Seven of us chaplains-in-training sat around a table, our assignment to speak of that which we were most afraid of. When it was my turn: I’m afraid that I won’t live long enough to do this work; the work of being a companion to others at the end of their lives; to be of service; to experience this unfolding of my True Nature.
It’s taken me six decades to come to a place where I’m beginning to have a taste of what it’s like to be a truly loving person, one who is able to receive and extend love to others. Not what I used to name as love, that is romantic and sexual and possessing love, but love “with an open hand” without clinging and holding.
It’s just after 6 am here in New Mexico and raining. I imagine the ground soaking it up and the spindly trees drinking their share before the desert sand lets the water drain away. Correction: Stepping outside, I notice that the brownish ground is sporadically sprinkled with hail, not rain (is it hail pebbles? grains? granules? golfballs?). And now, two hours later, the sun’s slowly melting the frozen particles, gradually releasing moisture at a rate that prevents run-off and nourish the shrubs. What a marvellous system!
May you be nourished by each breath today. May you savour the little miracles in the everyday. May you welcome fears as they arise–and melt away.