The Church on Times Square I Almost Missed

This week I am in New York: meeting with inspiring leaders and artists who are redefining Art and the Art Museum every day. I am staying in a neighborhood that is new and bewildering to me: Times Square.

I've probably spent more time underneath Times Square than at it's surface: it was once, in my Summer in New York (ca. 1998), an easy place for me to brave the complicated subway system. Times Square is the setting on my Lionel Train Setting that my parents didn't like for us to use: full power hot (that part of the switch was red) with sparks flying under the locomotive's wheels. "Burn, baby burn" we used to say. Times Square is hot. The hi-def screens are bigger, the crowds maddening, police now carry machine guns and there is an energy of excitement and fear at the same time.  This is not a place for any kind of solitude or meditation.

Nonetheless, I like to try new things and this hotel is one I haven't tried before. It is 1/2 a block from Broadway at 46th: right in the heart of all of this electricity. When I visit New York I, like so many of you, make every minute count. I look for the antidote to this heightened pace--in a nearby coffee shop, Central Park or a quiet corner in the lobby of hotels. Once I sat next to a lit fire in the fireplace of the Eventi Hotel on and extraordinarily hot day in June. I love the contrasts of this City. I found one on this trip too.

When I walk into a new hotel room the first place I go to is the window. What can I see? How much light in the room can be natural? New York City Hotels are tricky. I've moved rooms three and four times seeking a room with light and a view. It doesn't have to be high, just open. This Texas Girl always needs a piece of sky.

My window this week is curtained by the remarkable rose window and the stone facade of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin: an Episcopal Church in the Catholic tradition. This church was built between 1894 and 1895 and designed by Napoleon Le Brun & Sons: the architects of the New York Metropolitan Life Building. I'm not surprised one bit that there is an Episcopalian Church at my doorstep: the Episcopalian Church has been with me all of the days of my life and as the motto goes: The Episcopal Church [always] Welcomes Me.

I crossed the dark threshold yesterday morning a few minutes before Morning Prayer was to begin. As I expected, I was overcome with awe: the church behind this unassuming stone facade is spectacular. New York happens this way.

St. Mary's Times Square was designed in the style of thirteenth century French Gothic churches and is modeled after one of the most beautiful spaces in the world: Saint-Chappelle in Paris. Right here on 46th Street between Havana Central and the Laura Pels Theater: a little bit of Paris. A lot of quiet.

As I tentatively walked in I was struck first by the snoring. My eyes adjusted to the dark, and I saw their hunched-over figures: at least twelve tired humans who--sometime in the night--found the warm comfort of the church as their temporary home. They were spread out across as many aisles sleeping soundly at least for a few hours. I read that this church has a an "Open Doors" policy. The card I picked up says:

The Open Doors of the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin characterize our faith. We throw open these doors in welcome of all who enter, proclaiming the Good News and worshipping together. And through these open we go out into the world for ministry and outreach. These open doors are an integral part of our witness to Jesus Christ. 

In anticipation of Morning Prayer I sat comfortably in the sixth or seventh row. I watched as the church began to wake up: a priest praying quietly in the chancel and two or three (that's all we need right?) people joined her and a second priest on the other side up at the front. I assumed they were deacons or readers and it wasn't until the Psalm (the one I couldn't hear) I realized that small group of people up at the front was the Morning Prayer Service. I was displaced and alone in the pews with the sleeping homeless.

With uncertain steps I left my pew and went closer. I watched as a stream of people walked past me: some stopped to pray at the "Statue of Our Lady", some at the Crucifix, some in the side chapels. I realized more people were using the church in other ways all the while a group of four faithfully recited Morning Prayer II in the Book of Common Prayer. Not quite sure if I was right or wrong, after the second reading I stepped up and joined this band of prayer warriors in the pew. My voice felt strong among them and I was glad I made the move mid-service. The church felt warmer in His words.

After the service ended I thanked the priest and told him I was from Texas. He told me he is "just a volunteer". Again I am reminded that things are not what they seem and the urban church is changing.

There is so little I know.

I sit for a while and think about this in the Chapel of Our Lady of Mercy. I realize the man next to me is crying. I pray for his prayers and for his peace. Someone (a volunteer?) has arranged flowering trees: cherry and pear in the vases surrounding a 1924 polychromed marble statue by Lee Lawrie.

Visitors file past: this church is their ritual: a quiet haven on the way to the other parts of their day. This Urban Church is not the place they congregate on Sundays or even Easter or Christmas: this is on the path of a different life: the one where we need to cry alone in small chapels and touch the feet of Jesus on the cross briefly before we catch the train, sit, even with our iphones in this harbor of quietude and forgiveness.

I walk over and read the plaque.

THE ALTAR IN THIS CHAPEL 

IS OFFERED TO THE GLORY OF GOD 

AND IN LOVING MEMORY OF 

WILLIAM EDWARD JONES 

BORN APRIL 9, 1824

DIED JANUARY 20, 1890 

HIS WIFE SARAH JONES 

BORN JULY 6, 1836

DIED MARCH 19, 1915 

Yesterday was April 8. I think about the life of William Edward Jones and the life of his mother. She, on the eve of having a baby 192 years ago. He, a baby who would become a man and support a church and grow a family that would, at his death give this altar in this chapel in this church steps away and miles away from the electric hum of Times Square. This chapel that I found this morning humble and unaware of such grace and beauty: discovered in a church long loved and cared for by so many.

I consider where Compassion lives in this church: in the Open Doors welcome those who are tired and heavily laden. The congregation takes on a different form here during the week. The people of this church are nomads: stopping in for what they need most: love.

Compassion lives in those doors and in the hands of the architects envisioning the splendor of Sainte-Chappelle for New York City. Compassion lives in the skillful craftsmanship of the designers and artists, woodworkers and painters. Compassion lives in those families who commissioned these works in a church for a time they wouldn't know. Compassion lives in the volunteers and in the leadership dutifully taking measures to care for and protect this Times Square treasure. This church is practicing the kind of compassion taught in the teachings of Christ: this church is love manifest: and it is love that will sustain this harbor for the ages. At the Church of St. Mary the Virgin far from the urgency of a city that never sleeps, there is time for peace, perhaps even a nap, and a place to come and go placidly just as you are.

Compassion on the Hiking Trail

I have been playing “House” this week in Santa Fe, pretending I live here for five starry nights and six bright New Mexico-blue filled days. I brought the boys (8 and 9) out for Spring Break, taking on the 1300-mile drive alone as my husband is back in Dallas working. Due to the nature of my work at the museum, we aren’t together much, the boys and I, and this concentrated time has been precious and unparalleled. We will always have Santa Fe.

In my continuing study of compassion and lately self-compassion, I wanted to give us this time together in the spirit of good health inside and out. Our first stop was Whole Foods, where we filled the basket up with healthy, “whole” foods and made a pledge to cook at the house as much as possible. I am learning from Mark Hyman’s study of eating whole foods and healthy fats, and his books (Blood Sugar Solution, Ten-day Detox, Eat Fat, Get Thin) are the inspiration for our menus.

Our second pledge was to spend as much time as possible off-line and outside. The playground at the Fort Marcy Recreation Center has been our respite and our source of sunshine and all things local. The moms I met compassionately fortified me with dozens of ideas of where to find art and fun for kids in Santa Fe. The boys made new friends we would meet back at the park the next day. I sat for long big-sky hours reading Natalie Goldberg’s latest tome The Great Spring.  And yes, it is.

But it was on the hiking trail where I found real compassion lives: alongside whispering pines and knotty juniper. Real compassion is found where, not surprisingly we are happiest: on the trail. I first noticed the courtesy with which we happy hikers greeted each other, “hello” and “how’s it going” at every passing. We smiled at each other, sympaticos in this glorious human experience of the Bandelier National Monument in the springtime. We made eye contact and smiled often. Hikers stepped off of the trail for us, putting us before them. At the ladders a natural priority was given to those coming down, as it was clear safely descending 140 feet on wooden ladders was other’s first concern. It was beautiful.

I also observed patience amid the cool breezes and quick captures of a Mule Deer or two in the wilderness. It was the protocol that families and groups would each climb up into a cave dwelling to experience it together. The practice is to climb, peer, marvel, experience, imagine, capture with the iphone and then climb back out. This process took several minutes for each small group: complete with little toes seeking the next rung, cameras and coats, and newborn babies in backpacks (yes). The courtesy and patience expressed in that very long line in the sunshine was a marvel to experience. We talked to each other. We shared the union of joy and anticipation. We carefully stepped to one side for those bypassing the cave. It was peaceful and ordered. No one was in a hurry. We were already in the place we needed to be. We were present.

Generosity is also found in abundance on the hiking trails. A mother offered to take our photograph (post 140-foot climb) in the Alcove House. Families offered helping hands to each other as we met in craggy corners. As we crossed the river, one family offered to share a picnic.

On these hikes this week in the Jemez, Little Tesuque and Sangre de Christo ranges, I am learning that compassion lives where courtesy, patience, being present and generous are a natural and intuitive way of being.

What if life was like this? How could we be as happy as we are on the hiking trail, facing each bend with similar anticipation?

Whom will we meet?

What will we see?

Whom will we take care of and who will take care of us?

Compassion lives fully in this experience, the one where we are all experiencing something beautiful and new, challenging and awesome.

And isn’t that life?

Not Mine

I arrived as the season was changing. It was warm in the sun and cool in the shade. I am back in the place where I was a month ago: the place where there was a lake and the lake was drained for maintenance.


Four weeks ago I wrote about transformation and how a lake, drained, reveals all of the things we didn’t know about it: cracks and crevices, mysterious tundra and underwater worlds. It was all there, the cover pulled back for us to see something new, discover something both about the lake I hadn’t known before and, the things I didn’t know about me.


Nature has her way of surprising us. Like the sun at sunrise, the sun that, when the viewer turns away after taking seventeen photographs of the horizon, offers one last burst of miraculous color and light.


Overnight, just this weekend, the heavens poured down in a landmark rain, and, well, the lake is full again. This lake: the one that took over 50 days to drain in January is full overnight. And it is beautiful in a new way. It is miraculous knowing this lake came from the sky, to sit in this basin, at least until the need to drain the lake happens again, or drought happens or more water comes through from the upper creek on the next property. 


This lake came from the sky, and now it reflects the sky. Is that possible?


Like this lake, is it possible to know where compassion comes from? Compassion: a word I’ve been saying in new conversations since late last year. I knew it one-way through studies of the Bodhisattvas: Tara, Avalokitesvara and others. And now I am learning it a different way:

• Looking at the museum team as one with a culture of compassion


• Looking at where compassion lives in our museum and in the Dallas Arts District


• And perhaps most urgently: looking for where compassion lives in me.


Am I really compassion? When I roll my eyes at something I don’t like, or throw off a righteous reaction: one that says, “I am right, and it was really supposed to be this way”. I am not compassion, and I am not right.


Let the eyes that roll be my mindfulness bell that my way is not better or more right than any other way.


Let me learn to study my reactions, the quick ones that are angry and hurtful, and help me see that reacting and worrying and criticizing take compassion out of the air like a hot fire sucking up oxygen.


Last week as part of A Study of Compassion I interviewed Swami Sarveshananda from the Chinmaya Mission. I asked him about where compassion lives and is taught in the teachings of Hinduism. I asked him about concepts such as namaste, environmentalism and the possibility of seeing the other (whether human or the earth) with tremendous respect: so much so we even take ourselves out of it. Na-ma of namaste literally translates from the Sanskrit as “not mine”. As if to say “I see you and all that is in you and I honor all of the light in your being”.


Or in other words, “it’s not about me at all”.


I asked the Swami what he worries about, what keeps him up at night.  He stared back at me squarely and said, “I don’t worry about anything. Worry does not exist. Worry is just an interpretation.” These words fell over me like a hug from an old friend I haven’t seen in twenty years.


For the Swami, and for all of us: worry does not exist. Reacting with hate does not exist: what we think is wrong or upsetting or “the worst thing ever” is really just a moment inside of many moments, and they all fall away with no more or less weight than any other moment in the day.


As I study compassion I want to study this and watch it in me, as I believe these reactions can be my own bell to be a teacher of compassion to myself. I want to focus all of that energy on the other: the person with the light and ideas and possibility. I want to listen.


What if instead of reacting, instead of inhaling sharply or rolling my eyes, I just say with a peaceful heart:


That is a great idea.


Or


Tell me more about it.


And then what happens?


Only the possibility of a new conversation, one that is “not mine” one that is ours and one that reflects the light in the sky that I came from.


And then I will know that, yes, I am compassion.

The Art of Wonder: Curiosity and Its Place in Compassion

Edward, our second son at age 8 stayed home from school on Friday with a stomach bug. I noticed at about mid-point in the day, that in almost six hours he never ceased asking questions. His endless inquiries "(I have a question!) were about the world, the past, the future and the mechanics of illness. There was no boundary to his wonder, only the boundary that I could not meet each question with an answer. Siri comes in handy in moments like these. But what is more fascinating to me is the freedom to take a full morning just to explore all of the things he wanted to know about but doesn't. 

In 1649 Descartes, a French Philosopher, wrote an essay called Passions of the Soul: an attempt to categorize passions, one of the three things that humans have that allow us to respond to the outside world. The other two are appetite and the senses. Passion, defined by Descartes as “those perceptions, sensations or emotions of the soul which we refer particularly to it, and which are caused, maintained and strengthened by some movement of the spirits”. I first categorized this definition as less body-based, but anyone who experiences passion knows it is very much of the body. The sixth chapter of Passions of the Soul unites introduces wonder as "the first of all passions" illuminating Edward's place as being endlessly curious, testing his inquiring mind (and mine) for hours. 

Descartes writes: 

6. Wonder and GenerosityPerhaps the most distinctive of the passions that Descartes identifies, however is the one that involves no evaluation of its object: wonder [admiration] merely presents its object as something novel or unusual. As such, wonder produces no change in the heart or the blood, which would prepare the body for movement. But it does involve the motions of the animal spirits through the brain and into the muscles, thereby fixing an “impression” of the object in the brain. And that explains the function of wonder: to “learn and retain in our memory things of which we were previously ignorant” (AT XI 384, CSM I 354). It is our response to those features of the world worthy of our consideration – something useful both for the preservation of the mind-body union and for the soul itself in its pursuit of knowledge. Descartes's understanding of wonder may well recall Aristotle's famous dictum that philosophy begins with wonder. But wherever it begins, Descartes certainly does not think it should end there. Wonder can become excessive, and make us crave novelty simply for its own sake. Wonder is only functional if it prompts us to resolve it in the satisfaction of knowledge.
Another distinctive passion Descartes describes is generosity [generosité], which produces a kind of self-directed wonder, or esteem, grounded in our recognition “that nothing really belongs to us other than the free disposition of our volitions,” along with sensing “in ourselves at the same time a firm and constant resolution to use them well” (AT XI 446, slightly altered from CSM I 384). It is this passion that seems to be the keystone for “the pursuit of virtue,” in particular because it “serves as a remedy against all the disorders of the passions” (AT XI 447, CSM I 385). And although generosity is a perception directed at the self, combining a knowledge of what is truly important in and for ourselves with the will to act on the basis of that knowledge, it seems to generate like esteem for others: generous people do good without self-interest, are courteous, gracious and obliging, and live free from contempt, jealousy, envy, hatred, fear and anger for others. The key seems to be that generous people “are entirely masters of their passions” (AT XI 448, modified from CSM I 385).

(http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/emotions-17th18th/LD2Descartes.html)

How curious that he couples wonder with generosity, and I love that generous people are "masters of their passions". Compassion asks for both. Compassion, the act of caring for the happiness of others (H.H. Dalai Lama http://www.dalailama.com/messages/compassion) invites us to wonder about others and give of ourselves for another person's well being: generosity. Compassion invites to ask and to care. It is that simple. "How are you" is a familiar starting place. Compassion invites us to say "I want to know about you because I care." In my hurried world, mindfulness reminds me to listen more compassionately to that answer, and to ask the next question with connection and relevance. Listening is a much a part of wonder as asking the question. If I care about the happiness of others, I know that their happiness is greater if they know I am present, mindful and listening.

Therefore:

Wonder leads me to curiosity. Curiosity leads me to ask with a generous heart, and a generous heart teaches me how to be more compassionate. All of these human gifts and experiences are innate to living with the heart and mind of a child. As children, we are by nature curious. We are by nature inclined to wonder. We are by nature generous and compassionate beings. And, now at 44, tumbled in and out of the adult world where we forget many things we knew as children (like where the fairies live) I am working on remembering what it is like to have a heart and of a child. Thank goodness I have an 8 year-old and a 9 year-old to remind me.

I want to be a master of compassion, too. And so this multi-year study of compassion begins with glimpses back at the great thinkers of our histories. Much of my exploration will be based in how compassion is expressed in philosophy, religion and art. I will study the collection of works of art from the Crow Collection of Asian Art as catalysts and purveyors of compassion. I will learn from great masters of compassion found in the arts of Asia: Buddha, Tara, Guanyin, Avalokitesvara, Vishnu, Krishna and so many others. I invite you to learn with me, because we will learn more learning together. And when I ask you how you are, know that I am truly listening.

Old Dead Tortoise

“How long have you been draining the lake?” I asked watching two whirlpools (one larger than the other) on the west side sucking brown water forcefully into white PVC pipes that sat threaded under the road just for this purpose.

The Foreman replied “Since January 1st”. By my count that’s 47 days. Today we are at water’s edge studying the engineering of this plan and troubleshooting something stuck on one of the drains. It was (that is to say it no longer is) a large, armored tortoise now dead and capping the drain to get to the bottom of things, namely the lake, in order that long-needed repairs on the dam could begin.

The House Manager asked for the role of Tortoise Remover and she grabbed her hoe and headed down the bank. She expertly pulled on his massive shell, fighting his dead weight and the draw of the water around the scaly creature. It was clear he’d been in this lake a long time (the kind of time tortoises have) his shell a cross section of settlement and algae and crust.

This tortoise was dead, just passing along as he has for decades and pulled into an unexpected unintentional trap: the one that drains water and not turtles. She pulled on him several times until his carcass was more than half-way on the shore. I wanted to get closer, but close was close enough. Meeting this creature that is more dinosaur than amphibian in its death state from several yards away was close enough.

Thirty years. That’s how long it’s been since the lake was made. This process is the first time they’ve attempted to drain the lake. As a result, thirty years of time are exposed inch by inch. Dead fish are snatched up by hawks. Snakes retreat. Turtles drown. It is a sloughing.

After lunch we walked around on the north side of the lake where most of the water has receded. An old, nature-made creek from another time is clearly visible running through the bottom of this man-made lake-in-draining. Eerie. The water is clear and fresh, free from the layers of lake and time, bright in the sunshine this little creek hasn’t seen in 30 years. How odd that creeks have memory.

I spotted a little black head. Water Moccasin. I was sure of it. Where would the nests and families and packs of snakes go as the water pulled back crackled earth and old cypress roots? Well to the creek to be sure. I stepped off of the dock, new Saucony tennis shoes sinking in the layers of silt and pine needle. It was time to face this snake, this monster of my youth, and fearful no more. With closer views I recognized tiny feet and a round shell. Turtle. Baby Turtle. Playing and swimming and sliding along this old creek, oblivious of it’s past or a future. I relaxed a little bit and went back to sit with my friend. No snakes today. 60 degrees in February and I will choose to believe they are still sleeping through winter. At least for now.

I study the lake. Or the place where the lake was. An old oar sticks up in the drying silt. I see a bucket or two, several tires and tree stumps and logs, softened by years of seasons. This landscape: the one at the bottom of a lake is one I only know through the few times I’ve gone lake swimming: tentative toes squishing in mud and lake weed. Today is different. Exposure to sun and air created wide cracks and crevices. Drain the water and we have something new. A new place to study. It’s not ugly or scarred: it’s a fascinating exposure to an underbelly ecosystem we may not get to see again in this lifetime.

I am here on a retreat with my leadership coach and it occurred to me this afternoon that I, me, this human just days away from crossing the threshold to forty-four, am the lake. I am the lake composed of layers of silt and history, old buckets and dead turtles. I am the lake with little streams inside of me finding old patterns and memories I don’t even know I have.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about being a human being is the opportunity to compose a life and change a future. I can imagine this sloughing within me: an exfoliation of the old to expose the new.

If I am the lake then stress or “being stressed” is the Old Dead Turtle blocking the drain. Stress is just a thing that blocks us from the real work. Stress for me is imagined: an interpretation of the way I think things are. Blockages trigger stress reactions. I can feel blocked from speaking, being heard, getting “my” way, seeing someone else’s point of view, criticizing, wanting, feeling overwhelmed, feeling like it’s not fair: all are triggers to many ways of responding.  It is the moment after the trigger that matters the most. The moment after the trigger can happen three ways:


1.     No action: allow the issue to sit (in this example the turtle continues to block the drain): some water gets through but it is diseased, poisoned, and the lake doesn’t drain

2.     A reaction (imagine trying to push the dead turtle through): more negative energy is created, more hurt, less forgiveness

3.     A change (find the hoe, move the turtle, drain the lake) the change will feel unfamiliar and new but finding the new way of being in new practices takes time

In my forty-fourth year, I want to change a future: my future. I am listening and responding to the “who” that I am and thinking about how others hear me. I want to sculpt my language and saturate my being in compassion and forgiveness in a new lake with new water. 

I am more aware of the layers of life and memory: the memory creeks are there as a part of me, but the debris and detritus that were making me sick are gone. It will take a while to fill this lake and there is much work to do. Breakdowns will happen. Fish will die, but dead fish will sustain young birds. Baby turtles will glide down stream and some will fight the current. It’s all there in this life: hopes and disappointments, mistakes and growth, death and rebirth and they are all but a moment. 

I am the lake and I choose something new this year. I will listen, write, meditate, pray, read, learn and teach. I will spend more time with my family. I will spend more time taking care of this body that carries me through this life. I will look for focus and abandon distraction. I will find patterns to turn into practices and I will repeat them over and over and over again until they are part of this new lake.

A Sign of Change

A Mindful Advent: A Mindful Calendar

As I look at the next three weeks I've realized there are 21 events in as many days, a handful social, most work-related, all wonderful opportunities to be with friends and colleagues. The season has begun. It used to launch with the arrival of Margaret Crow's Crane Christmas Card very properly hand-addressed on the day after Thanksgiving. Now it is the memory of how thoughtful she was to be the first to exclaim her hope that we would all have a very Merry Christmas. 

Our plans are a weaving of new and old traditions, familiar faces in all the right places. So, as we continue this journey together of finding the space for quiet anticipation in these days of jolly cheer, know that the real work is to find the litte moments that we and our children will remember the most. I'll do my best to make it to these many and wonderous occasions, but I am going to do so with a new awareness for how my being there is really being there: awake and alive, listening. 

First, I am not going to worry this season of waiting and patience about being late. We will get there when we get there. Friends understand, and this season of love is not a time to be hard on ourselves. I will work on compassion for the effort to arrive when I can and leave when I need to. The compassionate host understands. Just being is enough. As simple as the in breath and the out breath: all we have to do amid this list and that one is just breathe and just be. All is well. And all is well. 

I am going to really listen and be present for the people I am with. This moment, not the gifts or the frolic, this moment with this amazing person is the one that matters. As with works of art in a large gallery, the moments of really studying just two or three on a tour are the richer, more rewarding experiences. Instead of the slow art tour this Christmas season, I'm taking the slow-friend tour: I'm setting aside small talk for bigger, more meaningful connections. I want to be there, in new more mindful ways as my gift to the people I will meet, and a gift to myself. 

And as I cross this landscape of really being with the people I am with, I hope to also give myself the gift of One New Friend. I was once endearingly called a Collector of Friends, and I hope to create a new friendship this December: someone I will know and learn from and with for the rest of my life. I can secretly call them my Advent Friend. 

So, in this quest to be mindful and quiet, I recognize that we live in this world of engagements. The real world is busy, but as with mindfulness, we have to learn to quiet the mind in a very busy environment. Simple techniques like mini-meditations at the valet stand, on elevators, in lines and just in a corner for a short moment will remind me of this work toward a Mindful Advent: one little breath at a time. Join me as we explore the beauty in quiet: the beautiful interactions between loved ones and colleagues, the exquisite glow of a Christmas Tree, the love and compassionate hospitality put into creating these parties and the gift of more time to be with each other. Join me in that celebration.