My Presence Is My Present
After my surgery, I spent six days at the Loretto Motherhouse for rest, silence, and some much-needed introspection.
Being still can be difficult for me. I am much more comfortable doing than simply being. But when life gives you little choice but to be quiet, it is interesting how eventually you begin to settle into the silence.
Of course, I arrived armed with five books because apparently my idea of “doing nothing” still requires a reading list.
I started with The Complete Works of Emilie Cady, but it wasn't resonating with me, so I gave myself permission to put it down. I tried Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning, but even with my readers, I couldn't manage the tiny print. Apparently enlightenment also requires the correct font size.
I settled into The Why Café, a wonderful little book centered around a powerful question: What is my Purpose for Existing?
Then I reread The Four Agreements. I've read it before, but something was different this time. The words hadn't changed—I had. I was receiving them from a different place and, I believe, a higher consciousness. I'm looking forward to exploring those teachings even more when Debi Griffin and I facilitate our Four Agreements class in January.
I finished with How to Be a Great Boss, connected to the Traction model we are using at Unity. It challenged me to look honestly at how I lead, where I take on too much, where I need to trust others more, and what kind of leader I want to become.
But the greatest lessons of those six days weren't found in books.
They were found in the silence.
This past year has held tremendous loss. I have grieved both of my parents. I have grieved Dolly Parton, someone who represented so much of what I believe about kindness, authenticity, generosity, joy, and loving people exactly as they are.
I have also reflected deeply on our spiritual community and the difficult months we have traveled together.
There were moments at Loretto when I cried.
There were moments when I walked through the woods despite my very real fear of snakes and spiders. One day I discovered the shed skin of what appeared to be a very large snake along my path. I considered turning around.
But I kept walking. There's probably a sermon in that.
Because isn't that so much of life?
Sometimes the path frightens us. Sometimes we don't know what's around the next bend. Sometimes there is evidence that what we fear may actually be out there.
And still, we walk.
Yet those six days weren't filled only with grief or fear.
I laughed. I prayed. I walked the labyrinth. I watched the woods outside my window. I worked puzzles. I read. I rested. I listened.
And I experienced immense joy.
Somewhere in all that silence, I realized: I have a happy heart.
Not because everything in my life has been happy. It hasn't.
I've experienced grief, conflict, disappointment, fear, and loss.
But underneath it all, there is still joy. There is still hope. There is still love. There is still a desire to help people and leave this world a little kinder than I found it.
During the retreat, I even began writing a song. The central line came to me in the silence:
“My presence is my present.”
Perhaps that was the greatest lesson of my retreat. My greatest gift isn't always what I accomplish, fix, build, lead, preach, or produce. And neither is yours.
Sometimes the greatest gift we can give another person—and ourselves—is simply our presence.
To listen.
To notice.
To sit beside someone.
To love without trying to fix.
To be fully here.
I left those sacred grounds with a renewed intention for how I want to live: to love more freely, listen more deeply, trust more completely, and be present to the people I love while they are here. After a year of losing, changing, grieving, growing, and becoming, the silence reminded me:
I am still here.
Still loving.
Still laughing.
Still growing.
Still believing.
And underneath it all, I still have a happy heart.
Maybe today we can each remember:
Our presence is our present.
And what a sacred gift it is to give.
Many blessings, Rev. Bobby
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