After my father had passed, it was left to the three daughters to sift through the piles of paper and other stuff everywhere in his office: on his desk, on a table and two chairs, and almost everywhere on the floor. We all did our share of this gigantic task. Above all, my father was a very creative spirit, an engineer and a gardener, and always full of ideas and projects of what he wanted to do. Sorting out his overwhelming mess was one of those projects, but it always came last. It wasn’t something that was creative, so his attempts at tidying were always ended by other projects that were more urgent or more interesting to him.
One of the precious things I found when going through his creative mess is the skeleton of a little seahorse floating in plexiglass, yellowed with age. It’s been on my desk ever since, reminding me of him. I never really stopped to reflect on why it seemed meaningful to me, it just was. This morning it came to me why.
My father loved all things natural. This love was three things for him: an openness to perceiving the wondrousness of it, an intellectual curiosity that wanted to understand, and a belief in the essential goodness of what he called God’s creation. When I was on my own spiritual quest, my understanding of this love of his was skewed by what I rejected as his constant mind activity, telling us endlessly about what he saw or heard, as well as by my disaffection from his Christian beliefs. As a result, I wasn’t able to share fully his love with him.
Because I reacted so strongly to these two aspects, I also couldn’t appreciate the third one: his amazing openness and readiness to see the wonder of the world that surrounds us. It wasn’t that he wanted to be spiritual and aware, or that he was practicing mindfulness. For him, it was simply how he was.
My father loved all things natural. This love was three things for him: an openness to perceiving the wondrousness of it, an intellectual curiosity that wanted to understand, and a belief in the essential goodness of what he called God’s creation. When I was on my own spiritual quest, my understanding of this love of his was skewed by what I rejected as his constant mind activity, telling us endlessly about what he saw or heard, as well as by my disaffection from his Christian beliefs. As a result, I wasn’t able to share fully his love with him.
Because I reacted so strongly to these two aspects, I also couldn’t appreciate the third one: his amazing openness and readiness to see the wonder of the world that surrounds us. It wasn’t that he wanted to be spiritual and aware, or that he was practicing mindfulness. For him, it was simply how he was.
So when I was looking at the intricate skeleton of the seahorse this morning, I found myself seeing with his eyes. Eyes of wonder. Eyes that were alive with taking in detail, the beauty of form and function, color and shape. Ears that came alive with listening. What came naturally to him, what was simply and very deeply part of his way of being, isn’t quite so natural to me.
What has always been part of my way of being is the deep need for, and movement into, silence. This came with a protective defensiveness against a world that seemed often too noisy, too chaotic, too suffering for me to be really open to it. So openness to the wonder of the world came much later in my spiritual unfolding.
As I reflect on my father’s spiritual gift to me, his openness to wonder, I am also struck by how we all naturally embody different aspects of Being. Some of us are naturally open and appreciative, some drawn to silence, or service, some are naturally inquisitive about Truth. These are the gifts that help us along on our path. In addition, though, we may feel we need to practice those aspects that don't come so naturally. Many spiritual traditions encourage such an approach.
Even better, though, is to discover these expressions of Being in ourselves, as abilities that are part of us. They may not have been there to start with, but as we merge into Being, they will come alive in us as part of our spiritual deepening. My father’s little seahorse spoke to me of this: a natural readiness in my father that has opened up in me over time. We can appreciate the natural gifts in ourselves and others without having to worry about what’s ‘not developed enough yet’. It will come, sooner or later. Our paths are all wondrously different, perfect for us in this lifetime.
What has always been part of my way of being is the deep need for, and movement into, silence. This came with a protective defensiveness against a world that seemed often too noisy, too chaotic, too suffering for me to be really open to it. So openness to the wonder of the world came much later in my spiritual unfolding.
As I reflect on my father’s spiritual gift to me, his openness to wonder, I am also struck by how we all naturally embody different aspects of Being. Some of us are naturally open and appreciative, some drawn to silence, or service, some are naturally inquisitive about Truth. These are the gifts that help us along on our path. In addition, though, we may feel we need to practice those aspects that don't come so naturally. Many spiritual traditions encourage such an approach.
Even better, though, is to discover these expressions of Being in ourselves, as abilities that are part of us. They may not have been there to start with, but as we merge into Being, they will come alive in us as part of our spiritual deepening. My father’s little seahorse spoke to me of this: a natural readiness in my father that has opened up in me over time. We can appreciate the natural gifts in ourselves and others without having to worry about what’s ‘not developed enough yet’. It will come, sooner or later. Our paths are all wondrously different, perfect for us in this lifetime.
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