Home by Another Way

“I have seen the eyes of the enemy and it is me.” I should have this tattooed on the palm of my left hand so that I can remind myself frequently. Another, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself. “ That can go on the right palm. Even Raven, this morning sitting atop a pole housing lights that in darkness illuminate the DeVargas Center parking lot, knows these lessons and others. I can’t say what he talks about so noisily, but I sense that he’s convinced of his take on life.

All the self help gurus and preachers of the gospel of prosperity can continue on their circuits and count their return on the way to the bank, but none of what any one of them has to say matters a tinker’s dam. What does matter is that I finally change my habits. Life is a mighty teacher, and if we pay attention even a little bit, we can read its lessons, which sometimes most profoundly are simple. We make the journey complicated.

The volunteer organization for which I help prepare meals every Thursday afternoon to be delivered to 70 or so shut-ins depends on the kindness of people like you and me for funding and to do the daily labor, along with grant money and support from the City of Santa Fe. It is my first ever relatively sustained volunteer effort, and in only four weeks my nature has been challenged over and over—resistance of authority, dislike of pettiness, turf war where no one owns anything of value, rejection of expectations leveled by someone else. No slacker am I, nor have I ever been, but I thrive off of setting my own bar. Even when I’m being a curmudgeon, as I balk at the arbitrariness of others, my intent is almost always fair, reasonable—in my mind, indeed in my heart.

An old dog can learn new tricks. Slowly, slowly, over and over, I’m learning life’s mighty lessons. I’m recognizing that humility when I’m most fearful can be a good thing. I’m putting myself in the path of opportunities to be reminded that pride is not always proud, especially when insecurity is at the heart of it. From my dear mother I got a good dose of some kind of messy mix of pride and fear hardened to steely resistance. It never served her well, although I never heard her say otherwise. I’m saying it for myself, however. It hasn’t served me well.

Awhile back I volunteered for a task that had to be performed this weekend. Having made the commitment, I began feeling vulnerable, naked, and though I tried to worm my way into the background of this project, I was forced to step up and out. The actual service required of me matters not. The potential reward was the satisfaction of having done a good deed and good job, the by-product precious growth. Mission accomplished, but the list of assignments remains long.

A walk in the wilderness this Sunday morning with a group of like-minded pilgrims where some of us learned a little more about each other and all of us gave thanks at 10,000 feet was a suitable juncture to the weekend—a place on the calendar where some celebrated with fireworks and barbecue and fire water over the course of a few days, perhaps acknowledging the actual reason for the celebration. Imagine Christmas without store-bought presents, with only what we bring to one another. Imagine a greater awareness focused outside oneself, where we can lay down the burdens of who we are or who we fear ourselves to be in exchange for offering gifts of kindness and service instead, even to those whom we are surprised to reveal that we are indeed the Magi heading home by another way.

Home By Another Way—Santa Fe, New Mexico (July 6, 2008)

R. Harold Hollis