air the breeze." Patricia Barber

Summer couch in the early 60's