Yesterday morning, after an evening spent reading about the life experiences and proclivities of a person who appeared to have spent their entire life under the influence of alcoholism and addiction in one form or another, and time taken to watch a video in which the thin curlicues of green resin and tree root formed at the point of a chisel eventually led to the revelation of a vase that reminded me of Earth in space (h/t to Windbag on SixtyG’s post); I awoke to find a package atop of my closed computer. It had been placed there by MrM who'd found it on the doorstep earlier in the morning, and it contained a book I'd ordered earlier in the week on, The One Life We’re Given: Finding the Wisdom That Waits in Your Heart, by Mark Nepo.
I opened it to find this on the first page under the heading, Shaped by Life:
My dear father, Morris Nepo, died three years ago at the age of ninety-three. He was at his strongest and happiest when working with wood, when building things. In his basement workshop, no one could suppress his love of life and his insatiable creativity. I learned a great deal from him, though I can see now that there were many times he didn’t know he was teaching and I didn’t know I was learning. Mostly, he taught me by example that we’re called to make good use of the one life we’re given. He taught me that giving our all can lead to moments of fulfillment and grace. And those moments of full living can sustain us.
When just a boy, I watched my father chisel boards with care and precision. He kept his chisels sharp. He’d always say, “Don’t stop in mid-stroke or the board will splinter. Once you start, keep pushing all the way through.” He’d lean over the board and his hands and the chisel would become one. A thin shaving of wood would peel away, as if he’d loved the board into giving it up. He’d pick up the light shaving from the floor and rub it between his fingers. Then he’d rub the grain his effort had revealed and smile. In that moment, he seemed content, at peace. When I read Plato years later, with all his squawk about absolute forms, I knew that’s where my father went. For the moment, he seemed complete. He’d rub the smooth board one more time and drop the shaving. I loved to watch the feather of wood float to the basement floor. Looking back, I’m certain this was a moment in which he felt thoroughly immersed.
The wood shaving floating to the floor was an expression of effort turning into grace. Years later I would feel a similar sense of completion when building things myself...
With his immersion in what he loved, my father showed me that throwing ourselves wholeheartedly into what we’re given brings us alive. Craftsman that he was, he left deep messages in all that he touched, some of which have only reached me now...
Yet work as we do to carve and shape, we are carved and shaped as we go. No one can escape the way experience forms us...
Everyone has to uncover the lessons of their own journey. The word honor means to keep what is true in view. And so we live and honor the one life we are given by keeping what we learn in view--about ourselves, each other, and life. We can begin by honoring the truth of our experience and learning from those who’ve loved us. Aware of it or not we each have someone who’s taught us something about how to live. Who is that teacher for you? And what are you learning in the slow blossom of time?
8 comments:
Say What?
Always keep your chisel sharp and keep on keep on planing;
Only way to find the place that's beyond all explaining.
I have been fortunate to have many wonderful teachers in my life, but if the question is about one single someone, then I guess that would be my father. He taught me much about work, such as keep working until the day you die, and work intelligently. That's the positive part. He also taught me, by example, how not to live. Those are very valuable lessons - life is too short to make all the possible mistakes so it pays to learn from the mistakes that others make.
ricpic, that's so good it made me laugh. Seemingly tossed out with the keeping and hitting the mark!
And SixtyG, the line that stood out to me in the quote was: I learned a great deal from him, though I can see now that there were many times he didn’t know he was teaching and I didn’t know I was learning, as it covers a lot of territory!
I started going to an oil painting class with my dad when I was in junior high My mom signed us up, and he and I went together. For Christmas that year, he gave me a grey briefcase with fold out latches that he'd converted into a paint box with wood dividers he'd made and sprayed gold; and he filled it with paint, some of which I still have. Today, however, I used new paint, his old easel and the some of the paint brushes I took out of my mom's apartment when she moved to nursing care to work on a self-portrait in which the right half of me is illuminated with light and the left half is in shadow. If I have courage when I'm done, I'll post it, but for now, I am enjoying the thought of using what I received from them to honor what I've been given and keep what's true in view.
My mother was probably the biggest influence in my life, despite her mental illness. Depression that kept her in bed 24 hours a day at long stretches of her life. Electro-shock therapy actually helped her, as barbaric as that may sound. I watched her have a nervous breakdown when I was four. That'll rattle your cage, let me tell you.
But how did she influence me? She was always for the underdog, being one herself. Always lashed out against corrupt and oppressive authority. There was a home in our little town of 32 houses that took in mentally ill residents. People who couldn't even work at a sheltered workshop, but didn't need to be in a hospital. They were welcome in our home, as was Old Man Rozelle, who lived down the street. It wasn't very fun having weird people sitting around the living room, but I'm grateful for the lesson now.
My mom was an accomplished pianist and organist. Sometimes when she was able enough, she gave lessons. She tried to teach me, but that doesn't always work out, so I ended up taking lessons from others. But, despite others teaching me how to translate notes on a page, she taught me to love music. I started writing when I was a teen. I've never been a very good player or performer, but writing has been my thing for 40+ years now. I get a kick out of hearing others play something I've written.
Something she told me has always stayed with me. She got it from her grandmother. "Don't pray for an easy life; pray to be a strong person." I've hated that saying for decades. Like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof I sometimes look upward and ask if I can't have it easy, just for a little while.
We didn't always get along, but I realize now how much of my life was shaped by my mother, and I wonder what I've passed on to my kids.
MamaM -- You're right about the tossed out part. A minute later I realized, "Hey wait a minute, a chisel doesn't plane." Oh well.
Very good, MamaM. I have too much to say so will stick to Granny. Watched me ever summer, as parents grew asunder, until about age ten. She farmed, in SE GA 160 acres, alone. Strong woman who taught me to stand up for yourself, cause no body the hell else will. She loved, but was tough too, likely cause she dared love.
Yes, Yes, and Yes. With a larger yes than I can hold or express, I celebrate the spontaneity and depth of lived awareness honored, expressed and left on this doorstep in the form of words, memories, poem, music and love.
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