Any time I am in the
neighbourhood, I see him there. On the pavement of the courtyard of the
nursing home. So far, in every season of the year. In today's
almost-spring morning chill, with a blue toque, grey sweatshirt, yellow plaid
scarf, black pants and grey full-back slippers.
Sitting in a
wheelchair. A gentle and still presence, quietly attentive to all that is
around him. An old man with a beard worthy of Santa Claus, and a manner
maybe worthy of God.
He takes an occasional drag
of a cigarette, but that hardly seems his reason for being out
there.
Maybe ten or fifteen feet
from his chair, a scattering of broken bread pieces. Every day. And
him quietly watching the coming and going of the birds that he
feeds. I have never been there early enough actually to see him do the
breaking and scattering. I just believe he does.
He also looks for, and
follows the movements of any and every squirrel that comes into and through his
field of vision. Patiently following every stutter-step and burst of
speed.
When people happen by, he
nods and says hello. Chats a few minutes.
Today he also sees and keeps
an attentive eye on the Cogeco service van parked just off to one side of him,
blocking and interrupting part of his normal field of vision. Or does he maybe just see
the van as, this day, what fills this part of his field, and thereby earns his
attention?
The grace of his gaze.
I am tempted to wonder what
he thinks. How he feels.
More deeply, I wonder at how
his quiet, attentive, daily presence draws me into a quiet space of my
own. And helps me see. And accept. And deep down peacefully
know myself within a landscape of gracious connected-ness.
I am thankful for him.
She was a few machines over from me. On one of the stationary bikes, talking with a friend standing nearby. Remembering my own age, I assumed she was in her seventies.
And when I heard what she was saying, I thought I had her pegged.
She was telling her friend about a play she saw at Theatre Aquarius the night before -- that some of her companions gave up on at intermission, at which she stayed to the end only to get her money's worth. It was "The Invisible Hand" -- a story of a kidnapped American banker held for ransom in Pakistan, who has to earn his freedom by helping his captors with his financial know-how. It's apparently not an easy play to watch.
And my friend (I don't know her name. She doesn't know mine. We have never talked. Why do I suddenly call her "my friend"?) was telling her friend that the play was simply "too dark" for her taste, which set them both to wondering and lamenting at the change in theatre from lighter fare to more heavy, controversial, "thought-provoking" stuff.
I thought I had her pegged. I began to see myself as somehow superior for liking the darker stuff. I prided myself on my restraint in not making any comments, and just keeping out of the conversation.
But then I began to wonder.
I realized she was, actually, quite self-aware in the way she straightforwardly admitted to her friend that she likes to go theatre for something light and enjoyable. And I had to ask myself, what's wrong with that?
And then came the real surprise. From theatre, this seventy-something woman's conversation moved on to cars, and why she bought the one she did, and the relative merits (including engine size and accessories) of the Honda CRV and HRV ("There are two Honda RV's?" I found myself wondering) and some Subaru I have never heard of. Then on to the newset cell phones and what they have to offer (again something I do not understand at all). And then to the new leader of the Ontario Progressive Conservatives and his relative weaknesses and strengths against the platforms and leaders of the Liberals and New Democrats.
In other words, that seventy-something woman on the stationary bike left me in her dust.
By this time I was over on the treadmill, and beginning to despair that I don't know nearly as much as she does. Nor about as many things.
I wondered if I would ever know that much, no matter how old I live.
And then I began to wonder about maybe the thing that really counts.
Why don't I just stop comparing and wondering how I measure up, and just open my ears and my mind and no doubt my heart, to be happy to listen and learn what someone else might have to tell me?
Recently a number of books and research projects have been exploring the role of luck in success. The findings seem to be that while talent, hard work, passion and creative commitment are all important to success, luck is a very big factor in the actual distribution of success.
One study, in fact, found that "in general, mediocre-but-lucky people were much more successful than
more-talented-but-unlucky individuals. The most successful [persons in the study] tended
to be those who were only slightly above average in talent but with a
lot of luck in their lives." (From https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/beautiful-minds/the-role-of-luck-in-life-success-is-far-greater-than-we-realized/)
While not discounting my own role in the successes and failures of my life, somehow this finding does seem to diminish somewhat my tendency to compare my success or failure relative to others, and to draw moral conclusions (usually negative about myself) about myself in comparison to others.
I wonder also -- going a little more theoretical and big-picture for a moment, if it reveals the lie in the Protestant work ethic that has so shaped our society over the last few centuries -- the teaching that God (or life or society, if you are not overtly religious) rewards those who work hard, and that we earn (and therefore deserve, and deserve to keep and use as we wish) all that comes our way.
When we consider the pride that this ethic can generate in the lives of those who are successful, and the self-loathing, bitterness, depression and anger it can nourish in the hearts of those who are not successful, it makes me wonder at how much our religion can be part of the problem.
But also at how religion -- re-examined and carefully understood and practiced, can also be part of the answer.
This morning I came across this passage quoted from the Qur'an 4:36:
Serve God and do not associate any thing with God, and do something beautiful to both your parents, and to the near of kin, and the orphans, and the needy, and the neighbour who is near and the neighbour who is farther away, and the companion by your side, and the traveller, and those whom your right hands possess; surely God does not love the one who is proud, boastful.
The Jewish Scriptures say the same thing. In fact, the commandments to care for the orphan, the widow and the alien are the most-repeated commandments in the Old Testament.
The Christian ethic is no different.
And even the scientific mind comes to a similar conclusion. The article cited above ends by noting that "the researchers argue that the following factors are all important in
giving [all] people more chances of success: a stimulating environment rich in
opportunities, a good education, intensive training, and an efficient
strategy for the distribution of funds and resources."
I wonder if what's different, though, because of the research about the role of luck in life and in the success anyone has, is that we now have reason to see the redistribution of resources (i.e. better sharing of what people have) not so much as good-hearted charity by those who have, but as simple, humble honesty about what and how we have.
Well, I guess I no longer have to wonder when I'll first miss my Wednesday deadline!
Where on Earth did this week go? And how did it get to be Thursday evening already?
And where did the Olympics go? All week Japhia and I have spent a few moments each evening looking together at the empty TV screen, lamenting the end of the nightly feast of what great things men and women are capable of.
I wonder, what did you see of heroic humanity? What lingers in your mind from the 17-day buffet of human achievement?
Did you see, for instance, the moment in the decisive sixth end of the gold-medal game of mixed-doubles curling, when after struggling through uncharacteristic nervousness and errors in the early game, John Morris passionately urges Kaitlyn Lawes on what ended up being the game- and medal-winning rock, to sweep "hard, Kaitlyn ... hard, Kaitlyn ... harder, Kaitlyn." And she did. And they won.
Or the much-anticipated perfect final skate by Scott Moir and Tessa Virtue, which they actually delivered for all the world to see?
Or the powerful final skate of Kaetlyn Osmond that won her a bronze medal only three years after planning to quit competitive skating because of injuries?
Or maybe something like the sight of the skeleton racers -- athletes sliding down an iced track at more than 100 kms/hour lying head-first on their stomach, unprotected save for a crash helmet, on the merest little sled that would barely hold a ten-year-old?
And do you also remember some of the commercials? Like the one about the young woman born without complete legs, and the way in which the odds against her becoming a world champion downhill skier diminish and keep diminishing through miracle after miracle of the human spirit until she truly does become a champion?
Or the one about a young gay man who comes home to his mom with a figure skating flourish and a black eye he suffered at the hands of others who could not accept him, and a young woman wearing a hijab and ostracized for it by the other girls in her skating club, and the boy with a prosthetic foot struggling to be one with the other speed-skaters? All of whom maintain their passion, and win their chance and their place in the light?
It is amazing what the human spirit -- what we, are capable of, individually and together.
Sadly, no more Olympics until the summer of 2020 and the winter of 2022.
But I wonder what will remain between now and then on the daily table of my life? And what images and visions of true achievement and what glory of real humanity from the past few weeks will persist and be incarnated in my own days and nights of human-divine-olympian living?
