Two weeks with something like 12 significant final papers due.
I call it Turabian Nights.
“From the day we set out on our journey there has been no place to seek….Student and master have never been separate, never. And yet we must journey to reunite them.” – Daijaku Judith Kinst
A brief update from seminary…
I have long thought that all the people and religions of the world have laughably little that separates them. Of course you could rightfully say there is nothing laughable about the shitty behavior we perpetrate in the name of our religions, but early in my theological studies at seminary, I am heartened by the similarities I find in all of the major faith traditions.
In preparing for an upcoming intensive on Hinduism I am reading the Bhagavad Gita. “Song of God” is what Bhagavad Gita means. How beautiful, no?
Here is a quote from the forward that Aldous Huxley wrote in 1944 (During World War Two) for the version I’m reading. Huxley was an English writer and pre-eminent intellectual of the early 20th century.
“There will never be enduring peace unless and until human beings come to accept a philosophy of life more adequate to the cosmic and psychological facts than the insane idolatries of nationalism and the advertising man’s apocalyptic faith in Progress towards a mechanized New Jerusalem….”
“….happily there is the Highest Common Factor of all religions, the Perennial Philosophy which has always and everywhere been the metaphysical system of the prophets, saints, and sages. It is perfectly possible for people to remain good Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, or Moslems [sic] and yet to be united in full agreement on the basic doctrines of the Perennial Philosophy.”
Huxley published a book titled The Perennial Philosophy as a comparative study of the mysticism from Eastern and Western religions about this same time. I presume he found them to all be speaking of the same thing. Hmm… I think that’s where I started this post?
Guess that’s one more book for the reading list.
Later, my friend.
I’m in seminary.
This is from the “Andy’s Hangups” file:
I had to look up the word Minister today after someone called me one.
I almost said, “well F you too!” but noticed she didn’t seem to think it was an insult.
Turns out, minister can be a verb that means “to give service or aid to someone.”
In other contexts, it can be a political representative or government functionary, i.e. “Minister of Education, or Minister of Magic.”
Disclaimer *This is my blog, and as such, is a repository for my take. My thoughts and opinions are just that - my own. I come in peace, and am doing my best to make sense of it all just like you are*
I thought it meant sweaty, hypocritical asshole.
I promise I’m trying here. When will I be discovered as a fraud?
I just want to make the world a little better place and understand why we’re here.
Why I thought learning religion might help, I have no idea. That certainly wasn’t my experience with it growing up.
Until next time… Gotta go learn about how to preach.
p.s. I don’t actually think this about all ministers. I took a little license to illustrate a point. I have serious hangups around language. I feel like some words have been taken from me – from all of us, really. I’m in the midst of a journey to try to reclaim them. Am I alone in this?
This post is from my latest newsletter.
As I’m working on my book (round 2), I have begun to focus my efforts and my writing over at Prolificate.com.
I still plan to post here now and then, but this site is reserved for whimsy, random musings, and other inanity.
Meanwhile, I hope you’ll head on over to Prolificate and try my newsletter. You’ll be the first to get book updates, and you’ll have the opportunity to weigh in with your thoughts – you may even make it into the book. If you think I’m a complete idiot, tell someone! You can both have a laugh at my expense. Seriously, feel free to share.
I post about once a week about things like The Journey, Figuring out what you are really here to do, and tapping into the soul of your business to really make it great.
Here’s the article. Enjoy.
“Question: Is it better to stay in my soul-sucking job for the money and the security? My family is counting on me, and I do have some friends at this job and people that I like there–or should I quit and feel better, but give up the security and the money? Which is better–soul or security?”
I ask you the same question. Which is better–soul or security?
I left a six-figure salary almost 2 years ago for exactly this kind of reason. This year, I’ll be extremely lucky if I earn more than fifteen thousand dollars. The book I was writing turned out to be good practice, but the manuscript just wasn’t good enough or focused enough, so I threw it out.
Now I’m working on the chapter outline for a new book: Startups with Soul. It’s about the real secret to success–that secret sauce that some organizations just seem to have. That secret is soul. Just like an individual can have one, so can an organization. If fact, all organizations do have one. The best ones intuitively know this and embrace it.
Like my friend on social media, I knew that the jobs I’d held in the past weren’t me. They were perfectly good jobs–great even, at times, but while I made the big salary and the decisions for someone else’s company–someone else’s dream, I found that I was too comfortable. There was always a gnawing in my gut and a little voice in my ear that I tried hard to ignore. I filled my life with a hectic schedule, luxuries, and as many distractions as I could muster, but every now and then, when I was alone with myself and the background noise died down enough, I would hear that voice. The voice would say things like: “Come on, man, you’re better than this.”, and “Andy, the world needs the whole you–not this sanitized bullshit version that spouts off the same things everyone else spouts off about.”
I didn’t weigh in on my friend’s dilemma. I started to, but backspaced and deleted my response. It would have been just more spouting off about how important it was for him to listen to his inner voice and follow his dream.
Instead, I just read his post and smiled a knowing smile.
I can’t tell him what to do. Part of the process that I call finding your soul is about deciding when to fight like hell for your dream–for your vision, and when to just swim with the current and marshal your strength. He’ll figure it out for himself. I hope he does at least listen to that voice and hear it out. He can then make a conscious decision about how he will live his life. That–the conscious decision part–is the essence of the journey.
I’ll be rooting for him and cheering him on from halfway across the United States either way.
In the meantime, I’ll keep writing until the savings runs out or I crack this particular code. Either way, knowing you’re along for the ride with me is so very cool.
Someone please remind me of this when I’m on stage (Hopefully in the slot right before Seth Godin) giving my TED talk about Startups with Soul, Business with Soul, or how I lived for 2 years on rice and beans.
-What is your soul here to be?
p.s. My friend later deleted that post. Letting the world really see you is a scary thing.
p.p.s I do also enjoy the occasional cold beverage in addition to rice and beans. A man’s got to retain some semblance of dignity, no?
These photos are from a recent trip I took to an amazing conference. Rethinking Everything is equal parts Burning Man, SXSW, and TED – with the central theme being children (specifically, most attendees are Unschooling families).
Weird enough for you? It was freaking AWESOME.
Click on the photos to enjoy them full size.
This is the Ferncliff labyrinth at the CA Vines 4H Center near Little Rock. You can read the moving story behind its creation here. Suffice it to say that it’s nearly impossible to complete this journey without feeling something powerful.
The original (temporary) labyrinth was part of a healing retreat for victims of the 1998 Jonesboro, Arkansas school shootings.
The Columbine H.S. shootings happened the following year.
Students from the first retreat asked Ferncliff if they could reach out to the victims at Columbine to help them heal.
The following summer, students and alumni came together to complete the permanent labyrinth.
Stones were brought from each school, as well as other sites affected by violence, including Bosnia.
The stones are still here. They remain – Physical symbols of the grief the victims left behind them.
Healing begun, the children laid their burdens down and left this place.
The stories, grief, and beautiful healing are still here too. Soft whispers and cool wafts of human spirit and emotion are actually alive in the labyrinth.
You can feel all of this in the air. All you have to do is walk this path…
Quiet. Calm. Serene.
What grief do you carry like a stone?
What difficult path do you walk?
What healing do you need?
This oasis of comfort in the Arkansas woods spoke to me. I left a stone too.
The CA Vines 4H Center waiting for you when you finish…
The perishing green of May,
That knows not
Its due price for time spent
And all because it lives so
Can learn no lesson from
Which might seek to warn the
This post is an installment in my 30 day writing project called “This moment” – where I put pen to paper and write whatever comes to mind starting with the statement This Moment… If you want to know more, this post explains a little more what I’m up to.
This moment I am thinking of you, friend. How our friendship is like a dance. The way you dance with me. Unsure of each other, yet kind and knowing it so we continue to walk trusting that each will step when it’s time to step, stand when it is time to stand and sway when it’s time to sway. Friends are like Ansel Adams cacti on the landscape. All around with arms stretched wide so to catch me when I fall, but not without their thorns. Precious few at times, but they let me give voice to the scary bits, never judging, always knowing they’re there. The warmth of their presence reminds me that all is well with creation, with the universe. I honor the arms and I love them for their thorns that make be bleed.
And what is this universe, if not a web of friendships? Relationships at least, but who is the judge of a relationship and its name? I say, I am friend to that mosquito who just took my blood so that she may walk her path as I must mine. The tree that shades my Florida house in the relentless July sun? She is my friend. The Sun is my friend too, I need her, but have been hiding when she comes to call. Too much, I say. Overbearing. Oppressive her friendship. I’ll need her again though, so I take her call though it pains me.
The man who hurts me – is he friend too? I think yes, though I feel the thorns more than the arms. What about tougher stuff? Fire? Rapists? Can we be friends? Space that is vacuum and inhospitable to me would blow me apart. Is it my friend too? What is my relationship with all of this?
I think that I am here in this form to learn something, to accomplish something. I am in this body so that I may have arms to catch someone else falling. Who shall I lift up? Myself? “Charity starts at home,” the saying goes, but my elbows are wrong for that. These arms are made to hold another, not their owner. Is there a god? If so, would She be so cruel or so loving as to create us with arms that only bend to hug another? I can touch and pat my own back, but it isn’t the same. A dance with you, my friend, always feels right.
I’ve stepped on toes as I’ve danced, I’ve stood and sweated and smelled and made bad conversation while life’s music played. My cactus arms are thorny as any. I’ve been clumsy dance partner to many. Here I am though–Black tuxedo, navy blue socks, pilled white shirt and a smile – ready to dance with you. Will you dance with me? It may be our last chance, though I may see you again as a cactus. Will you remember me then? Ansel did.
This moment I’m exhausted, wrung out. I’m tired like you don’t feel that often. Neck, eyes, fingers, all of it.
Outside my window is laughing at me. It’s all green and waving in the breeze while I breathe this canned air. I stare at a glowy flat thing all day and tippity tap on another flat thing with little square things all over it and call it work. Would my forefathers know this work? Cave paintings and pyramids and wars with gods. Harrumph. I think that they’d say harrumph.
Them all slaying cyclops and flying too close to the sun and pushing that rock up that hill and here I sit tippity tap typing on my little shiny one thing and staring at my little glowing other thing telling myself it’s work. Is it? I think I push that rock too. Mine just glows and beeps and blinks back at me. Moss on this rock rubs off on me like green knowing. It falls off a little at a time as I scrape back the layers. I peel and scratch and fight to dig out what’s underneath and little by little something comes into shape and view from beneath. I find a corner. I rub and fuss and scrape and dig some more and finally I pull it out. There. A tooth. A rib bone, a jaw. A letter. A sentence. A story.
I dig deep in that bone yard that smells all musty and scary and who knows what I’ll find. I don’t know until I find it either, but I’m always surprised what comes up from the earth. The things the world has kept alone to itself forever. Until now. Until I came along. Is that what I’m here for? Am I a maker or a doer or just a teller? Am I the narrator of some story that you wrote? That the worker bees go build and leave to the scribe to record and pass on? I’m the grave digger. The archaeologist digging up the bones you made- the ones you fought and died for and here I sit, pulling them up and pretending I know what they mean and putting them together like building blocks that you never intended. That’s the hazard of what I do. Better to get it right or just get it at all? Make you think, make me work. Tippity tap. Tippity tap.
You go hunt buffalo. I’ll sit here and paint on the cave wall about it with your bones as my quill.