How We Surrender

I have heard human relationships described as being akin to mineral fragments tumbling around together in a drum. As we bump up against each other, we remove the sharp edges from ourselves and others. The polishing process can be unsettling and even painful, but since we can't avoid it unless we establish an eremitic way of life, then we had best make our peace with it. How we surrender depends upon our temperament.

Once there were three monks who lived together in a monastery, having taken a vow of silence. After ten years of communal living, one monk arose during their breakfast and overturned his bowl, shouting, "I hate oatmeal!" No one answered. The monk cleaned up his oatmeal and they resumed their usual routines. Ten years after this, a second monk arose during breakfast and announced, "Well, I like oatmeal." Again, there was no response, and the three monks went about their ways in silence for a further ten years. Then, the third monk arose during breakfast and declared, "I'm leaving! I can't stand this constant bickering!"

Once there was a woman who lived in a very small house with a large number of children. Her children were demanding and mischievous, and she was continually exhausted from the work of caring for them. So she went to her rabbi to ask for advice. He listened to her complaints and then he asked, "Do you have any chickens?" "Yes," the woman replied. "Then, my advice is that you take the chickens from the henhouse and bring them into the house with you and the children." The woman thought this an odd recommendation, but she had confidence in the rabbi, so she did as he said. The next week she returned to see him again. "The children are no better, and now I have the hens to watch over. I never know when I might be about to step on an egg, and they are noisy and messy." "Hmm," said the rabbi. "Do you have a goat?" "Yes," answered the woman. "Then, my advice is that you move the goat from his pen into the house with you and the children and the hens." From one strange idea to another, thought the woman, but she had no other plan, so she did as he said. A week later she returned. "The children are teasing the goat, and the hens are eating all our grain, and the goat has chewed up my curtains," she told the rabbi. "Hmm," he said. "Do you have a cow?" "Yes," answered the woman. "Then, my advice is that you bring the cow into the house with you and the children and the hens and the goat." Stranger and stranger, thought the woman, but by now she was ready to try anything, so she did as he said. One week later, she pounded on the rabbi's door very early in the morning. "I am sorry to bother you, but things have become impossible," she sobbed. "The cow's milk has gone sour and the hens' eggs are all cracked, and the goat ate an entire bushel of cabbages. The children are taking advantage of the confusion. I can't hear myself think and the smells are intolerable!" "Then," said the rabbi, "I think you are ready for the next step." "And what may that be?" asked the woman irritably, for by now she was becoming dubious of the rabbi's good judgment. "Return the cow to the barn, the goat to his pen, and the hens to the henhouse," he directed. "Then come back and see me in one week." She did as he advised, so tired that she moved as one in a dream. A week later she knocked on the rabbi's door. "Come in, my dear," he invited kindly. "Tell me the news." "The children are just as unruly as ever, but it is so much easier taking care of them without the hens and the goat and the cow in the house, that I feel my life has become much easier," the woman replied. "Wonderful!" twinkled the rabbi. "And remember, when you wish to complain . . . things can always get worse!"

Once there was a parrot who lived in a golden cage inside the garden of a palace. He was the king's favorite. For a parrot, he lived a luxurious life, with a silken pillow, delicate morsels to eat, nectar to drink, and the most beautiful soft tinkling windchime hung near his cage for his special entertainment. The king would often take the parrot out of his cage to admire his beautiful plumage and his lordly posture, to stroke him and tell him secrets that no one else knew, not even the queen. But the king was very jealous of the parrot, and did not like anyone else to take him out of his cage. He had entrusted the parrot's care to a special guard who had no other duties than oversight of the parrot. The parrot never left his cage unless the king held him by a golden tether. But despite all the honors and comfort of his existence, the parrot seemed despondent. He hung his head and gazed at his feet all day, and he seemed to take no joy in the delicious food and drink provided for him. One day, the king whispered to the parrot, "I wish I knew something to make you happy." "I miss my family in the jungle," replied the parrot. "I would like to hear from them." "I will send a messenger to take them your greetings," promised the king. "The messenger will bring back news of them to you." As good as his word, the king sent a trusted courier into the jungle the very next morning. The courier took the parrot's greetings to the large flock of parrots which he found there, fluffing their feathers and stretching their wings in the midday sun. But as soon as he delivered the greetings from the palace parrot, every member of the flock fell to the ground like a rock, and they all lay there dead. Shocked, the courier returned to the palace. He tried to tell the king in confidence what he had seen, but the king gave him a hearty greeting and said, "Tell the parrot at once! He has been waiting for your return since dawn!" So the courier, in a low voice, said "When I gave your parrot's greeting to the flock, they at once all dropped down to the ground like rocks and lay there dead." The king was shocked. He looked at the parrot to see his reaction. At once, the parrot dropped down dead inside of his cage. More and more distressed, the king called for a golden pillow and a silver casket. "We will bury the parrot with all the honors of royalty," he instructed. "He has been a true and loyal friend." When the servants removed the parrot from his cage and placed him on the golden pillow inside the silver casket, the parrot spread his wings and flew to the top of the garden gate. All of a sudden, the entire flock of parrots appeared just beyond the palace walls. The king, torn between rage and sorrow at the departure of his favorite, cried out, "Why have you deceived me?" "It is my nature to be free," replied the parrot. "My family showed me the way when they dropped down as though they were dead. Now I will join them and return to my rightful home."

Surrender, in three stories. Hope you enjoyed them.

Liberty and Limits

Architect Frank Lloyd Wright repeatedly advised his students, "Limits are an artist's best friend." So writes Roger van Oech in his book on creativity, Expect the Unexpected or You Won't Find It.


The William Wordsworth sonnet "Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent's Narrow Room" conveys the same idea:

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:

In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.



Is it a surprise that artists and thinkers about creativity should salute the value of limits? Often, we observe creative people throwing off limits, reserving the right to behave however they wish, accepting no refusal from the heavens. Walt Whitman's manifesto Song of Myself announces the liberties he was prepared to take: "I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."

Limits would seem to be anathema to creativity. But if we choose a limit, what kind of limit is it? "The prison unto which we doom ourselves," observed Wordsworth, "no prison is." This reflection adumbrates the conclusion of French author and philosopher Albert Camus, who described the everlasting punishment of Sisyphus, to push a boulder up a mountain, only to have it roll down to the bottom, requiring him to push it up again. The freedom of Sisyphus, suggested Camus, confronted with what the author considered the absurdity of life, lies in his decision whether to struggle against his fate or to embrace it. The contemporary advice "Never let 'em see you sweat" is another way of expressing this point of view. Some individuals undergoing tremendous strain or challenge respond to the routine greeting "How's it going" by responding, "Can't complain." Or, in the words of Whitman, again from Song of Myself, "I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious, Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy . . ."

There is a strength that we can find in the depth of our being when we refuse to complain; accept apparent limitation through our ability to see the beauty in it; and encourage other people by testifying to the splendor of life. Limits are the artist's best friend because they challenge him/her to mine hitherto unknown reaches of inspiration, ingenuity, and creativity.

It takes courage to be happy, a friend once told me. How did she figure that out so early in life? Maybe she was finding the freedom within her limitations.

Time Stands Still

In Michigan, the first spring days of warm weather let loose a sea of visitors to garden centers, clouds of smoke from all the grilling that's going on outdoors, and casual viewing of hundreds of freshly-pedicured toes that have not been seen publicly since October. In the rush to embrace the season of warmth, outdoor living unencumbered by coats, boots, and hats, we try to fill every moment with activities clearly identified as summertime things, lest the season get by us unmarked.

But by early August, summer is established. Heat reigns; summertime stands still. The garden flowers are in their multihued glory; we are surfeited on hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled vegetables and wild salmon; some women, secure in their golden-tanned beauty, are going more days between leg shavings. Corn, fresh tomatoes, and sunflowers spill out of bushel baskets at the farmers' market. Pool parties, county fairs, picnics, and ice cream socials proliferate. We relax into the eternal aspect of summer.

That is, some of us relax into the eternal aspect of summer. Others express their particular fears in anxious phrases: "The summer is almost over," "It's gonna get cold again all too soon," "It'll be time for school to start before you know it," this last often accompanied by a dire look. In this northern clime, we know the cycle of seasons. We can all predict the snow, the ice, the northerly winds, the bitter cold. But what's the point of invoking them now?

I remember a spiritual that I learned years ago, singing in a gospel choir: "The Storm is Passing Over." Its first line is imperative: "Encourage my soul." "Encourage my soul," it directs, "and help me journey on; though the night is dark, and I am far from home." I respond with delight when someone says an encouraging word. And when they predict trouble or pain or loss, I don't know what to say. If I say, "Yes, winter is right around the corner," I inauthentically join in the chorus of doom; but if I say, "Oh, come on, enjoy the summer while it's here!" then I sound unfriendly. My default response of late is a drawn-out "Yesss," meant to convey something like "Thank you for communicating with me. I have heard you and, with respect, I prefer to voice no opinion."

Another word for time standing still is eternity. When we experience the present, we momentarily stand outside the cycle of cause and effect, change and loss, living and dying. When we are present to what is right in front of us, not regretting the past nor fearing the future, we have found the answer that confounds any question. It is from this vantage point that our anxieties are quieted, creativity is released, and hitherto unknown qualities of our personality emerge. Early August in the north is a precious time because it invites this presence. It is friendly, still, peaceful, abundant, replete with deliciousness for all five senses. I have the sense of enough. There is enough sun, warmth, beauty, life, light. In those moments when being present fills me as a kind of satisfaction, it even seems that I have enough time, a sense that I enjoy rarely. There is enough, and more than enough.

The old spiritual concludes, "Thanks be to God, the morning light appears. The storm is passing over; the storm is passing over; the storm is passing over, hallelu." When time stands still because we are present to what is, because everything is perfect in that moment, the storm of anxiety, fear, and rage that often consumes us has passed over. Hallelu, indeed.