Somewhere in the past few years I read a book entitled, Chop Wood, Carry Water. It followed a Buddhist monk as he went about his day, every detail, every step he took, each implement he used, each drink of water he took, each crumb, each breath, attention paid to each facet of his existence while he moved through it. He was not beseeching anybody for anything, simply - simply - flowing through his day appreciating each and every of its aspects. He didn't do chores. He performed devotions. In this way his day became a State of Grace because each moment presented itself as new and vital, each second a wonder after the next. The most basic elements of his daily life, all of them, every one, the nuts and bolts of holding an axe or drawing water, all of this connected him to a Luminous Mystery. This is my understanding of prayer and grace, and, as you can see, there is no theology tampering with how you get there, no blood sacrifice, no Hail, Mary's. Linda Loman, when talking about her husband, Willie, in "Death Of A Salesman" exhorted, 'Attention must be paid'. That Buddhist monk thought the same thing. Pay attention.
So I'm thinking about prayer and wondering what it is other than an attention to details designed to lull you into an appreciation of the sacred, the timelessness of connection with something other, and, since everything is other, you are connected to everything. And isn't that the point? Timelessness, unity, unbearable lightness, peace, thankfulness, gratitude. I might not connect with an Almighty but I do connect to life around me.I cannot imagine St. Theresa felt any better than I do when I water the garden and split firewood - when "I've got my groove on."
Moses had his burning bush. Jack had his beanstalk. I had my hydrangea.
All summer I paid really close attention to the daily growth of a hydrangea I thought had died over the winter. Its companion, planted five years ago, didn't survive either - tough winters up here - however one morning late in the season a tiny green shoot, smaller than the head of a pin, appeared on the stem closest to the ground. Life! It was fighting for its life. It fascinates and compels me, this struggle for existence. I checked it many times a day, each time I walked by I gave it my focus and damn if I wasn't able to watch it grow. My daughter thought I was delusional, but I hung in there and so did that hydrangea. That pin head became a collar button became a shoot and a leaf then a full grown plant and while it grew too late to flower, it caught the moon in its broad leaves, filled the bellies of assorted beetles, provided protection for a retreating milk snake that lives under our front stoop.
"Everything that lives is holy." So said William Blake.
I got to thinking.
That humble hydrangea, that plant that would not grow until I nudged it (or so it seemed). I potchkied with it, stroked its leaves, whispered to it, fertilized it, urged it on, watered it gently with a battered watering can, kept the columbine in its place, clipped away debris, kept the soil aerated. When I breathed on it did that help it grow? Hope is not faith. I am not Maimonides, and I am for sure not St. Theresa, but still I ask this question: was I praying? It had my full attention. I was focused on nothing else. I wanted it to live, not just live but flourish. I was so much in the present that what anxieties I had were, at that time, non-existent. And my worries for the future? What worries? What future? I was worried about that silly hydrangea in the right here and now. I was connected to a form of life so different, strange but not really alien unless something seen every day can come to seem alien? It's growth was my growth. I had to heal this thing. Still, it grew too late to flower.
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