THE BIKE RIDE

        I used to ride my bike around the countryside surrounding my hometown of Medford, NJ when I was a kid. A lot of it was made up of dairy farms, of which there are very few, if any, these days. I remember the feeling of freedom I had as I rode along some very safe back roads (which were also main roads in some cases.)

       I didn’t have a particularly fancy bike—just what was then called an “English” bike with three gears. To tell you the truth, it was enough because later in life I had a more sophisticated one with ten gears, of which I think I only basically used three. I sold it for the money I needed to contribute to the expense of going to seminary. It wasn’t a sacrifice—it made perfect sense because I never really made good use of it anyway (the bike, I mean—not seminary.)

       I suppose for most of us there are treasured moments tucked away in our memory libraries that, if we could, we would take them down off the shelf and experience them all over again. My countryside bike rides around Medford would be one of them. But, of course, I’m not a kid anymore nor is Medford the same as it was in those days.

       I will never forget one day in particular when I was riding along, and I came to a spot in the country where there was a large old dead tree standing like a skeleton of its former self in a field. That was interesting in its own right, but on each of the branches and on the ground around it was a huge flock of turkey vultures. It was like being in one of western movies I used to watch. I stopped riding and got off my bike, and took in the scene in a state of wonderment.  

       It makes me think that of all the many days of our lives, even ones that involve doing things that we’ve done dozens of times, there are certain ones that standout from all the rest because they have moved us in some way that none of the others even  came close to doing. Thus the phrase “awe-struck.” That’s exactly what it was for me that day and for many other days of my life when something out of the ordinary presented itself in an almost other-worldly way.

       What is the meaning of those moments, I wonder? Are they divine in nature or merely the result of occasional unique human experiences? I suppose, in a way, it depends on how we choose to look at them, but as far as I am concerned, whichever way we choose, they are sacred in that they touch that deeper part of us that the rest of life’s moments cannot reach. And the meaning of them is not how they change the world, but how they are capable of revealing that there is more to life than what think.

       Or perhaps, there are many others in everyday life that would also deeply touch us if we only have eyes to see and ears to hear, spiritually speaking.

Just a thought.

A NEW WEEK

         To begin a new week is like entering a room that has just been cleaned and made ready for new thoughts. Perhaps the room is a studio where fresh ideas will be sculpted into life size images of who you might truly want to be that you weren’t last week. Or perhaps it is a comfortable lounge to give yourself permission to heal and recover from some abuse the world has inflicted upon your soul. Or perhaps it is a hallway in which there is another door out to the expansive world of possibilities, away from the stifling places of the past.

       In any case, the weeks come and go as they please, not needing permission from anyone to do so. A lifetime is measured by them at the microcosmic level so that we hardly notice they’re busy doing their thing. And yet, it is a fact that we are all under the same sun, moon, and stars as the ancient people who, when they looked up at the heavens at night, perhaps thought about ways to make life better for themselves and for those whom they loved.

       In any case, time has given us time—measured and precisely presented as a way to say to ourselves “then was then, and now is now—a new week to unapologetically live in harmony with our true selves and to be kind to ourselves so that we will be kind to others; to be loving with ourselves so that we might be loving with others; to forgive ourselves so that we might forgive others.

       A new week is like entering a room that has just been cleaned and made ready for new thoughts and perhaps a new way of life that has been our true self all along. 

THE NATURAL MINIMALIST

     I’m in one of those periodic places of decision making. They occur whenever some life scenario has shifted either because of a change of seasons or some unexpected event or circumstance has shown up. In this case, it is the seasonal contemplation of what do I want summer to be this year? What is it that either was missing from last year or was worth doing again or would be a grand new fun experience?

     I suppose I should begin by making a list of some sort. The problem with lists, bucket or otherwise, is that they tend to be so random that they are often unrealistic in terms of the nature of the person making them or the obvious limitations of money and/or time. In addition, they can also be misleading in that the mood you’re in when you’re making them, sometimes disappears as time goes on. i.e.-“Hike the Appalachian Trail” becomes “I think I’ll just take a nice walk every day.” Or, “Go whale-watching” becomes “A day at the beach would be nice.”  
     I've had 75 summers thus far; the first several I don't remember very well, if at all. The ones that do stand out were those wonderful summer breaks from school. Those last days of classes were as good as Christmas Eve--the expectations for what lie just ahead rising to a grand crescendo of music in a kid's imagination. 
     It was effortless to enter the doorway to summer knowing that good things would happen--going to the beach, swimming at the "Minnie Hole," evenings of hide-and-seek, reading comic books on the front porch on rainy days, the boardwalks of Seaside and Atlantic City, the Sunday School picnics with homemade root beer. We certainly would be going crabbing in Tuckerton, and my friends and I would be exploring the woods and fields around Medford. Those were just few things that were almost a guaranteed summer agenda.
     But now, at this stage of life, what do I want this summer to be? Maybe, what do I need it to be for the sake of my personal well-being in the celebration and opportunity of being alive?
     I am aware that those of you reading this have your own thoughts about summer for you and/or your families. In some cases, those thoughts are guided by or restricted by circumstances that are present in your life at the moment. Same for me. 
     I do know one thing, however: a lot of what this summer will be depends on my willingness to live in the present and not in the past, even though I have many fond memories; to recognize that even the seemingly small opportunities to have a good time and share some laughs with those I love are as valuable as major vacations to exotic places; to have the intention to be sensitive to the feelings and needs of others who also seek a joyful summer; and to be a light in the world in times like these when there are so many things causing people stress and fear.

Just a thought.