Behind The Scenes?

Sunday morning was so icy that church was cancelled.  So at 10:00 I was tuned in to Joel Osteen on Channel 9.

I am not a “born again” Christian. I am not even sure how much of a Christian I am. I go to an Episcopal church because I started doing that when I was ten in order to sing in the choir—in the same church that I attend now. I think of myself as an Episcopalian/Buddhist. I’ve had wonderful teachers, both Hindu and Tibetan Buddhist; I have participated in numerous Buddhist-led meditation retreats and I read Buddhist literature copiously.

When I was ten and singing at Trinity Episcopal Church, my grandmother was faithfully in the congregation. But my grandmother was a Quaker—she referred to me as “thee” and “thou,” which I loved. There was no nearby Quaker meeting, so she attended her husband’s church. My memories of my grandfather’s presence at church are scant. I think the golf course was his real church—certainly in summer-- just as for my father, the sailing club was his place of faith and spiritual sustenance.

I was ordained in 1981 as an interfaith minister at the New Seminary for Interfaith Studies. The New Seminary was founded by an Hasidic rabbi, Rabbi Joseph Gelberman, who, in my book, was one of the great souls of all time.

His essential message to us during our two years of studying the great religions of the world, was, “Never instead of, always in addition to.”

Why am I going on about this? At seminary I was taught to be inclusive, so although the concept of “born again” may cause me to raise an eyebrow, my admiration of Joel Osteen’s work in the world increases. And, as you may know, Osteen speaks to the world in numbers possibly exceeded only the by the Pope.

Back to last-- the very icy--Sunday. Pastor Osteen began by drawing our attention to “who is behind the scenes?” He talked about all the people who work to produce his widely attended and watched Sunday show. He named all the tasks necessary to create the televised service, reminding us that we can’t see any of those people, that we see only him. But, he acknowledged, they make him look good. Without them, he would not, could not, be speaking to us.

Then he posed some pithy questions: Are we willing to be behind the scenes? Can we happily play our role, even when it is not a lead role? Can we celebrate the success of others even when we believe we might have done just as good a job? 

He went on to challenge us by asking: Whom are we helping to succeed without taking any credit for it? Are we content to be invisible or are we constantly worried about being outshined?

I had been a civil rights activist in Ohio during the ‘70s long before my brother—the TV executive—made the stunning and successful film series called Roots. I had marched, had rotten eggs and tomatoes thrown at me as I lined up publically against block busting. I had strategized in endless basements of African American churches in what we, in Toledo, Ohio, at that time, shamelessly referred to as the “ghetto.” I regularly attended a large African American Baptist church in that “ghetto” for the better part of three years in order to give myself something of the experience of being “an only”---in this case the only white person in a religious culture very different from my own.

Years on various committees: serving on the Toledo Board of Community Relations and chairing the Police/Community relations committee of that board, attempting, along with others, to mediate between the police and the African American community. (That situation hasn’t changed much.)

I’m not complaining. Not one bit. I loved the work, felt committed and determined about it. I met Martin Luther King! But when Roots came out, my brother, in one week, by fighting the fight to produce Alex Haley’s book on film, did more for human rights and equality than any of us in our small, but dedicated, Ohio group could ever imagine.

I had gone to California to watch the first three days of Roots with my very nervous brother. On the way home I had to change planes in Chicago and found myself walking behind three Black “dudes,” decked out in jeans and jackets and boots—common garb now, but not in 1977. One of the guys suddenly raised his arm to look at his watch and I heard him say to the others, “Hey man, we gotta get goin’. We’re gonna miss Roots!”

I knew then what my brother had done and I felt a jolt of envy. Those of us—and there were so many-- who were “boots on the ground” during those years could not come close to accomplishing what he could achieve through his medium. I phoned him immediately from a phone booth to celebrate with him over what I had just witnessed.

Can we play our role even when it’s not a lead role and be truly happy for the larger success of another?

Joel Osteen tells us: “True greatness is not how bright our light shines but how we help others to shine.”

Something to think about.

***

Our thoughts and prayers are with the Ukrainian people as they struggle for autonomy along their border, particularly in the Donetsk region.

Turbulence And Clearance

I have achieved TSA—Transportation Security Administration—clearance. This sounds like a big deal but legally it isn’t. Not compared to the sweeping, national and international travel privilege of Global Entry clearance, but that can only be accomplished by an appointment made at JFK or Logan Airport –where I am never.

I am at JFK sometimes, doggedly headed for a departing plane and I cannot conceive of, at the same time, including an appointment for ID photos, Social Security checks, fingerprinting—all five of them—plus a questionnaire as to my legal/illegal behavior.

So last week friends and I went to the nearby New Haven office to get ourselves cleared for shorter TSA security lines and no shoe removal while traveling within the United States. It seemed better than nothing.

Appointments were not available until February so we took a chance and were walk-ins. And it worked! Having pre-enrolled online, we had already answered the questions as to passport numbers, the permanence of our residence, our lack of prison experience or arrests for various violations. (If we answered “yes” to the prison-related questions, the form politely suggested that we not apply for clearance.)

Luckily for us, some people were no shows and the three of us were fitted into the schedule and processed in two hours.

I was called first in our group and immediately ran into complications. For example, I have had passports under three different names. (Men do not have to deal with this issue.)

In addition, years ago I broke the little finger of my left hand during a sailing race in the UK and it has never completely realigned itself with the other four fingers. To get it to behave properly for the fingerprinting, I had to force it in and against my fourth finger and then press it down hard to straighten it onto the lighted glass plate.

I had handed over all my vital information; I had answered multitudinous questions and I had checked that everything printed out on the huge computer screen in front of me was correct, when,  the nice woman, who had been very pleasant while I struggled to corral my errant little finger, looked up and asked me my social security number.

Blank. I went completely blank. I just stared at her.

Pause.

“You can’t remember it?” She asked.

“No,” I stammered. I was frantically clicking “Search” in my brain and coming up with “No Results.”

My mind whirled. This is it; I am toast. I’ve done all this annoying stuff and now I have failed. I won’t get my pass because I cannot remember the stupid SS number! A bloody “senior moment.” The time and effort wasted. My friends would get their clearance and I was going home embarrassed and empty handed.

“It’s not in my head,” I murmured. “It’s completely gone.”

She sort of smiled and leaned back into her chair behind her enormous desk.

Maybe this has happened before? I wondered, trying to make myself feel better. Maybe I am not the only idiot she has interviewed?

Suddenly a blessed lightening flash of memory: It’s on my Medicare card in my pocketbook. Yes!  But my pocketbook had remained in the waiting room with my friends.

“I have it! I have it!” I cheered, scraping back my chair. “I’ll be right back!”

My blood pressure returned to normal as I held my Medicare card carefully in my left hand and typed the numbers into the black box on the edge of the desk. Twice. (I typed them incorrectly the first time.)

 She hands me the paper; I was cleared.

I tell myself that this mix-up could have happened to anyone, but the truth is, it happened to an already nervous senior citizen who catapulted herself into a peak anxiety experience.

Sigh.

***

FYI: The TSA office is located at 446 Blake St. in New Haven.

Where Were We?

Monday, January 12, Press Secretary Josh Ernest answered a question about America’s failure to send “someone with a higher profile” to the rally of more than a million in Paris that followed the shocking terrorist killings in that city.

“Well, Steve, as I mentioned to Jim, I’m just not going to be in a position to sort of unpack the scheduling planning discussions that we have here. But what I can tell you is that there are some who have suggested that the U.S. presence at the march should have been represented by somebody with a higher profile than the ambassador to France. And I guess what I’m saying is that we here at the White House agree that somebody with a higher profile should have also included.”

 Ernest went on to say that the White House had only thirty–six hours notice in which to arrange security for a top US official to travel to Paris and be present at the rally. Not, of course, he added, that our security people couldn’t have managed it . . . etc. etc.

Forty world leaders made it to Paris.

Let’s see: I wonder how Prime Minister Netanyahu arranged his security? They must move more swiftly in Israel.  

Or, maybe Prime Minister David Cameron could have given us some tips as to how the Brits expedite security. We might then have been able to show up for the single most important international expression for freedom that has taken place in a decade or more.

So much for all the talk about our leadership in the war against terror: all our posturing about solidarity and our commitment to combatting terrorism wherever we find it. What do we do? We allow our Ambassador to take some time out from the office to represent us at this rally.

It didn’t have to be President Obama, not even V. P. Joe Biden. Couldn’t Secretary of State John Kerry or even Attorney General Eric Holder, have been the face of the USA as a concerned partner nation?

What were we thinking? How did we miss this opportunity to SHOW UP? Is the United States government not aware of how arrogant, self-serving and ineffectual we appear to so much of the rest of the world?

Having spent twenty-seven summers in England, I have been   bombarded by these kinds of comments about our country and--- get this---England is our friend!

I am appalled and right now, this week, I have to admit, I'm embarrassed to be an American.

Remaining Open: Even To Kale?

Pema Chodron, the well-known Buddhist teacher, writes that coming into awareness brings us over and over again to moments when we realize we have a choice. “We have a choice to open or close, whether to hold on or let go, whether to harden or soften, whether to hold your seat or strike out. That choice is presented to us again and again and again.”

In every grocery store I go to these days: Stop and Shop, Fresh Market, Balducci’s, Mrs. Green’s, I stare at the healthy, vitamin–laden, leafy greens and I am presented “over and over again” with a choice to make--about kale. 

I have written in the past that as far as I am concerned, the only effective way to tenderize kale is to drive a tank over it.

 If you were really desperate, on a day like the one of this writing, in Connecticut, where the wind chill has rammed the temperature into the teens, you could line your shoes with those thick, ruffle-edged leaves and your feet would be warmer. 

At the same time that I have been expressing my disdain for this popular green that supposedly will grow your fingernails and hair, improve your eyesight, up your kid’s SAT scores, stimulate your digestion and give your skin a youthful glow, I have tried to keep my mind a teensy bit open. I’m not adverse to the idea of stronger bones and a youthful glow. The kale press is really good. I scrutinize baby kale—thinking that a far less intimidating product. 

A couple of months ago I actually bought some baby kale that was mixed in with other spring greens. I found myself chewing that salad endlessly, knowing that if I didn’t reduce the resistant stuff to mush in my mouth, my senior citizen tummy would let me know how foolish I had been to try to be faddish. 

But! Two days ago at Mrs. Green’s shop there was a small bunch of Ocean Mist Farms Organic Lacinato Kale Chou Frise.  (Truly, that is what the label said.) I haven’t a clue what that means, but the kale leaves were not ruffle edged or cardboard-thick and were shaped like Romaine lettuce. 

“We have a choice to open or close.”  

I bought a bunch.

I made a puree of fresh carrots and parsnips with a bit of butter, some Janie’s Mixed Up salt and organic veg stock. I sautéed finely chopped kale in some olive oil for about fifteen minutes—I wasn’t taking any chances—and stirred the softened kale into the pureed vegetables. 

 Amazing: Pretty to look at and delicious.

Choosing to remain open instead of closing, to let go rather than hold on and choosing to soften rather than hardening, is probably more life enhancing than all the kale we can eat. Nonetheless, all those green vitamins? They can’t hurt!
                                                     
                                             ***
Our thoughts and prayers are with the families and loved ones of those who were recently killed in the shocking attack in Paris.

                                              ***
Those of you interested in expanding your understanding of living mindfully, in particular living mindfully with a chronic disease, take a look a my good friend, Jennifer's, new blog:
http://journeythroughmindfulness.blogspot.com

How About Wiping The Slate Clean?

Everyone who gardens and even those of us who don’t, know: you have to prune your plants to keep them blooming, to keep them healthy. We pinch off the old to make room for the new. We want the life juice of the plant to stop nourishing that which is already dead, so we clip to make a clear space for fresh flowers and leaves.

We let go of the old to bring in the new.

And that, it seems to me, is the point of the New Year. Not the ball dropping in Madison Square Garden or the popping of champagne corks--even gathering with friends. Along with the festivities, we could take advantage of this auspicious time to say “goodbye” to  disappointments, bitterness, hurts and anger. Pruning our lives, we can gently release everything that we bear that is fruitless and dead.

Let’s think of opening our hands and hearts and just dropping those heavy bags that we have come to believe constitute a part of our identity. Let’s forgive everyone for perceived and actual slights and let’s forgive ourselves for all the ways that we might have, but didn’t, do things differently.

How about wiping the slate clean, getting rid of those rusty regrets and guilts? We don’t need them. What’s done is done. “Let’s not let our past poison our future.” (Joel Osteen)

 A clean slate all around: Imagine how wonderful that would feel!

I don’t want to carry old “stuff” into the New Year. Not only do I want to travel light, I want to travel with the light, watching for it, opening to it and following it, looking expectantly forward.

How about you? Happy New Year!
                                                     ***

Check out Unleash Potential, offering personal growth groups in Fairfield every third Thursday. Caroline J. Temple and Lisa Jacoby are the compassionate leaders of Unleash Potential and my companions on this journey of reflection and self-discovery. Call Caroline: 203 866 9331for the details of the workshops. Click here for general information:

http://www.unleashpotential.us/events/