sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth .
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters
and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend .
The Wealth of Small Things
H ow do we measure our wealth? Our culture tends toward size, scale, or some predetermined idea of perfection as evidence of success. Not only in the bigger house or the newest electronics, but in a feeling of success in our work, always answering all our emails promptly, completely clearing our desk, being able to take our family on the most fabulous vacation, have the biggest Thanksgiving or Christmas, make sure our children have the most popular friends—these are things that grab our attention, or things we use to convince ourselves we are wealthy or successful.
But we are also driven by a more subtle thirst. Ultimately, we want to feel important; we want to believe that our lives have meaning, that we matter. In service of this, we seek and accept all manner of responsibilities, tasks, opportunities to help, and chances to feel useful. I have witnessed countless good people seduced by what my friend Mark Nepo calls “experience greed”—namely, an insidious grasping not so much for material possessions but rather for a seemingly benign cacophony of socially active networks, service opportunities, ecological adventures, community activities, helpful organizations, sacred gatherings, and spiritual experiences. This “experience greed” is more subtle, as it most likely appears as anoble and unassailable form of altruistic service or emotional, spiritual, or community growth.
But all excesses invariably have their cost. Regardless whether our craving is for material, emotional, or spiritual gain, too much of anything is still, in the end, too much. Most spiritual traditions have little use for such excesses. Instead, most tend to teach how to pay very close attention to small things, how they grow, and what they can reveal to us about the larger things. To find, as the poet William Blake reminds us, the world in a grain of sand.
What is true wealth? What might it feel like? Often, we imagine a feeling of ease, or peace, perhaps a melting of worry into a deep pool of contentment, or leaning back into trustworthy arms of care and support and knowing we are safe; or maybe it is a simple feeling of joy, nearly forgotten, slowly remembered.
How do we find this kind of wealth? It sounds a bit like heaven, unattainable in this life on earth. Many traditions speak of heaven as a place far away, a final release from bondage, free of troubles, lifted up in happiness and joy. But in the Christian Bible, when Jesus described heaven he rarely spoke of a place but described a quality of heart, a practice of attention, a way of being lovingly awake, awestruck by the beauty and grace of ordinary things we might easily overlook.
When Jesus spoke, his words were often kind, and easily understood. They were doorways for the most humble seeker—deeply comforting, simple invitations for anyone seeking refuge. When he spoke of heaven, he surely spoke with an easy familiarity, perhaps describing heaven by saying Heaven is like the mustard seed; it is so small, if you drop it on the ground by mistake you may lose it. But if you place it carefully in the earth and give it water, a little time and care, it grows by itself into a beautiful bush, lush and full. On a hot day you could sit beside the shade of it and be cooled. The birds of the air build nests in its branches and sing songs that make your own heart sing. Heaven, is just like that .
Then Jesus might say, You mix flour and water into dough for bread, and you take just a pinch of leaven, knead the leaven into the dough, feeling the warm texture of the dough in your hands. Then you
and you see the size of the cloth .
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters
and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend .
The Wealth of Small Things
H ow do we measure our wealth? Our culture tends toward size, scale, or some predetermined idea of perfection as evidence of success. Not only in the bigger house or the newest electronics, but in a feeling of success in our work, always answering all our emails promptly, completely clearing our desk, being able to take our family on the most fabulous vacation, have the biggest Thanksgiving or Christmas, make sure our children have the most popular friends—these are things that grab our attention, or things we use to convince ourselves we are wealthy or successful.
But we are also driven by a more subtle thirst. Ultimately, we want to feel important; we want to believe that our lives have meaning, that we matter. In service of this, we seek and accept all manner of responsibilities, tasks, opportunities to help, and chances to feel useful. I have witnessed countless good people seduced by what my friend Mark Nepo calls “experience greed”—namely, an insidious grasping not so much for material possessions but rather for a seemingly benign cacophony of socially active networks, service opportunities, ecological adventures, community activities, helpful organizations, sacred gatherings, and spiritual experiences. This “experience greed” is more subtle, as it most likely appears as anoble and unassailable form of altruistic service or emotional, spiritual, or community growth.
But all excesses invariably have their cost. Regardless whether our craving is for material, emotional, or spiritual gain, too much of anything is still, in the end, too much. Most spiritual traditions have little use for such excesses. Instead, most tend to teach how to pay very close attention to small things, how they grow, and what they can reveal to us about the larger things. To find, as the poet William Blake reminds us, the world in a grain of sand.
What is true wealth? What might it feel like? Often, we imagine a feeling of ease, or peace, perhaps a melting of worry into a deep pool of contentment, or leaning back into trustworthy arms of care and support and knowing we are safe; or maybe it is a simple feeling of joy, nearly forgotten, slowly remembered.
How do we find this kind of wealth? It sounds a bit like heaven, unattainable in this life on earth. Many traditions speak of heaven as a place far away, a final release from bondage, free of troubles, lifted up in happiness and joy. But in the Christian Bible, when Jesus described heaven he rarely spoke of a place but described a quality of heart, a practice of attention, a way of being lovingly awake, awestruck by the beauty and grace of ordinary things we might easily overlook.
When Jesus spoke, his words were often kind, and easily understood. They were doorways for the most humble seeker—deeply comforting, simple invitations for anyone seeking refuge. When he spoke of heaven, he surely spoke with an easy familiarity, perhaps describing heaven by saying Heaven is like the mustard seed; it is so small, if you drop it on the ground by mistake you may lose it. But if you place it carefully in the earth and give it water, a little time and care, it grows by itself into a beautiful bush, lush and full. On a hot day you could sit beside the shade of it and be cooled. The birds of the air build nests in its branches and sing songs that make your own heart sing. Heaven, is just like that .
Then Jesus might say, You mix flour and water into dough for bread, and you take just a pinch of leaven, knead the leaven into the dough, feeling the warm texture of the dough in your hands. Then you
Similar Books
