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Success: a full lifeFEATURE ARTICLE
It is a place for being, not doing.
Ah, Clarissa, let me tell you, all that is pleases. The pond where we swim. Our apple orchard. The thunderstorms. The barbecue. The music playing. Talking in bed. Your grandmother’s iced tea. Deliberating on which walk to take in the morning and which at dusk. Watching you lower your head to peel peaches and shuck corn. . .Oh, nothing, really, is what pleases. But what nothing. Nations go to war for this kind of nothing, and in the absence of such nothing, people shrivel up and die.
This successful life we’re living, got us feuding like the Hatfield and McCoys.
I sailed there to be a different person than the one I was before.
Invent your world. Surround yourself with people, color, sounds, and work that nourish you.
Conduct your blooming in the noise and the whip of the whirlwind. It’s the last time we’ll be here. And although there is much work to be done and I’ll try my best to do it, I still believe in chocolate cake and sunshine.
“You know Dad,” Zach is talking with his mouth full of cereal, “I think my life has been pretty full.” “Really?” I say to my 9 1/2-year-old son. “Yeah. I mean, think about it. I have actually held a Serval Cat. In my lap. I have touched a real NASCAR race car. I have been on an Aircraft Carrier. I have ridden in a real Ferrari. I have touched the actual Spruce Goose. And I have been within one foot of a Crossbill. Not bad.” No, son, not bad. Even better that you see it that way. Today is Labor Day. A demarcation; when Summer begins to slide into Autumn. In the Pacific Northwest it means Blackberry cobbler. Cobwebs across the pathways in the woods, the sun dipping beneath the tips of the fir trees in the southern sky, Katsura leaves a butter yellow, and college football. There was an article in the Sunday paper about “unfinished summer wish lists,” those things remaining undone from unchecked Memorial Day enthusiasm. I read a few of the “undone” items people posted on a community board: Teach my dog manners. Befriend my parents. Get rid of my beer and curry belly. Break up with Frank. Make ripples! I suppose that I have my own catalogue of unfinished business. But this summer I did something that wasn’t even on my list: I danced in a barber shop. At the end of May, I drive by the Mud Creek Baptist Church. In contrast to the name, the building is new red brick. Down the road sits a tired and weathered sandwich-board-sign: Carol Helms Barber Shop. Beyond the sign, a double-wide. In front, a simple wood sign and a red, white and blue barber pole. It could be 1965. I am standing here, in front of Carol Helm’s Barber Shop, on an early Thursday morning, just outside of Hendersonville, North Carolina. (I am shooting a story for New Morning TV http://www.newmorningtv.tv/) Carol has invited me to stop by, and listen to the music. Every Thursday morning is music jam. Has been every Thursday morning for 12 years. There are maybe a half dozen cars in the lot when I arrive, coffee in hand, before eight a.m. From the parking lot, I hear Jim Reeves, or at least someone who sounds a bit like him. The air here, humid and dense, holds the music.
The rule at Carol’s is simple: If you have an instrument and a love of music, you’re welcome to drop in. I see banjo, guitar, bass, mandolin and fiddle. Carol is standing behind the barber chair, scissors and comb in hand, working at a customer’s hair. I’m not sure that cutting would be the correct verb. From what I can tell, the choice here is short, shorter or Marine. Carol is affable. With wavy silver hair, he welcomes me with a handshake and a warm smile. “Glad you’ll could visit,” he says. “Glad to be here,” I try to match the Carolina lilt. He looks at my hair and says, “It looks like you’ll haven’t been in a barber shop in some time. You want me to work on that?” I look at the customer sitting in the chair and tell Carol, “Maybe next time, if that’s alright by you.” The space inside Carol’s is about 12 feet by 25 feet, and the musicians–a dozen or so–are squeezed into one end, chairs pulled together, but they don’t seem to mind. They take turns, going around the circle. “Let’s do some Hank Williams, key of G,” and off they go. When a new person arrives, he (or she, there are two women in the group) pulls up a chair and joins in. The group ranges in age from late 30s to mid or late 80s. During a break I ask what they love about these Thursdays. “This is not a time for politics or differences or whatever’s weighing you down. If you love music, you’re welcome here.” The younger woman adds, “Our idea for a bumper sticker, is ‘make guitars, not bombs.’” By the wall, just listening, sit two local good ‘ole boys, John Deere hats riding high on their foreheads. And I bet if I asked them, they might tell me that listening to music down at Carol Helms’ every Thursday makes for a pretty full life.
At the airport, heading home, this magazine caption caught my attention, “Life Aspiration to be a Millionaire.” I shake my head, mystified. Not because I don’t daydream about having a few million set aside for a rainy day, but it’s all about the measures we have by which we gauge the progress in our lives. And our perspective about success is not too subtle. It’s all about size. What are you worth? What did you accomplish? How much bigger (in value or bank account or faith for that matter) are you than the next guy? As a result, we put each moment through its paces, evaluating it, judging it for significance and worth. We want to know if it measures up, and then, and only then will we embrace it, and make it a part of our lives. It is not surprising that it is easy to live lives based upon comparison, and in the end, shame or regret. I like Lily Tomlin’s observation, “I always wanted to be somebody, but I should have been more specific.”
I think about Zach. And agree with Rabbi Abraham Heschel, “We teach children how to measure, how to weigh. We fail to teach them how to revere, how to sense wonder and awe. The sense of the sublime, the sign of the inward greatness of the human soul and something which is potentially given to all men, is now a rare gift.”
Here’s the point: As long as success is measured by keeping score, we lose track of most everything that makes us human and therefore, glad to be alive: – small gestures of kindness – acts of inclusion or community to someone left out, or someone on the fringes – extending a hand of healing or acceptance to someone who hurts – reveling in the gifts of the senses – resting in a moment of gratitude – sharing laughter, a smile, camaraderie or joy – dancing in a barber shop. . .somewhere in the Carolinas. . .
So you want ambition? Aspiration? Okay. Aim high. Shoot for the stars. Dream big. Seriously. But, above all else, my friend, don’t deny the rest of us your gifts and abilities and presence, just because you think they are ordinary. My friend Charlie sent me this from the New Testament book of I Thessalonians (chapter 4.10-11): “Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders.” My oh my. . .it would be very tough to preach this one in a world that requires us to be bigger and better.
Every August, the Seattle area holds a “Street of Dreams.” A half-dozen houses tricked out to elicits ooohs and aaahs. I have no ill will, it’s just not my idea of fun to stand in line for an hour–per house–to see what money can buy. And it makes me wonder about dreams, and why they need to be about having a kitchen with two pizza ovens. Truth be told, behind my house, I have my own “deck of dreams.” From my chair, I can watch birds (and count them if anyone is keeping score), and listen to the water spill over the waterfall near my pond. I have my own non-profit-non-existent-recreational-organization. I call it “back yard dreams.” I wanted to call it “Really big back yard dreams,” but that sounded precocious. The implication with our skewed view of success is that we need to be in constant motion, always trying accumulate, or fill something–some need or yearning or absence. (More often than not, a need we did not know existed until we saw an advertisement.) So. I end up filling the space. . .with stuff I don’t need, from money I don’t have, to impress people I don’t like. . . It all comes back to where we anchor our identity. Standing in the Airport security line the other day (with my quart bag of toiletries in hand), I heard a very young girl ask her mother, “Why mom? Why does this man need to see our pictures?” “He needs to make sure who you are.” “Oh.” What is it that make sure who I am? I wonder. But I can tell you with great certainty: I am not defined by the number of piazza ovens in my kitchen. Two great pictures. One from Spokane, Washington, where I visited the good folk at Inland Empire Garden Club. They, like most garden enthusiasts, are slightly off plumb, and therefore the best kind of folks to be around. Saw this sign in the Charmagne Woodard’s garden, “Leave room in your garden for angels to dance.” Amen.
And two. . .speaking of success. . .have you ever heard of the One More Time Around Marching Band (OMTAAMB)? They march every year in the Portland Oregon Rose Parade. http://www.omtaamb.org/. The OMTAAMB is believed to be the largest permanent marching band in the world. Made up of former high school, college and military marching band members, the ages of its 500 members range from 19 to 85. Members come from far away places just to perform with the band each year -- in recent years there are members who have come from California, Florida, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Japan and New Zealand. Their uniform–white pants and a yellow t-shirt. It reminds me of Carol Helms’ barber shop: if you love music, you can join us.
Tonight I’m on my back deck of dreams. It is September 4. Zach’s first day of school is tomorrow. The dusk light settles in around 7:30 pm. Everything looks as is I am wearing Polarized lens, including the new bed of Mexican feather grass near the pond, now the color of ripe wheat. Our doors to the patio are still open, the air 70 degrees. Rain is in the forecast, the sky off to the south seems closer to the earth. Sunflowers spill from the vase on the counter. And I understand what my son meant about a full life.
And did you get what
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Experts disagree on what makes people happy. Now that is funny! Because we live in a world that wants five-easy-steps to enlightenment. As if life, and our faith journey, is a checklist, something to orchestrate, some correct answer on a text. We are so self-conscious: Am I living fully? What am I doing right or wrong? All the while, missing the point. Join Terry, who believes that getting your act together is highly overrated! The more important issue: How do we re-train our own eye (or mind) to appreciate simple pleasures? Is there a spiritual practice that we can incorporate into our lives, that opens our eyes to the abundant simple pleasures that surround us? Answer this: Can you tell me a simple pleasure that happened / that you enjoyed, in the past hour? And while we're on the subject, it wouldn't hurt to change the way we talk. We ask, of each other, daily, "What do you do?" Or, "What did you do?" Why not ask, "What surprised you today? What made you smile?" "Where did you see God incognito?" Laugh and learn with Terry about making the choice to receive life's gifts. That life is to be lived, not managed. We will learn what it means to be open. Available. Curious. Willing to be surprised by joy.
Often we live the truth of a postcard: Having a good time, wish I was here. That's what happens with speed, this crush of information with our "can't miss" technology guaranteed to give us more time. In the end we live out of breath and out of time. In the words of TS Elliot, we are distracted from distractions by distractions. And we see less, taste less, listen less, smell less, touch less, and savor our own fullness less. Terry agrees with Thoreau, "nothing can be more useful to a man or woman than a determination not to be hurried." To be lost in wonder is to be present in our lives. So let us rediscover Radical Amazement. Let us be those who spend their days lost in wonder, who live grateful, humble and self-possessed. Let us no longer give in to projection, resentment or despair. Let us be free to see our worth and significance, not in power or possessions or reputation or religion, but in the extraordinary Grace of our Creator.
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But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds of the air, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish of the sea inform you. Which of all these does not know that the hand of the LORD has done this? In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind. Job 12:7-10
God help us to live slowly To move simply To look softly To allow emptiness To let the heart create for us. Amen. Michael Leunig
When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention As long as we able to be extravagant we will be hugely and damply extravagant. Then we will drop foil by foil to the ground. This is our unalterable task, and we do it joyfully. And they went on. “Listen, the heart-shackles are not, as you think, death, illness, pain, unrequited hope, not loneliness, but lassitude, rue, vainglory, fear, anxiety, selfishness.” Their fragrance all the while rising from their blind bodies, making me spin with joy. Mary Oliver |
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How Would You Live Then? What if a hundred rose-breasted grosbeaks flew in circles around your head? What if the mockingbird came into the house with you and became your advisor? What if the bees filled your walls with honey and all you needed to do was ask them and they would fill the bowl? What if the brook slid downhill just past your bedroom window so you could listen to its slow prayers as you fell asleep? What if the stars began to shout their names, or to run this way and that way above the clouds? What if you painted a picture of a tree, and the leaves began to rustle, and a bird cheerfully sang from its painted branches? What if you suddenly saw that the silver of water was brighter than the silver of money? What if you finally saw that the sunflowers, turning toward the sun all day and every day — who knows how, but they do it — were more precious, more meaningful than gold? Mary Oliver
Why I am happy Now has come, an easy time. I let it roll. There is a lake somewhere so blue and far nobody owns it. A wind comes by and a willow listens gracefully. I hear all this, every summer. I laugh and cry for every turn of the world, its terribly cold, innocent spin. That lake stays blue and free; it goes on and on. And I know where it is. William Stafford
Starting With Little Things Love the earth like a mole, fur-near. Nearsighted, hold close the clods, their fine-print headlines. Pat them with soft hands– But spades, but pink and loving: they break rock, nudge giants aside, affable plow. Fields are to touch: each day nuzzle your way. Tomorrow the world. William Stafford
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Jews who were expecting a messiah were certain that he would be a great and dynamic figure who would execute God’s will here on earth, such as by overthrowing God’s enemies in a mighty act of power. And was Jesus like this? Quite the opposite–rather than being a powerful warrior who drove the Romans out of the Promised Land, Jesus was an itinerant preacher who had gotten on the wrong side of the law and been unceremoniously tortured and crucified by the enemies of God. He was the furthest thing imaginable from a messiah.
Her finely-touched spirit had its fine issues, even though they were not widely visible. Her full nature spent itself in channels which had no great name on the earth. But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owning to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life and rest in unvisited tombs.
The best smell is bread, the best taste is salt and the best love is that of children.
“When you wake up in the morning, Pooh,” said Piglet at last, “what’s the first thing you say to yourself?” “What’s for breakfast?” Said Pooh. “What do you say, Piglet?” “I say, I wonder what’s going to happen exciting today?” said Piglet.
Pooh nodded thoughtfully. “It’s the same thing,” he said.
People have tried and they have tried, but sex is not better than sweet corn.
Maybe we should develop a Crayola bomb as our next secret weapon. A happiness weapon. A beauty bomb. And every time a crisis developed, we would launch one. It would explode high in the air — explode softly — and send thousands, millions, of little parachutes into the air. Floating down to earth — boxes of Crayolas. And we wouldn’t go cheap, either — not little boxes of eight. Boxes of sixty-four, with the sharpener built right in. With silver and gold and copper, magenta and peach and lime, amber and umber and all the rest. And people would smile and get a little funny look on their faces and cover the world with imagination.
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In the beginning, God didn’t make just one or two people. He made a whole bunch of us. ‘Cause he said you can’t really have fun unless “there’s a whole bunch of you.” He put us in this playground called Eden and said, “You’ll have fun!” At first we had fun just like he expected. We played all the time. We waded in the streams, we rolled down the hills, we climbed the trees, we ran in the forest, we frolicked in the meadows, we acted silly and we laughed a lot. Then one day, this snake came along and told us that we were not really having fun, because we weren’t keeping score. At first we couldn’t see the fun in that, but he said we should give points to the person who was best at playing. The person with the most points would win an apple. We could all see the fun in that. We all knew we were best at something. It was different after that. We argued a lot. We had to make up scoring rules for most of the games we played. Some games we stopped playing, because how do you keep score when you frolic? God was wroth about that, very, very wroth. He said we couldn’t use his garden anymore because we weren’t having fun. We said we were having lots of fun and he shouldn’t have gotten so upset because it wasn’t the fun he had in mind. He didn’t listen. He kicked us out and told us we couldn’t use his garden anymore until we stopped keeping score. And then to rub it in and get our attention, he told us we were going to die anyway and our scores wouldn’t matter! Well. . .he was wrong. Because my cumulative all game score is 16, 548, and I know I can raise it to about 20,000 before I die. Even if I can’t, I know my life has a great deal of meaning because I’m teaching my son to score high. I think he can reach about 30,000 before the end of his days. This God must have very superficial view of life. What’s the use of living if you can’t keep score.
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“I’d love to be on a tour, but my garden’s not ready, maybe next year.” I hear this all the time. The future is a magical place where all the gardens will be perfect and we gardeners can finally take the time to enjoy the beauty we’ve created. I took a couple of things away from Terry Hershey’s visit that I want to share with you. If you don’t love your garden, if you’re not enjoying your time spent out here then maybe you should seriously consider getting another hobby. Quit the garden club and take up knitting. Life is too short to be stressing over the imperfections that every garden has. Be truthful with yourself–you’re never going to be ready for that garden tour are you?” ViAnn Meyer, Inland Empire Gardeners
Dear Terry, Just re-read your newsletter entitled Peace. I think God really likes us to laugh. I love how you sandwich wisdom between slices of delight. You make me laugh! EL
Dear Terry, Thanks for your wonderful perspective. It is truly that simple to have grace every moment of your life! PT
Terry, I don't know the origin of this, but it surely sounds like something you would say. Peace, BE
Life is short, Break the rules, Forgive quickly, Kiss slowly, Love truly, Laugh uncontrollably, And never regret anything that made you Smile. Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we're here we should Dance....
Hello Terry, It's been many years since we attended small town Colon Schools & 4-H together, but I remember you & your family well. While reading this website, the remarkable thing that sticks in my mind is this, even in your youth you inspired & motivated people of all ages. It is no wonder that this is the path you have taken. Thank you for your words of wisdom & truth & my Gods blessings continue to shower down upon you. RTB
NO OTHER WORD IS NEEDED BUT AWESOME!!!!!!!! THANK YOU! Blessings, DW, Star of the Sea Parish
INFINITE THANKS... AB
Terry, I appreciate receiving your newsletter and always discover a few gems. I'm taking the liberty of putting you on my own blogsite list. HM
Dear Terry, Thanks for all your wonderful "stuff!" RB
Dear Terry, Many thanks to you. In a short amount of time, you did what Jesus did so well – told a few stories, reminded us of the Father, and left our hearts changed forever. You left us with hearts filled with laughter and lumps in our throats from your tender stories. You inspired us to stop and treasure the moment and not allow “if onlys” to deter our gratitude. We are deeply grateful to you for the time and effort you took to come to Sts. Simon & Jude Church to share your beautiful insights into the music of life. May the joy you give to others return to you one-hundredfold. Gratefully on behalf of all, Patsi Wagner Pastoral Associate, Sts Simon & Jude Parish, Huntington Beach, CA
Dear Mr. Hershey, Just a note to tell you how much I enjoy your contributions to New Morning. I too enjoy spending time in my garden, feeling God teaches us much int his particular setting. AS a self-proclaimed poet and philosopher, I cherish the time spent in what I would proclaim as God’s true temple. A few years ago I began writing stories to my grandchildren entitled “Lessons from Paw Paw’s Garden,” I have enclosed one for your pleasure. Hope you enjoy it. Thanks again for sharing the wisdom you have given me. RN, Oklahoma
Hello Terry, I've just about finished Soul Gardening and want to thank you for writing it. I found myself there, and it brought tears to my eyes - you've affirmed that it's OK to be me. I've understood the "secret" intuitively and never knew it. I just thought I was probably weird But no ,I might just be saner than a lot of people ! God Bless You, BG, Alabama
Terry, Your last newsletter a good read....always enjoy reading each issue. Hope you are enjoying your summer with the family...b P.S. Send a recent pic of Zach, ok?
Terry, Thank you for your contributions to the Garden Tour of your wit, wisdom, speaking, and writing. Many people mentioned to us that they appreciated the text in Th Ticket. We did, too. Looking forward to next year! Warmly, M (Vashon Allied Arts)
Terry, I was at Kanuga in May and loved your talk. I'm reading Soul Gardening and want to thank you for affirming me as a "true & worthy" gardener. You see, for years I have felt inadequate and ashamed to share my garden (although that's a deep longing of mine) as I am one of those untidy gardeners. I prefer the wildness of the garden and delight in finding pretty flowering weeds and the rebel daffodil or pansy gaily flowering in the "wrong place". I leave seed heads on and dead grasses blowing in the breeze. I love the exuberance of self seeded coneflowers blooming at the front of the bed and those bare spots of earth where seemingly nothing will grow. Oh - and the Chipmunk holes make me smile as I laugh at the antics of the critters. So thank you - it IS OK to be me and to garden in this Lazy and untidy way. Sharing God's grace, BG
I wanted to thank you also, for recommending Terry Hershey's newsletter to me. It came today with a message that was exactly what I needed. I was enormously grateful for his message. And thankful that it reminded me I wanted to write to you.
Terry, I just read your newsletter on Shadows – loved it, as usual and passed it on to my dear ones. Do I hear a bit of wistfulness? I’ve been meaning to e-mail you ever since returning from Kanuga in May – what a very rich experience for me, and so much what I needed. Have had some ‘barren’ years, with parents’ deaths, and many, many church woes. But, I have to tell you that your coming to St. John’s in whatever year it was – was a lifesaver for me, and the beginning of a turning point. The turning point culminated with the refreshing and renewal and complete acceptance experienced at Kanuga. Thank you for being so much a part of that and being available to allow God to work through you. We are such complicated beings and we allow that complexity to remove us from the One who so dearly adores us. What a simple concept. I had to send the following “email chatter” because it reminds me so much of your talks – I especially love the story you tell of the couple in the hospital when the wife has had a nerve cut in her face… These little vignettes are so dear and show us where the “good stuff” is! Right in our back yard. In our garden. In the dream of our garden. You are a gift to many; I hope to see you again but in the meantime, consider yourself hugged. God’s blessings to you this day, JF, Tampa, FL
Hi Terry, Just wanted to touch base and thank you again for your beautiful descriptions of the gardens. I went through the gardens yesterday with a group of volunteers and thought how perfectly you captured the essence of each garden and each gardener through your writing. I also heard several volunteers echo my thoughts. I so wanted to attend your workshop, as I have been a long time fan, but I am attending a family wedding out of state this weekend. As a full time working mother of teenagers, I don't have a lot of time to garden, but I certainly love your approach expressed in Soul Gardening. I haven't read your latest book yet, but most times all I need to appreciate my own sanctuary is a hammock in the summer shade of my overgrown Rhodies to feel that moment of appreciation in the garden. Thanks for all you do for Vashon Allied Arts. Good luck with your workshops this weekend and have fun. Best, JR
Terry, When I received this, right away I thought of you and your Ephod story and how each of your books and two T-shirts I've purchased at Congress, you have signed, "Kathy Dance Terry". This new version of the "footprints" story really caught me off guard at the end...What a blessing JUST READ IT!
FOOTPRINTS...A New Version Imagine you and the Lord Jesus are walking down the road together. For much of the way, the Lord's footprints go along steadily, consistently, rarely varying the pace. But your footprints are a disorganized stream of zigzags, starts, stops, turnarounds, circles, departures, and returns. For much of the way, it seems to go like this, but gradually your footprints come more in line with the Lord's, soon paralleling His consistently. You and Jesus are walking as true friends! This seems perfect, but then an interesting thing happens: Your footprints that once etched the sand next to Jesus' are now walking precisely in His steps. Inside His larger footprints are your smaller ones, you and Jesus are becoming one. This goes on for many miles, but gradually you notice another change. The footprints inside the large footprints seem to grow larger. Eventually they disappear altogether. There is only one set of footprints. They have become one. This goes on for a long time, but suddenly the second set of footprints is back. This time it seems even worse! Zigzags all over the place. Stops. Starts. Gashes in the sand. A variable mess of prints. You are amazed and shocked. Your dream ends. Now you pray: "Lord, I understand the first scene, with zigzags and fits. I was a new Christian; I was just learning. But You walked on through the storm and helped me learn to walk with You." "That is correct." "And when the smaller footprints were inside of Yours, I was actually learning to walk in Your steps, following You very closely." "Very good.. You have understood everything so far." When the smaller footprints grew and filled in Yours, I suppose that I was becoming like You in every way." "Precisely." "So, Lord, was there a regression or something? The footprints separated, and this time it was worse than at first." There is a pause as the Lord answers, with a smile in His voice. "You didn't know? It was then that we danced!"
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