on accompaniment, attentiveness, and contribution
My mind can be running analysis on my situation (i.e. “This is good, bad, boring, fun, a waste, meaningful, etc.”)…
Or it can be spacious and present.
I’ve come to think of this analysis as a tax on my ability to interact with reality.
This hyper-analysis is often involuntary, but noting it drains it of its power.
Giving up analysis (and so the tax) for a day or a week or longer has the potential to be a deeply freeing experiment.
Making a point is, in the short term, quite fun. With a rhetorical flourish, we spin a narrative about how we see the world. Sometimes, this involves putting someone in their place in a way that activates the defensiveness of their ego (and ours). Little positive change can come from this.
Making a point is different from making a connection.
Making a connection is harder than making a point. It begins with listening. Truly, humbly listening. And then, with prudence and patience, willing the good of another.
Put another way, in order to make a difference in the world, first we must make a connection with a person. This path is far better (and more courageous) than simply making a point.
I’ve spent (that is, wasted) a lot of time in that situation.
Is it possible that you already have the answer you are waiting for as well?
If so, the next thing to do is to act.
A month ago, our family spent a week on a ranch with a group of lifelong friends and their children. As a group of our children scaled a rock wall together (and I became increasingly nervous), I asked another dad how he considers the physical risks that his children take. He responded with the following.
“My wife and I don’t really say ‘be careful’ to our kids because we don’t want them to be fearful, or necessarily careful, as they interact with the world. Instead we say, ‘pay attention.’ We want them to pay attention to their surroundings and how they are feeling at any moment. To be able to assess risk clearly and learn from any situation that they encounter.”
That sounded right to me, and honestly like advice that I should take.
Now, as I remind my children to “pay attention” when they take risks, I am reminded in return of a profound hope for them and for myself. I hope for our ability to attend to the world and the inner life with sensitivity and intuition, rather than with fear.
When our youngest son was about 9 months old (and would wake up very early in the morning), our family spent a few days of vacation just north of San Diego. When our son would wake up, my wife and I took turns putting him in the carrier, leaving the condo, and walking on the pier built a quarter mile out into the Pacific Ocean.
From the pier, even at 6:00am in mid-November, one could easily see a hundred surfers, tiny to our sight, bobbing up and down in the waves. Each time a solid wave would approach them, a few surfers would stand up and take the wave, riding it masterfully to shore.
I often wonder about the difference, in my own life, between mastery and control.
From the pier, the surfers showed us that control of one’s circumstances is not possible, but mastery of those circumstances is beautiful.
Addictions make us think we need more of what, in the end, does not satisfy.
Yes, the obvious addictions, but also the more subtle ones.
Avoidance of necessary or salutary conflict.
Destructive thought patterns.
Status.
Control.
Addictions are a trap, and seeing them with clear eyes is the first step toward freedom.
I am learning German, and so am developing a deep affection for the language’s compound nouns.
Three words combine to make one of my favorites: Fingerspitzengefühl.
Finger is the noun for finger. Spitzen is the verb for to sharpen. Gefühl is a noun meaning sensation or feeling.
Literally, it means “the sensitivity in the tips of one’s fingers,” but is also understood more broadly as intuition or a sure instinct.
So, let’s pray for the grace of Fingerspitzengefühl, in our interior lives, our relationships, and our work. May our attentiveness and compassion be sharpened to be as sensitive as the tips of our fingers.
If the narratives and noise in our heads spin, we can feel anxious and stuck. What is the perfect way forward in this situation, we wonder?
Well, there is never a perfect way. So, best to weigh the options one more time with a trusted conversation partner, and then act.
It may turn out that taking on an experiment or two is an excellent antidote to anxiety.
But sometimes we act like it.
It’s those people that are “good at praying,” we tell ourselves. We can just leave religious experience to them.
This assumption has the tricky disadvantage of being untrue.
The mysterium tremendum is available to all.
(For a glorious reminder of this, reread chapter 1 of The Religious Potential of the Child.)
In our senior year of college, a group of friends began hosting “professor dinners” in which we crowded around a mediocre meal and asked a beloved teacher an impossibly difficult question.
In the final weeks before graduation, three professors were asked, “what is the greatest challenge of our generation?”
The first answered, “the ability and conviction to speak truthfully.”
The second answered, “solidarity with the poor.”
Then, the third answered that “the cultivation of solitude” was to be our greatest challenge.
Wait… the WHAT?
Largely an overzealous, justice-minded bunch, reactions ranged from sceptical acceptance to muffled horror. Didn’t this guy know about the urgency of the struggle for justice?
Of course he knew. But, he also knew that without solitude, we would not be centered within ourselves, be capable of sharing this center with others, or authentically build communities worthy of trust strong enough to bear the challenges of our age.
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