“Sell your Cleverness…

…and buy bewilderment.”   — Rumi

A old college friend, P., called while I was cutting the grass on Friday. I was watching the blade collect wet green stitches on our manual pushmower when I felt my back pocket buzz. My phone was on me, for once, because my brother was due to arrive from Kentucky at any moment. He might need directions from the hotel. When the caller turned out to be P., I stopped my last-minute landscaping, stood still, and allowed myself to catch up with my friend. I’m doing more of that lately: entertaining the idea that whatever blips across my radar might be as good or better than what I had planned. “Here’s what I know: absolutely nothing, ” I found myself saying in response to P.’s how-are-things-query.  It’s true, something I’ve been thinking about a lot. I can do plenty of things, and I know many facts. But I don’t know what’s best for anyone else, or how things are going to turn out, ever.  In a good way. It’s as if The Present Moment has been flirting with me for years, maybe decades, and I’m finally noticing that he’s trailing me. And that he’s good-lookin,’ to boot.

Another example. Two weeks ago, my kids and I took a wrong turn inside CVS en route to the pharmacy counter.  To my horror, we found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of Halloween kitsch H.Q. “Can we get this candy bowl with the grabby skeleton hand?” pleaded my children. We made it out with just my prescription, but days later, my daughter was still asking for the giant spider webs we’d seen crammed into plastic bags by the candy display. Her heart was set on having a web, so I bought a sack the next day when she and her brother were in school.  It would be a cheap, clunky version of an arachnid’s home, but it was for the children. We unfurled it an hour before dinnertime, as the sun was starting to set. And there,  balancing on the gauzy, gossamer threads, was none other than Mr. Universe.