I鈥檓 always amazed 鈥� and dismayed 鈥� at how quickly I fall out of being present to what Richard Rohr would call the 鈥渞eally real鈥� or the 鈥渘aked now.鈥� This is especially hard to bear as it takes so much work to get to such a state in the first place. Just as I鈥檝e finally fought past my ego and am in the moment with an open mind, heart, and body, the whole house of cards falls apart. In an instant I鈥檝e closed down again am focused on my own small, petty self. Thankfully, however, these moments are sometimes accompanied by gentle prods from the Divine to open back up again, focus on the moment, and glimpse a truth about myself. The trick is catching these moments of grace, which are always undeserved, before they pass.
I鈥檓 often reminded of an experience I had when doing my Masters in the Sophia program at Holy Names University in Oakland, California. I flew down from Victoria one weekend a month. On one of those weekends, Richard Rohr came and gave a series of lectures.聽 It was amazing; I learned so much about myself. I felt truly cracked open and expanded.
So it was in this cracked-open, naked state in which I prepared to leave the university on Sunday for the journey home. I should note here that I鈥檓 not a good traveler. I stress out. A lot. I worry. A lot. For me, each step in the travel process is just a catastrophe waiting to happen. What if my ride is late? What if my first plane is late and I miss my connection? What if there are weather delays? What if I get crammed into a middle or window seat and have to go to the bathroom? Try as I might, most of my trips are a constant stream of worry from beginning to end. And, it鈥檚 really just my ego freaking out because it has no control over the process. From the moment I step out of my door until I return home, things are out of my hands. And my neurotic, control-freak ego has a conniption. (Not being in control, by the way, is how Richard Rohr defines suffering.)
But that post-Rohr Sunday I was in a completely different space as I stood waiting for the shared ride van to pick me up and take me to the airport. I wasn鈥檛 worried. At all. I鈥檇 pushed my ego aside and was prepared to accept the trip home as it came. And, after all, what could possibly happen? I was in this spiritually enlightened space, and that should protect me, like bubble wrap, right?
You know where this is going, don鈥檛 you?
My ride was supposed to arrive at 3:15 p.m. Which ticked by and my watch soon read 3:20, then 3:25. Did I mention I was also flying out of a different airport on this trip and it was further away so it would require more travel time? When it was 3:30 I started to edge into panic mode and called the rideshare company. I was told they鈥檇 scheduled my pick-up for 3:15 a.m. that day, not p.m.
Right then I dropped like a stone out of the naked now and became one big ball of hopping mad ego.
What did they mean the car came at 3:15 a.m.? Why hadn鈥檛 anyone called me when I鈥檇 missed it? What were they going to do about it? I had a plane to catch!
The dispatcher put me on hold for a moment, then came back and said they were sending a new van out. It would arrive in 20-25 minutes. I demanded that it not be a shared ride, as I had a schedule to keep and I would now be very behind. The dispatcher promised I would be the only one on that ride.
Having 20-25 minutes to kill when you鈥檙e really angry is never a good thing. It gives you time to stew and for the anger to simmer, then bubble, and then boil over. I was well on my way to Mt. Vesuvius mode when suddenly and quietly a line from Richard Rohr鈥檚 lectures crept into my head: 鈥淲ho do you think you are?鈥� He鈥檇 actually used it himself in the context of getting upset over travel plans gone wrong.
It stopped me cold. Indeed, who did I think I was? What right did I even have, my little self, to be taking a plane that day, to travel for my Sophia courses, to be able to indulge my spiritual questioning? It was a grace to have this opportunity, why did I insist on getting upset when the least little thing went wrong?
I started to feel awful for how I鈥檇 treated the rideshare dispatcher. Yes, it was a mistake and yes it could cause me problems, but nobody was going to die because I didn鈥檛 get to the airport on a timeline that fit with my schedule. My smallness and pettiness were illuminated in that moment. It wasn鈥檛 a pretty sight.
One good thing about beating yourself up is that time flies while you do it, and soon my van was pulling up. Even though I had just been shown the dark side of myself, I actually started to get angry again. My ego was not done with the situation; it was going to make this driver pay for the wrongs of the company.
Then, something amazing happened. As he drove by me to get to a place where he could turn around, the driver rolled down his window and called out 鈥淗ey man, be right there!鈥� I still don鈥檛 know whether it was the tone of his voice, or the simple fact that he wanted me to know he cared enough to keep me in the loop, but my anger started to melt. I felt it slide away, and it was nearly gone by the time he pulled up, put my suitcase in the back, and helped me into my seat.
And we were off. Immediately, the driver reached for an iPod he had wired into the van鈥檚 sound system, shuffled through a few playlists, and then selected a song. Motown. Very loud Motown. I鈥檓 all for a peppy tune, but this was a bit too much. Just as I was about to say something, though, the driver asked me what I did for a living.
鈥淚 work in PR,鈥� I said.
鈥淎h, you mean like you do TV interviews?鈥�
鈥淣o,鈥� I replied. 鈥淚鈥檓 behind-the-scenes. Setting that kind of thing up. I have a face for radio.鈥�
He laughed, then asked 鈥淪o you must have to be good with people?鈥�
I found myself feeling very glad he hadn鈥檛 witnessed either my call with the dispatcher or the internal raging monologue that followed it.
鈥淵es, I guess so,鈥� I said, neutrally.
鈥淭hat鈥檚 great,鈥� he said. 鈥淚 love people too. It鈥檚 why I love this job. I鈥檓 not even supposed to be working today, but I came out of a meeting and they needed someone, so I said yes. I love this job that much. I get to talk to interesting people, and I get to play my music.鈥�
Before I could say something to the topic of that music, that loud, loud music, he went on.
鈥淚鈥檓 in a band, you know. Jazz. Big Band. I record everything we do. Want to hear something?鈥�
Great, I thought. Now I鈥檓 going to have to listen to bad loud music. And jazz. I really, really don鈥檛 like jazz. If I say yes, will he ask my opinion? What if it鈥檚 horrible? And I don鈥檛 know anything about jazz! What if he asks me to comment on some technical riff the second sax player does?
鈥淪ure,鈥� I said. 鈥淭hat would be nice.鈥�
He grabbed for the iPod again, rummaged through his playlists, and the music began.
鈥淭his is from a concert we did last year,鈥� he said. 鈥淪old out show.鈥�
And I don鈥檛 know why, but I was instantly captivated by that music. As I said, I鈥檓 no jazz aficionado, but something about the song transported me into another state. My brain and soul got quiet again. The loudness didn鈥檛 bother me; in fact, I was glad of it so I could be completely surrounded by the music. The driver didn鈥檛 ask my opinion, he didn鈥檛 ask for any kind of commentary on my part. He just let me listen as we made our way to the airport. The world took on an unreal quality, and reality kind of dropped away.
It was just me, the driver, that van and his music. We floated and time stopped.
He played through several more songs, and talked a bit about his band.
鈥淚 really do record everything,鈥� he said. 鈥淓ven when we mess up. Want to hear that?鈥�
鈥淪ure,鈥� I said.
鈥淭his bit is from a practice in the garage where we rehearse. It鈥檚 hilarious, man. The drummer completely loses the beat and we give him such a hard time.鈥�
And I listened. And the drummer did, indeed, completely lose the beat. It was obvious even to me. And then I heard the low rumbling sounds of men talking trash to each other, giving each other a hard time. Chiding voices filled with masculine affection. The voices of men at home with themselves and each other.
鈥淵eah,鈥� said the driver. 鈥淚t鈥檚 just the best when we get together. Some of these gigs we get pretty good money. We do one each year for an oil company and I鈥檒l maybe get $500 that night. But, you know, I don鈥檛 do it for the money. Not anymore. I do it because I love playing and being with the boys.
And here, I thought, was someone truly living in the naked now. In love with life, with people, and with what he was doing at every moment. Someone who was willing to share both his talent and his screw-ups. OK, they were technically the drummer鈥檚 screw-ups, but what kind of person is proud of when the group they belong to fails in some way 鈥� and then shows it off? Someone who had a lot to teach me, obviously.
We entered the airport roadways as the last sounds of the band members laughing faded from the van鈥檚 speakers. A feeling of peace and tremendous gratitude flooded through me. This, I thought, was grace at work. I certainly hadn鈥檛 deserved such a transformative experience. Really, what I deserved was a long, miserable van ride with an insolent driver who made me late for my plane. What I got, however, was a musical magic carpet ride.
When we pulled up to the curb outside the departures area I realized I didn鈥檛 want that ride to end. At all. I didn鈥檛 even want to move, out of fear I鈥檇 break the spell. But, the driver got out and went to fetch my suitcase so I had to get on with things. I realized then that I hadn鈥檛 looked at my watch the whole drive. I had no idea what time it was. So I quickly glanced down.
Imagine my amazement when I realized we鈥檇 arrived five minutes sooner than I would have had my original ride shown up on time.
Kevin Aschenbrenner is a Victoria-based writer, poet and communications professional. He holds an M.A. in Culture and Spirituality from the Sophia Center at Holy Names University in Oakland, Calif. He blogs at .
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