Journal of Sacred Work

We begin to die the day we are silent about things that matter.
-Martin Luther King, Jr.

   PBS has been re-running their great series Eyes on the Prize, chronicling key events in the Civil Rights movement of the 1950s and ’60s. One of my regrets in life is that I didn’t find the courage to join those marchers when I was in college and law school in the ’60s. My reflection about that time caused me to wonder something each of us may ask: Have we changed? Would I find the courage to join a similar kind of march today? Or would I remain "silent about things that matter?"
   In a broader sense, how are we different now than we were, say, five years ago? As caregivers, have we matured in our ability to give love, or have we become more bitter and burned out?…

   What’s surprising is how infrequently most of us ask ourselves these questions. Is it because we are afraid of the answers? As one recent ad for an insurance company says, "Life comes at you fast…" Each day, each hour, each moment sails by. So much of our day may be filled with tasks that we may often find ask, on a given birthday, "Where has the time gone? " And this question may serve to remind us of the importance of the need for quiet reflection our lives.
  Most people tell me they can’t pause to do even the five minute reflections I recommend because they just don’t have the time. But those who are wise enough to take time to meditate each day experience a richer quality of life. Meditation improves our ability to be present. So does the practice of art appreciation. If we find ourselves wondering where all the time has gone, this means we’ve spent way too much time rushing through tasks and way too little time reflecting on the life we are living.
   A century ago, Einstein proved that as an object approaches the speed of light, time actually slows down. In other words, time is not a function of the movement of the hands of the clock.
   We know this in our everyday lives. Boring moments pass with agonizing slowness. Happy times evaporate faster than ice in summer.
   How have we changed? My sister-in-law, Karen (pronounced Car-in, like the Norwegian) Updike is a poet. Her latest book, This Holding On, This Letting Go, was just published by Fireweed Press (click on image to enlarge.) I have seen Karen’s poetry change as she has aged. Her poems become better, stronger, richer with each effort. She has changed, and I hope my ability to appreciate her writing has improved as well, for art appreciation requires reflective pauses.

If growing old means showing more and more
of our essential selves, let me hasten the process!
Let me find the rip cord and the courage to use it!

   What a startling opening stanza. Who but a poet would think it was an advantage to hasten growing old. My daughter tells my wife and I on each birthday that we should be grateful for our age instead of complaining about it because we are, in fact, lucky to have lived as long as we have. She’s right. And
the greatest thing we may learn across life is the courage to be our truest selves. When, as King says, we are silent about things that matter, this may mean that we are turning a blind eye to injustice. In so doing, some part of our soul breaks off and floats away. But we may yet find courage. As Karen writes in the next stanza of this poem, called "On Disappearing Cloaks":

Let me unravel all ruse, all hypocrisy
by which we keep others from knowing us
and us from knowing ourselves.

   Okay, I think I get the part about trying to honest and open to others. But I had forgotten the part about how lying to others can cause us to lie about ourselves so effectively that we no longer know who we are.

Let the nap be worn away, let the patterns emerge,
etched and luminescent, like flowers
in a prized Persian carpet.

   For poets, patterns are never just patterns, they must be illuminated for us as "flowers/ in a prized Persian carpet." What a gift she gives us by helping us sense the prescence of our truest patterns by imagining the particular feel of flowers in a Persian rug. And finally,

Let the cloak become, not shabby, but transparent.
Let our spirits glow, let everyone know
that what they see is what in fact we are.

   Who are we now compared to a month ago, a year ago, a decade ago? How have we changed? Are there patterns we are caught in that we may shed? What kind of courage do we need to find the kind of transparency that will let everyone know who we really are?
   We have all gained a certain comfort hiding within the elaborate cloaks and intricate masks we wear each day. It is hard to be present to many things that matter. It is difficult to speak truth to power.
   Perhaps, today, we can begin to remove these masks, one at a time and, in the process, discover a truth we may have lost sight of on the long road to becoming adults – that underneath all the cloaks and the masks, there is something more beautiful and true than we ever realized.
   And perhaps, on this journey, we may find the capacity not only for greater transparency, but for a deeper ability, as caregivers, to offer to others the love that shines through the transparency of our renewed selves.

-Erie Chapman