Category Archives: zen moments

A Moment of Epiphany in the Yogurt Aisle

I had it all planned out.

Once inside the supermarket, if I were to encounter the lady who’d sworn at and almost hit me in the parking lot, I was going to block her path with my cart. I was going to pretend I didn’t see her reaching for the bananas and use my son as a human shield. When faced with her inevitable wrath, I was going to say ever so pleasantly:

“Oh, I’m sorry, hon! Am I blocking your path?”

It was going to be unspeakably satisfying, and carry low retaliation odds. Even if the angry motorist yelled at me or tried to take me down in the snack food aisle, I’d come out looking almost martyr-like.

Turns out I did see her.

In the dairy aisle.

She was picking out yogurts with her adult son.

Just a weary old pissed off lady in a misshapen t T-shirt.

I decided I didn’t need any yogurt and kept walking on.

Let’s call it emotional maturity instead of cowardice.


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Why Did the Turtle Cross the Road?

Yesterday I took the children for a “Sunday Drive,” which is what I like to say when I’m driving around town in circles, hopelessly lost. And as I’m driving down this one particular street next to a lake with stately houses, I see something in the middle of the road – my lane, to be exact – which appears to be moving very slowly. Very slowly.

It is a turtle. A turtle in the road.

Naturally I screech to a halt and hop out of my car to take a picture of it with my phone. And at that very moment a lady comes running up out of nowhere and says, “I know exactly what to do! I read about it in the newspaper! We must pick the turtle gently up by its shell and carry it to a safe place.” And as I’m standing there, trying to get a good photo angle, she turns to me and solemnly says, “You will be my witness.”

Then this lady – the turtle rescuer – picks the turtle right up and trots it over to the tree lawn. The turtle is not happy, and who can blame him? He just went from a slow clip to traveling at the dizzying speed of light. The turtle opens his mouth menacingly, and while I crouch beside him on the grass taking paparazzi style photos, it makes a tremendous hissing sound.

As I’m running away, I hear the turtle rescuer telling the turtle not to be upset. He is in a safe place now, and will be much happier by the side of the road rather than in it.

I can’t help but wonder if that turtle was a cosmic sign. And if so, what was it trying to tell us?

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Saint Peter, a Priest, and a College Student are in a Boat. . .

One summer during college, I went on a retreat with my Catholic youth group. And not just any retreat, but a canoeing retreat. It took place at Canada’s stunningly beautiful Algonquin Provincial Park and I regretted it from the moment I realized I’d have to row a canoe and occasionally even carry that canoe, plus my worldly belongings, over my own head.

It was hot, there were swarms of bees, and you couldn’t even catch a break when we stopped to rest because that was scripture reading time. The campground, when we reached it, wasn’t so much a campground as a small secluded island with no plumbing or electrical outlets to plug your curling iron in. We cooked by fire, put iodine tablets in the river water to cleanse it, and slept on the forest floor in tents.

Despite all that, Algonquin was pretty impressive. I was with my closest friends, had my eye on a handsome Quebecois, and was appreciating the beauty of creation despite myself. You can’t help but feel closer to God when you paddle by a single moose standing in shallow waters with mountains and the setting sun as backdrop. Or when you’re kicking back by the fire with a brewski and some chips.

On the last day of the retreat, after we’d packed up the campsite and put out the fires, we had the opportunity to receive the sacrament of confession. The prospect of dragging out your sins without the benefit of a confessional window to hide behind was daunting to say the least, but our chaplain – Father Sunshine – was a stand-up priest who had good rapport with young people and was always quick with a kind word or joke. Besides, after three days in the woods, we felt humble and changed. One by one, we took the plunge.

I was the last to go and when my turn came, I went to town. There was no end to my transgressions, no sin left behind. Big ones, small ones, I lifted each one individually and cast it off like refuse into the abyss. In the past I’d questioned the necessity of confession as a sacrament, believing that no mediator was needed between me and God. But there is something about laying your faults bare, about lifting them up and giving them away, that is spectacularly liberating. At least, it was very good for me.

Afterward I felt like a new person. My backpack was suddenly lighter, there was a bounce in my step. But even more importantly, I knew that in just six short hours, I’d be showering and sleeping in a real bed. What I didn’t know was that while I was going through my litany, everyone else in the group had paired up. One by one, the canoes and their occupants set off towards home base as the wind picked up and a steady rain began to pour.

Father Sunshine and I were the only two left.

He looked at me, I looked at him.

“I guess we’re buddies” he said.

Next thing you know, I’m in a boat with my confessor. It’s driving rain and I’m doing my best to keep the canoe moving forward in a straight line. Father Sunshine is patient and gives gentle advice, but in his heart of hearts I know he’s marveling at my sins. It’s a predicament to say the least, only made worse by the fact that we’re drifting farther away from the other canoes in the middle of a storm.

The only redeeming thing about the situation is that I’m about to die a saint.

After awhile, even father Sunshine starts looking worried and suggests we ask Saint Peter to keep an eye on us and give us faith. Saint Peter, of course, is the apostle who with God’s help rowed his boat safely ashore in the raging sea of Gallilee while Jesus slept.

Even in my terror, I couldn’t help but notice the poetry of the situation. Especially when, after dispensing his advice, Father Sunshine put down his oars and lit up a Marlboro Light.

“Keep rowing,” he told me, “I have faith in you.”

I don’t know how we made it out alive, but it was the best penance I ever did.

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When Animals Attack

It’s easy, when you live in the suburbs and drive around town in the relative safety of your mid-size SUV, to forget your smallness in relation to the Earth at-large.  You start to feel confident that a seat belt, a prescription, and the good sense to steer clear of gangs, is insurance enough against harm. Sometimes it takes almost getting gored by a ferocious buck on a hilltop in Michigan to put everything back in perspective.

Despite swearing I’d never go back after the heat/humidity/mosquito/lice debacle of 2010, I spent the weekend at camp. This time the weather was perfect and there were no vermin. We arrived on Friday night and spent the evening chatting with friends by the fireplace, drinking spiced beverages, and playing Lithuanian Trivial Pursuit as people on a fall weekend in the woods are wont to do.

The next day was gorgeous – sunny and mild – and we spent most of it outdoors. The V-meister ran gleefully hither and yon, collecting all manner of things living and dead inside her backpack while I took an uncharacteristic reprieve from breathing down her neck.  The P-Dawg did manly chores like gathering firewood and moving a keg from the car to the freezer, and I forced Jonas to go on a hike with me around the lake.

Later, when the children were otherwise occupied, my friend V (yup, she was there too) and I decided to take a short walk to the top of a nearby hilltop, where we sat down on a bench to chat. We were generally minding our own business and remarking on the pleasant time we were having, when V halted mid-sentence and said in an urgent tone, “J, (that’s my nickname) What should we do?

I looked up just in time to lock eyes with my own mortality in the form of a gigantic and very fearsome buck wearing antlers long enough to catch a radio signal with. He was standing about fifty feet away from us across the clearing.

“Shhhhhhhh! Don’t move!” I hissed at my friend V. “Don’t. Move.”

No sooner had I spoken than the earth began to rumble and shake as the buck started to charge in our direction. My friend V and I sat paralyzed on our little bench while visions of our short, yet not entirely unproductive lives played before our eyes. For a brief, terrifying moment, the flimsy veil of continuity – so easily forgotten in everyday life – was lifted, and we were reminded of our humble places in the celestial pecking order, the fleeting, arbitrary nature of our time and place on Earth.

We were about to be eaten for lunch.

As it happened, the buck was not particularly interested in a couple of grain fed thirty-something moms wearing North Face jackets. It had its eye on something in the woods directly behind us and missed us by six or seven feet. Once we realized we were out of danger, my friend V began to laugh maniacally as is her tendency in life and death situations, while I took off running for the bottom of the hill, leaving her to contemplate the harrowing encounter in her own way.

Later, we told our friends the buck was ten feet tall and foaming at the mouth.  And I said that if it had actually tried to attack me, I would have simply grabbed it by the horns and ridden it rodeo style until help arrived.

But I’m really glad it didn’t come to that. It’s probably healthy to catch a glimpse of your own mortality every now and again, but I would actually prefer to keep that curtain closed for a long, long time to come.


My Friend V

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