Hiding in Plain View
Presented to the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Huntington
January 27, 2008
Rev. Paul Ratzlaff
I’m told that at Sophia Lyons Fahs camp they play a hide-and-seek game in which the high school youth hide and the younger children find them. Like many things at Fahs camp this has a special name, but I’ve forgotten it. Perhaps someone here knows? At any rate, I was told that one time a young person hid herself on the lawn, pretending to blend in with the grass. I can imagine her thoughts as she lay there, “I’m grass, green blades of grass. If I think hard enough, they’ll pass me by.” And I can imagine how quietly she held her breath as the first kids did indeed pass her by. How she noticed her heart beating. Then a child exclaimed gleefully, “I’ve caught one!” I liked hearing that story of hiding in plain view, just as I like the story that Carolyn and I told the children this morning – that God chooses to hide in human hearts, likewise hiding in plain view.
In that playful spirit, I’d like to tell you a story of three conversations that I have had with my heart.
The first was not terribly auspicious. It began with a phone call on my cell phone. I felt a tinge of annoyance at the interruption of my train of thought, rehearsing all the projects that I wanted to accomplish, the left-over phone calls and tasks that I wanted to get to.
“Hello, this is Paul,” I answered the phone.
“This is your heart.” At first I was confused, “I’m sorry I didn’t get your name.”
“This is your heart,” heart repeated.
Still confused, I said, “But I don’t know any Mr. DeHart…. Are you trying to sell me something?”
“No, no, no! The last thing I would want to do is ‘sell you something.’”
“So who are you?”
“I am your heart.”
“My heart?!”
“Yup. Your heart.”
“So why are you calling me on my cell phone. You’re not about to have a heart attack, are you?”
“Not to worry…probably when you have a heart attack it will come out of the blue. I’m calling you because it’s awfully hard to get your attention any other way.”
“Well I’m a busy guy. I’ve got all this stuff to do. In fact, right now I’m in kind of a rush. I’ve got a sermon to write, several conflicts to try to figure out how to manage, a bunch of phone calls to people who are not well, and a whole list of projects to move ahead on.”
“I see, so this is not a good time to talk.”
“Not really.”
“So when would be a better time?”
“I don’t really know…how about next summer. In the summer things slow down, I’m more relaxed. That might be a great time to talk further.”
“Not till next summer,” heart said wistfully.
“Next summer, call me then. Goodbye.” I pressed the red button to end the call, and tried to remember where I was before I was interrupted.
Does that ever happen to you? There’s a sudden upwelling from deep within, but you push it aside, ignore it, because you have more pressing things to be done. You’re feeling overwhelmed with all the routine stuff of your life – no time for a message from your heart.
The next time heart called, I was musing over a cup of coffee. I had just finished my Italian wedding soup, Tuscan roll and peanut-butter cookie, and was sipping my coffee while watching black birds “daviting” on the bare branches out my window. My cell phone rang.
“This is your heart.”
“Oh yeah, I recognize your voice this time.”
“Is this a better time to talk?”
“I guess so. I was just resting a bit, before I got on with stuff. So what what’s up?”
“I’ve been noticing how you well up with tears, kind of out of the blue, when you hear the ‘story corps’ on the radio while you’re driving to the Fellowship on Sunday mornings.”
“Yeah,” I said, “It happens almost every Sunday morning. I’m listening to ‘All Things Considered – Weekend Edition’ on National Public Radio, driving on 25A, usually around Fort Hill, when I hear the music to introduce ‘story corps.’”
(‘Story Corps,’ for those who haven’t heard it, is a recording booth where typically family members interview each other about stories from their lives. A daughter might interview her mother about how the mother met the father who is now deceased. Or it might be a now adult son interviewing his mother about how she, a black single mother with several kids, was able to always find special presents for Christmas, even though she sometimes had to scrounge for food. Typically the stories end with the family members saying, ‘I love you so much.’ At which point my eyes water so that I’m tempted to pull to the side of Maple Hill Road by the hospital until I regain my composure.)
Back to the conversation with my heart – my heart says, “Want to explore that strong feeling?”
“Oh my, I don’t know….”
“Well, if you do, let me know. I’m always here for you.”
“Thanks, but I don’t know…maybe another time. Thanks for calling.”
“So long.”
Do you ever have that experience? There’s an inner tugging, repeated, but, truth be told, it feels a little scary to get into. Better stay on the surface, what I know already, than to start to uncover something deeper, something unknown, something that might be embarrassing, frightening, unpleasant.
Over time, I’ve been slowly building my strength as an inner seeker. I’ve found inspiration in what Pema Chodron calls being a “spiritual warrior.” That is I’m trying to be more courageous as I explore the feelings and inner experiences that frighten me. I’m trying to take honest stock of who I am, facing squarely the parts of me that I fear and don’t like. I’m also trying to pay better attention to when I open my heart to others who are in pain, and when and how I close it off. I’m trying to stay with the suffering that is around me, rather than walling myself off from it.
Lord knows that I’m a beginner at all this. I take refuge in the Zen saying, seven times down, eight times up, because I get defensives and closed and insensitive again and again and again. But I keep working at it.
I love a story that Pema tells on herself, because it feels like my experience. She writes:
Recently I had the pleasure of going to a friend’s swimming pool in the country. I had just received a letter, so when I got there I sat in the car and read it. The letter was very straightforward. It pointed out to me that in a particular situation I had neglected to communicate with the right people. My lack of clear communication had caused confusion and disappointment. Reading this letter brought up a surprising amount of pain. ….I adopted a common strategy: blame. It was someone else’s fault….
Right there in the car, I got out a pen and began to write a letter to the person I was blaming. I made the blame solid and real: I put it down on paper. I knew enough to stop writing, but I said to myself, “How can I be asking other people to do this kind of practice? It’s asking too much. It’s too challenging, too hard.” I got out of the car and sat down next to the pool and the pain was so consuming that at first I forgot all about the … teachings. I didn’t want to be a warrior. On the other hand, I know that unhappiness lies with … pointing myself away from the discomfort. Believe me, I’ve done it enough to know that this is true.
I tried to encourage myself along the line that I am bigger than my thoughts and emotions…. But no shift was happening, absolutely none.
Finally I got into the pool and started to swim laps. After going back and forth about six times, I put my elbows on the side of the pool and began to weep. At that point I was overwhelmed by sense of how we suffer.
Then, not because I was doing a particular practice but because I’m so familiar with finding the soft spot [in my heart], a reservoir of empathy arose seemingly out of nowhere, completely available to me. I was able to connect profoundly with my brothers and sisters all over the world. …. The reservoir of compassion began to emerge.[1]
I’ve known that; the first reaction a temptation to blame; next a temptation to give up; and then, seemingly out of nowhere, a softening of the heart. And so we keep at it.
Back to the story of my conversations with my heart. Next time heart called, I was readier. I was more relaxed. I trusted more that the many commitments of my life would get done, in their time, in their way. I didn’t have to fill my mind with them, even in those moments that I could do nothing about them. I was able to be more present.
The familiar voice, “this is heart.”
“I’m glad you called. I’ve grown curious about you.”
“About me?”
“Yeah, about you,” I said to heart. “Tell me about who you are.”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“I’d like to try to know, if you don’t mind.”
“I can only try to describe who I am in words that will work for you as a human being. For example, I am a loving container that embraces whatever feeling you may have.”
“You mean that when I feel ashamed of what I have done, you embrace that?”
“Not exactly. I mean that when you feel ashamed, I hold you in love so that you can really look at your feeling of embarrassment, assess your regret for what you might have done, and recommit to the value aspire to be. I’m a container in that I give you space to really see what is there.”
“To change metaphors, I am the ground that will not leave you, the ground that sustains you as you delve deeply into your spirit, the ground that loves you whatever you feel and experience.”
“Does that mean that you love me, even when I am hypocritical?”
“Yes.”
“Even when I pretend to be something that I know that I am not?”
“Yes.”
“Even when I speak of love, but don’t know how to live it?”
“Even then, I love you,” heart replied.
“I try to come off so composed, but I am so frightened of getting older,” I said in a weak voice.
“Yes, yes and yes,” heart said.
“But I haven’t even asked the questions.”
“I know,” heart replied patiently, “you think you’re the only one to have these fears, but you’re just like everyone else. Some day you’ll know that you’re connected with everyone else.”
“When I feel so scared, I forget that there’s anybody else.”
“That’s why I’m here – to help you remember you’re not alone,” heart soothed.
“So what did you think would be my questions that you said, ‘yes, yes and yes’ to?” I pressed.
“One, will you still love me, if I lose my mind?”
“I’m so frightened. Every bit of me is tied up in my mind. If I’m not insightful, informed, and articulate, I’m nothing. Every time I suffer ‘brain lock’ and can’t think of a word, a name, I shake inwardly, ‘is this the beginning of the end?’”
“Even when your memory’s gone, even when you don’t recognize your son and daughter, your wife, I will love you.”
“I wish I could believe that…” I said.
“My next ‘yes’ was to the question, ‘even if I get nasty, will I love you?’ and my answer is ‘yes.’”
“God I’ve seen those old folks get paranoid, angry, outrageous. I would be so ashamed if I were to become like that. I would hate myself, were I to become nasty like some people get as they deteriorate.”
“You would hate yourself, were you aware. You may not be. But I will love you, even if you’re nasty, obnoxious, hurtful.”
“Oh, I wish I could believe that…”
“And my third ‘yes’ is to the question ‘will you still love me, even at the end, when I am dying, tubes sticking out of my body, the stench of decaying flesh, the wracked breathing – will you still love?’ My ‘yes’ is ‘I will still love you.’ I will love you even when your consciousness stills and you no longer can take in that you are loved.”
“I wish I could believe that…”
“There’s a chant that you sometimes sing. I want to you really listen and take it in,” said my heart:
Listen, listen, listen to my heart's song.
Listen, listen, listen to my heart's song.
I will never forget you, I will never forsake you.
I will never forget you, I will never forsake you.
“Thank you, heart. I want to live more from you. Thanks for being there.”
“I’m always here. Even when you’re not aware, I am here. I love you.”
What I’ve just shared with you is fanciful, a bit of spiritual play – serious play, but playful nonetheless. Truth be told, I’m actually somewhere between the second and third conversation in my spiritual life. I’m aware that there is more hidden in my heart than I have been willing to engage. And I am learning to trust that there is more hiding in my heart, wanting to come forward – hiding in plain view.
May each of us experience that abiding and embracing love that encourages us to be ever more wise and compassionate.
[1] Pema Chodron, The Places That Scare You, 2001, Boston, Shambhala, 84-85.
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