Making Room Within.

In a fleeting effort to be like his big brother, the young boy blew over the top of the Coke bottle in hopes of making a cool whistle only to have the Coke spray all over his face. The lesson to be learned was hard to hear over the laughs of the others: to get the bottle to sing it needs room for the air.

Mark Nepo reminded me of this important truth in a piece in his book "Endless Practice." A drum, violin, flute, and countless other instruments need to be hollowed out if there is to be sound. Like them, we need to create space within if we are going to bring a song into the world.

So much of life is about getting full, not becoming empty. I remember a quotation from a classmate’s yearbook page: “Too much is not enough, more is better.” That kind of thinking, to which I too often used to subscribe, leaves the bottle full or overflowing and the wind unable to enter. Like the Coke dripping from the young boy’s face, the wind that brings all songs into existence needs a place to go. If the bottle is full, there will be no song.

I like to think of us all as instruments of various shapes and sizes, sounds and textures, playing a masterpiece not of our own composing. Yes, sometimes we are out of tune, play the wrong note, or perform as if we are the only instrument in the orchestra . . . but beneath all of that is the need to have space within to make any sound at all.

When we are at our best, each of us adds a sound, plays a part in the overall composition. To do so, we need to be instruments with room for the wind. Whether we observe a season like Lent of not, making room within is an essential task if we are to bring any song into the world. Otherwise, we will go through life in silence with Coke dripping down our faces.

Coffee Mugs

I’ve never been much for mass-produced coffee mugs. While sometimes the sayings are funny, or the picture inviting, in the end they're just perfect, shiny mugs, each one like the others. I'm more drawn to handmade mugs. The earthy colors, irregular shapes and sizes, point to their one-of-a-kind quality.

Recently, I read the derivation of the word “authentic,” meaning “bearing the mark of the hands” and thought of the coffee mugs I like. They bear the marks of the hands that created them, and there’s something about the connection with the maker that moves me. Each mug was a piece of clay thrown onto a wheel. The wheel spun around, as hands and water molded the clay, until it was in the desired shape to glaze and fire.

Obviously, the analogy cries out to us all. Like a mug, we were once just clay (or dust, as the Bible says) but in the hands of the potter we took shape and became a one-of-a-kind work of art. Our shapes and sizes are as varied as our colors and textures, but each of us is unique. We are authentic, because we bear the marks of the hands that created us.

The problem is we try to hide those marks and look like all the other mugs. The shiny coat can be tempting, and we might even go for a whimsical saying or pretty picture to hide our true selves, but in the end we will look like a mass-produced object.

What if we were to re-claim our marks? What if we were to spend time looking at the marks of the potter? What if we honored those marks by living a life specifically geared to those marks?

It sounds so simple, neat, and tidy when described in a blog, but such reflection and excavation will be all but simple. In the end, though, we will uncover our true selves and sit on the shelf like no other mug in the store.

Above the clouds.

I don’t remember the first time I rode on an airplane, but I remember when flying was exciting, an adventure within my grasp. In particular, I remember a flight leaving Newark Airport under black clouds. When it was our turn, the engines roared, the plane lurched forward, and raindrops slid sideways across my window like wayward tears. Soon we were lost in the dark clouds, and I couldn’t see a thing. After what felt like hours, we cleared the clouds and witnessed the brightest day imaginable.

As I peered at the tops of the clouds. looking for people jumping from one to the other because that’s where I thought heaven was located, I marveled at the contrast between the world below the clouds and the one above. How could the two be part of the same day?

I have remembered that flight often, particularly when the dark clouds of another sort arrive. When rain pelts and tears flow, sometimes sideways, it’s easy to focus only on the darkness and rain, to think what you see is all there is to the day. But what I learned on that flight, and many times since, is that a brightness awaits above, on the other side of the clouds.

The challenge is not only remembering this, but also making the journey through the clouds. They seem darker up close, and, as we travel through, it seems to take forever. We become blind, doubting whether there’s a brighter day above, until we clear the clouds and look in wonder at the brightness surrounding us. Such an arrival causes us to celebrate and give thanks . . . until we find ourselves on the other side of the clouds again wondering all over again if this is all there is!

Someday, we’ll make it through and be able to stay, but, for now, we need to learn the lesson over and over again.