Making Small Adjustments

Last week I took a day of retreat at Transfiguration Lodge up in the Litchfield Hills. I was hoping I'd wake up in time to see the sun rise, a spectacular sight over the acres of bare trees adjacent to the Lodge. And I did. The moon was still out, the snow on the branches.

Snow covered trees at dawn with the moon in the sky

 As I sat with my coffee I saw a lone squirrel try to walk over a branch and he slipped a little--the squirrel had to adjust to the snow by traveling upside down instead of right side up. It was a small adjustment so that he could find a bare place to hold on. And it was amazing how instinct took over and he knew to move upside down in order to travel.

Sunrise with icicles, Transfiguration Lodge

Later I was struck by how in yoga practice we're told to "make small adjustments" in the body so that a pose is more comfortable or more challenging.

Making small adjustments in life--adjusting how we cope with snow or how we cope with life's bigger challenges--is so essential. It's a wonderful skill that helps us keep our balance. It's nice to have been reminded of it by both a squirrel and a yogi.

Kudos to the AMNH

We were so deeply impressed by the quality of the information at the Dinosaur exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History.  Over and over exhibit commentaries were written in perfect accord with the Scientific Method, drawing careful conclusions and taking pains to explain why this or that assumption was not a legitimate conclusion based on measurable data.  And yet they stated quite unequivocally that our modern birds are direct descendants of dinosaurs, continuing their evolutionary line.  This was justified because of paleontological research in the last couple of decades that has proven this once controversial hypothesis.  Great writing and respectable science.  Kudos, AMNH.  See you again soon.

Unvarnished Awe

Last Saturday Barry and I traveled to the American Museum of Natural History on Central Park West.  It was my yearly pilgrimage to the Butterfly Room at the museum.  It's a small conservatory, complete with flowering plants, bright Grow Lights and extremely high humidity.  And there are about 600 butterflies at any one time just flying around and sipping nectar and being beautiful.  This is as close to the tropics that you can get without actually taking the time to fly there.  It always boosts my spirits in the winter and makes me feel like I had a real vacation.

About a decade ago I went there for the first time.   I happened to have on a bright yellow sweater.  A huge fluorescent blue butterfly (a Blue Morpho) flew over to me and stayed on my sweater for about 15 minutes.  It was glorious. Ever since then I've worn yellow to that exhibit.  And this past Saturday I was fortunate enough to have 2 butterflies on my shoulder for a while.

Look closely!  She's there!

But the best part of the trip to the Butterfly Conservatory came toward the end of our visit.  Near the exit door the people were gathering to watch a little baby--maybe 3 or 4 months old at the most.  He was the picture of rapture, just staring at these butterflies all around.  His eyes went wide, his body stiffened, he kicked and moved his arms.  It was a dance of awe and self-forgetting.   I want to be like that in prayer, overtaken by awe and self-forgetting.

Measuring Success

It all seems so pointless to get caught up in feeling good about a day if everything is accomplished by nighttime.  All the emails are read and responded to, pastoral calls made, people encountered, liturgies celebrated, paperwork taken care of, thank-you notes written.  It never ends:  what's the point of trying to measure success by whether or not we've finished all these things--because they never end?  Surely there is another measure.  How about considering successful a day in which we could be truly present to the people who walk into it?

William Holman Hunt, "The Light of the World,"  reproduction

For each person carries Christ within; being present to each person means being present to God.  Surely the shape of our lives and our ministries will look different if we can live in this way, not ticking off the to-do list items, but instead taking time, being with, treating each person as Christ.

A Stone, A Leaf, an Unfound Door

Thomas Wolfe, 20th Century novelist, rhapsodic on our constant search for grounding, presence, and hope . . . seek the light and go beyond.  Wolfe writes in the prelude to his novel Look Homeward, Angel:

A stone, a leaf, an unfound door; 

Of a stone, a leaf, a door.

And of all the forgotten faces.

Naked and alone we came into exile.

In her dark womb 

We did not know our mother's face; 

From the prison of her flesh we have come 

Into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison 

Of this earth.

Which of us has known his brother? 

Which of us has looked into his father's heart?

Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? 

Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone? 

O waste of loss in the hot mazes, lost, 

Among the bright stars 

On this most weary unbright cinder, lost! 

Remembering speechlessly 

We seek the great forgotten language, 

The lost lane-end into heaven, 

A stone, a leaf, an unfound door.

Where?  When?

O lost, and by the wind grieved,

Ghost, come back again.

Beehives and Inspiration

Here is a poem I love--written by Antonio Machado, the Spanish poet, who died in 1939.  The translator is American poet Robert Bly.  Pay attention to those bees!

Sweet honey from my old failures

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a spring was breaking

out in my heart.

I said: Along which secret aqueduct,

Oh water, are you coming to me,

water of a new life

that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that I had a beehive

here inside my heart.

And the golden bees

were making white combs

and sweet honey

from my old failures.


Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a fiery sun was giving

light inside my heart.

It was fiery because I felt

warmth as from a hearth,

and sun because it gave light

and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that it was God I had

here inside my heart.

Bucharest Dogs Are Smart!

On our trip to Romania in October we saw lots of feral dogs--lying around in parks, walking all over Bucharest and the countryside, singly and in packs.  During the day they are pretty quiet but at night they hang out in packs and make quite a ruckus now and then.  Thousands of people get bitten each year--you gotta keep your distance.  Bucharest officials are trying to keep down the dog population by catching and neutering dogs--then marking them with a tag in their ears to let them know they've had "the treatment."  Here is one such pooch, with a tag in his/her ear:

I thought these dogs were really smart:  often at crowded crosswalks we saw them lining up with the humans waiting to cross at the lights.  Then when the "green man" lit up and the humans crossed, the dogs did too . . . quite amazing, learned behavior.

But then my daughter Chloe said that the dogs of Romania don't even begin to compare to the ones in Moscow:  there they have learned how to sneak up on people to make them drop their food . ..  and they've learned how to commute into the city during the day, and out again at night.

One thing is troublesome though--where do these dogs go in the bitter cold of winter?  Perhaps they congregate in the subway tunnels that aren't quite so cold as the streets above . . . or ride the trains all day??