 |
The
city lays upon me like a wrap. Coiling around the grassy park where I relax,
it borders my green sanctuary in a weave of sound and color. Its uniqueness
is not structures or streets, but people. For the city is a place
of presence, where one is never alone. Here artistic lines of buildings
voice lingering communications from vanished architects, while streets
and brickwork offer up ceaseless greetings from laborers long since gone.
Each aspect of the city, stemming from individual minds, is ultimately
a social intent, a transpersonal implication.
I know what the city represents in the unseen realm of choice; no mystery remains in my search; that phase is past. Before me lie the secrets of experientializing my commitment to unity, which I sealed on the shore of a silver-spangled sea. The city represents selfless service. In the city, one's every action maintains part of some relationship, sometimes with persons one sees, sometimes with persons one does not see. Walking, in the city, is a joggling accommodation with other riders or walkers of the travel stream. In stopping for a traffic light or occupying a park bench, one engages, across the crevasse of time, in a relationship with persons who installed these interpersonal vessels for one's use. Leaning back on weathered green slats, I observe the park strollers, the city pacers, the many bustling passersby. People everywhere. All varieties. Interacting in countless ways. Relationships, I realize, as I look out from my vantage place in the peaceful, green preserve, are the city's fabric. I must understand them if I am to function here. At the center of the little park stands a life-size goddess. A Diana in peeling gilt. The spotty variations in tone and texture brushed into her skin by the passing days imbue her with a patina warmer and richer than any artificer ever could produce. The fingers of her left hand affectionately touch the back of a small deer, which nuzzles daintily against her. Gleaming in the sun-baked park, she presides over a waterless fountain in which it was intended by the designers that she should stand just above the level of the water. Diana, what can you tell me? I wonder. On her head perches a saucy mockingbird--a real one. With his back turned, his flicking tail juts out over her nose like some strange, unorthodox headwear. Tilting toward her back, he peers down behind her, exposing his bottom above her golden forehead as if to remind the unnoticing passersby of what is real and living and what is fictional and inert. Then, off on his rounds, he flits to a lamppost, trills a medley of winged calls, and moves to a small tree. Diana watches impassively, unembarrassed by this demeaning of her dignity. But then what else can she do? It is the bird--not she--who embodies life. And I perceive, as I contemplate the scene before me, a truth. This undertaking of mine is real. So real that I must guard that the idea of orienting myself toward universal service does not catch me up and, like a gilded face, turn me to it as an end in itself, overshadowing those I would serve. Just so, trills the little mocker--the real life of this scene--as if he had heard my thoughts. 2. Soul of the Server |
|
|
Deeper
in the urban bloodstream than just generalized relationships is
cooperation. Cooperation is the brain of the city. Functional
harmony welds individuals into a single, humming, social mechanism. In
one's every move here, one extends, and receives, cooperation. Tracing
out checkerboard streets and walkways, one dances one's part in the streaming
traffic ballet. One's garb is a badge of conventions agreed to by the populace,
modified by one to a mutually accepted degree to express personal individuality.
Commerce, law, transportation, recreation--all activities of the city are
the blossoming of cooperative relationships inherent in the species.
It is up to me to learn the art of cooperation, in its many subtle aspects, if I am to become one who serves. To this end I attend, with anticipation, to my urban teacher, who speaks out of the collage before me, through many tongues but with one voice. Lunchtime has arrived. In the distance, office buildings rear up like pylons embedded in a living, variegated garden of informality that defies the crisp intent of their architects. Sandwich eaters garbed in the many colors of a vegetable patch perch on rails and low walls. Vendors of food and trinkets defy the sacrosanct air that the huge buildings and their formally attired workers would convey. Planners and architects, I recognize, cannot force those who live in the city to utilize its precincts in exactly the way they had in mind--any more than a gardener can require flowers to take on the attributes he or she prefers. I, too, like a city planner or a builder, might draw up ideas that I would like to see materialize in connection my service, might imagine how beneficiaries of my work should respond. But the work is for them, not for me. It is not necessary even for them to know that I render them a service. If they should come to know, would I think less of them were they to take their gifts without ceremony, leave without expressing thanks or appreciation? I must remember why I perform the services, not exact any requirements upon the beneficiaries--otherwise, I do not give, but rather seek to take from them. 3. Beyond Old Images |
|
|
As
I ponder these teachings which the city is revealing to me, I perceive
that the lessons I shall learn here in the habitations of humankind will
be less glamorous and more pragmatic than those of the places sculpted
by the hand of nature. But this is where I am fashioned to work, the environment
where I belong. And whether I perceive it as glamorous or mundane, always
must my service rest upon the combination of motivation, which I
have learned from the ocean, and alertness of purpose, which I have
now learned from the city.
This is a different idea of service than I had anticipated, this visualization of something given in many fashions, largely unobtrusively. Studying the persons passing by my wooden perch, I perceive all manners of human disposition, temperament, motivation, and circumstance. I had not foreseen that it would require tact on my part to pass on my gifts, whatever these gifts may be. But this is the human condition, this fact that not all that is offered is accepted. And rightly so. A gift is for the recipient. The fact that a person wishes to give something is not in itself sufficient justification that another person should accept it. A real need must exist before service can be born. And to be service, an offering must be desired by the recipient or should be one that by its nature does not require acceptance. A friendly smile or the reassurance of personal worth can be proffered whether or not it is acknowledged. In serving, one must overflow with energies of friendly intent which, constituting perhaps the best part of the gift, spill over to surcharge the other. One cannot require that the benevolence flow from the recipient to the server; that would be setting a price one one's gift and also requiring that the recipient be fortunate enough to be endowed with the strength of good intentions. As the harmony of the ever-changing crowd becomes visible to my perception, I recognize that though the energy of benevolence flows through the server, it does not originate in the server, but in God, who vitalizes, strengthens, and sustains all things. Always in this conjoint work with the Infinite, which I perceive lies just ahead of me, must I stabilize and orient myself by asking myself with regard to each task: why do I do this thing? It is vital that I do not stray from the intent. Meditation and prayer, I perceive, will be my lifeline to the higher reality that I serve. What will my service be, this giving, upon which I am planning to embark? Will I follow the formulas of a particular organization or philosophy, perhaps join myself to a corporateness, function as an arm or a leg of a specific social benevolence? Perhaps. But not as an end in itself. Only, at most, in passing. My path is fixed through endless futurity. Here and there it may follow well-traveled lanes; but my course is unique to me, set by the hand of the Almighty. There are no formulas. 4. Oneself as Gift |
|
|
A
few blocks from the park where I contemplate these things, I see two vacant
lots, still scattered with bricks that had been buildings. Near them stand
the hulking remains of a partially demolished department store, still adorned
with the glistening marble and ornate embellishments of another time. Through
their condition, these deteriorating urban features portray the dynamic
nature of the city. Although a community embodies physical and social structures,
it is always changing. The new springs from the ruins of the old.
My service shall be like this, too: I shall find ever new ways to contribute,
avoiding imprisoning ruts. I must keep an open mind, appreciate the values
and viewpoints of those whom I would serve. Only in this way will my ideas
and services be relevant.
There is a subtle influence with which the city impresses itself upon one's psyche, like the air that one breathes or the light that filters down from the sun. Arising from the host of individuals making up the city, it is a background that sets a tone to one's city existence. It is the soul of the city. Like the city, I, too, can set a tone. If I adopt and live ideals and values that are mutually consistent and that derive from Infinite unity, then my being becomes a subtle fragrance that can invigorate some of those with whom I come into contact. It seems right, this concept of giving others, as one's highest offering, what one is. Of saying wordlessly, here is the highest that I can be, based on my noblest yearning and vision; if you like it, you may take what portion you desire and be this, too, or more; if you do not incline toward this, feel at peace, for no overt offer has been made, no condition set upon you. "Be noble"! said Lowell," and the nobleness that lies in other men, sleeping, but never dead, will rise in majesty to meet thine own." 5. Others there Are |
|
|
The
faces around me in the greenness of the park and in the bustling of the
city wear a panoply of expressions. Some show contemplation, some display
thoughts of work or effort, some betray lingering traces of disappointment,
suspicion, or fear, some are lit by anticipation or contentment. Many,
I realize, are engaged, in their own lives, in approaching the Infinite,
in their own frames of reference.
It might be easy for me, in the flush of my newly attained discoveries, to overlook the fact that I am a sheer beginner at service. A novice server. My enthusiasm could blind me to the fact that behind numerous faces in the crowded streets, faces that I might never suspect, are minds and hearts committed to higher reality and to service. A poor education does not disqualify one from experiencing profound feelings. An unsophisticated demeanor does not deny one flashes of soaring insight. Abilities are not persons. They are only coverings. How many great persons live and move behind mediocre facades imposed by birth and circumstance? How many attempt to voice transcendent personal awakenings, but, through lack of communication skills, find themselves in conceptual isolation? How many strain--struggle supremely--to share vibrant realities with others, but experience only prosaic words, emerging as apparent trivialities from their own seemingly passive and unconcerned lips? I must be aware of this and ground my offerings in the knowledge that I am not the only one who might possess something worth giving. In the teeming city, many labor to give with selfless hearts. I shall strive to be receptive to offerings laid before me and, when I receive, receive as nobly as I would give. Thereby I acknowledge the worth of the gift, hence of the giver. Observing the streaming people and their diverse pursuits, I espy that through participation in the life of the city, each is giving to all of the others. And I recognize that the giving of self is the basis of all service. This giving is done consciously by some, unconsciously by others. Even the little mockingbird that makes its rounds near me and graces the lifeless depiction of Diana with its innocently uptilted rump is, in its fidelity of being what it is--a bouncing, chirping, manifestation of life--giving of itself. The difference between its giving and my giving is that as a self-conscious being, I can make a gift that is more than conditioned phases of living. 6. The Wisdom of Restraint |
|
|
The
city is a realm of unseen boundaries. A line circumscribes its extent,
within which municipal ordinances reign. Internal lines subdivide it into
differentiated localities. Financial districts where intent hands pursue
moneyed plans. Voting districts that shape the choices of franchised citizens.
Housing districts that mirror the circumstances of their inhabitants.
The world of relationships, too, is marked off into areas, each area a type of relationship, a region of specific interpersonal conduct. These localities, I shall learn well. For each which I choose to enter, I shall survey the terrain of my personal values and develop a map specifying my anticipated activities within its precincts. To give oneself to another without the defining facilitation of a relationship is to diffuse oneself like air exploding from a burst balloon. Such a self-destructive act benefits no one. Structure in personal interactions serves a purpose. Not an end in itself, interpersonal structure is a vessel. A projection screen that conveys intent. It defines, on the one hand, minimums and prerequisites, on the other hand, limits and sufficiencies. Each relationship is a unique world. Personality interactions that might be appropriate between a husband and wife might not be appropriate between an employer and employee. Each genre of relationship specifies accepted and required parameters of other-interest and self-interest, both of which are essential to preserve the arrangement and define its meaning. One function that relationships provide is stabilization. But like other stabilizing mechanisms, relationships conceal among their blossoms the dangerous thorn of submergence of individuality. Because of unclear visualization of the factors that define a particular relationship, one can fall into making decisions on the basis not of choice, but of pressures brought by others or even by oneself in the form of interpretations of proprieties of the relationship. This is evident in some relationships of affection. The coercive challenge, if you loved me, you would . . . , works at supplanting personal choice with compliance. How shall I react to this situation when its cold grip touches my being? The answer is clear. I shall do what I see as right and not abandon choice. To do what I perceive as not right is to do wrong in my perception. And in the end, if it proves to be wrong, even my forceful persuader will rebuke me for abdicating choice and doing toward him or her what I had believed to be wrong. In judging the right, I must weigh many factors, some not obvious. Sometimes, because of a particular circumstance, I might adjudge that the perception of my service by the beneficiary is more important to that person's welfare than the literal results of the service; for perceptions affect self-esteem and other-esteem, vital elements of volition. To serve is to work for the benefit of another. But self-abnegation and self-effacement are not service; they are an abandonment of will or even a form of reverse ostentation. 7. Predecisions |
|
|
In
service, self as an objective is not a factor. But to serve, one must maintain
integrity to self and live up to one's values. One must follow a
set of commandments dictated by one's highest self, a collection of predeterminations:
I shall do this in this circumstance; I shall not
do that. One must take care that these are phrased in a high reference
frame and do not take the form of mere details of everyday living.
From my brief interview with my city teacher thus far, I have already decided upon some things. Paramount among these is that I need to become ever-more-sensitive to the person--the actual human being--inside each fleshly exterior that I encounter. I have decided that I shall employ tact when serving. Also that I shall, when giving, give nobly to the best of my ability, for the benefit of the other, in a manner consistent with my, and the recipient's, ideals. And I shall attempt to avoid creating artificial situations designed to facilitate my service. When misunderstood, I shall avoid excessive explanation; it would accomplish nothing. My years have revealed to me that in personal affairs, it is the other person's heart--not mind--that speaks judgement, unwittingly revealing its own intent. In the eyes of one who loves me, I can do no wrong. To one who is negative toward me, I can do no right. Service is the ultimate manifestation of choice. The moment one embarks upon this path, one faces the danger of falling from the path of choice into volitionless ruts of undiscriminating tradition. The stereotyping phrase, "one who serves does this--or that," echoes in every human mind, born of mixtures of religion, drama, literature, and daydreaming. Life is a process of establishing a collection of self-images for each occasion, then responding according to these self-images. To exercise choice, one must develop these for oneself rather than let their construction default to the popular consensus of the times. If one is to serve, one must not be led by stereotyped gestures inexpressive of one's ideals and values. The "proper" image for a religious person or a personally sensitive man or woman or a caring individual is impressed in our psyches. But images are nonrealities, useful only as they persuade persons to accept the good intentions that other persons entertain toward them. We may sometimes think we know what God wishes for us--or even for others--to do. But are the Infinite's wishes really hemmed in by the finite, as some suppose? by social and religious conventions of specific societies germane to certain times? As I study the city and its humming parts, I recognize that conventions are useful as tools for service, but that they are misplaced when, in the name of service, they become enslavers of choice. 8. The Need for Relationships |
|
|
The
city spreads about me in diversity. Near the park stands a courthouse,
solemn rendezvous of justice. Within a few city blocks, several art galleries
offer visitors the inspirations of artists. A nearby church lines its facade
with statues of religious and secular personages.
The world of relationships is diverse like this, too. Each type of relationship is a separate template for interpersonal encounters. Knowledge of this can assist me in choosing my service: whom I shall serve, and in what capacity. Without some defining factor, one's service could be consumed all at once, before it really begins. As I watch the shadows lengthen in my quiet park, I remember a time, years ago, on a Florida beach, watching the afternoon shadows lengthen over sands temporarily deserted by the populace. Quiet echoes of laughs and shouts hung over the golden sand like wistful sighs. It had been a full day. A relaxing day. Content, I rose to go, swinging down briefly and plucking up an empty beverage can from the sand. Tossing the can into a receptacle, I paused, noticing a young acquaintance who, also preparing to leave, had spied me at my small task. As I watched, she sought out an abandoned beverage container, which she, also, dropped into the trash receptacle. We exchanged smiles. Quickly and enthusiastically, she collected two more empty cans. These, also, she placed in the receptacle. Then more as, face flushed, she continued her act of unselfishness. Gradually she slowed, finally pausing and looking at me. As our mutual gaze turned down the shoreline, we observed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of empty cans as far as we could see, on into the mist of the distance. She stood with an empty container in each hand, her face drawn by the implacable struggle of good intentions wrestling with an impossible task, and looked at me with dismay. In that huge instant, I perceived that although ideals are wonderful things, wisdom must be their companion. Gently I extended a hand in her direction. Wordlessly she placed a can in it. With deliberation, I dropped the hollow cylinder toward the sand, where it settled with the lightness of thistledown. The light returned to her eyes. Dropping her remaining can onto the sand, she smiled a long smile, then gathered up her belongings and departed. I watched her receding figure as it became a small but significant speck against the vast shore. More than logic must guide one's service activities. If one wishes to serve, why not give everything one posseses to charity? Why not approach the first stranger one meets and enlist in a lifetime of carrying out his or her bidding? That is a logical concept of service. But not a meaningful one. There must be form to one's giving. Algorithms. The facilitator of this is relationships. Marriage partner . . . child . . . parent . . . work associate . . . neighbor. Each of these relationships possesses rituals, service opportunities, protective limitations. In my service labors I shall set my goals, decide my actions, and evaluate my progress in terms of the standards that these relationships carry. I shall be open to some temporary relationships that arise in passing, for these are ways to serve; also to longer-term relationships. I shall limit the number of relationships in which I engage to one that I can sustain without compromising them. I shall attempt to enter primarily into relationships that offer themselves naturally in the flow of my circumstances, in which I feel that I belong. 9. Reflected Light |
|
|
Service,
I think, is sometimes best for the recipient when he or she does not perceive
it as service. A relationship offers a way to serve in the name of the
relationship rather than in the name of service. Service is
only service before it is applied. In the giving, it transmutes
into something else, something transcendent and unnameable, a living reality
sculpted in the combinings of souls. Like a rainbow or a cloud visible
from a distance but disappearing upon close approach, service is the
misty view from afar. There is no name for its close-up counterpart.
Love, perhaps, if the word be spoken softly, quickly, then left
behind. Names can separate one from the sublime realities they are intended
to summon.
Labor tended in the name of service robs the recipient of a portion of that unnameable, close-up reality and also of the feeling of being worthy of personal attention just for his or her own sake. One must conceal, to a degree, the blazing of one's service intent, with a lamp shade. In addition to letting the service be perceived as one's part in a relationship, one can let it be perceived as a part of one's work. Or one's hobby. Or one's inclination. Am I a writer? Then I shall serve by what I write and how I write it. Am I a driver, a lawyer, a secretary? I can make a gift of service through my occupation, and my beneficiaries will accept it because it is a part of my occupation. Even impersonal excellence, when pursued for the sake of others, is service. In my efforts to give, I shall recognize that my good intentions alone are not enough for the welfare of those whom I would serve. Only results benefit the recipients, and these are brought about through proficiency at service. I must find service areas where I am needed, where my efforts are meaningful, and where I can make a difference. 10. The Real Enlightenment |
|
|
The
convolutions of the city, its streets, buildings, and manifold activities,
are past finding out. One can never exhaust their variety. Always are new
combinations of endeavor and intent, cause and result, emerging from the
evolutionary urban cauldron.
I perceive now, as I gaze out at the unformulatable variety--the sharp city skyline, the undecipherable totality arising from myriad individual motions--that the growth of the city is endless. |