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A New Level of Selflessness

by Emma Laurence

Two dozen cedar waxwings landed on a tree in our neighbor’s backyard.  My husband and I shared binoculars back and forth, admiring their markings and the rare opportunity to witness a museum’s migration.  [Yes, a flock of waxwings is called a museum.]

In researching these birds, we discovered a sweet behavior.  Waxwings share the red berries they eat and have even been cited passing one, beak to beak, down an entire line of birds.  It’s also part of the mating ritual for a male to give a berry to a female, she to give it back to him, and so on, until she finally accepts it and, presumably, him.

The appearance of a generous, community-based species at this moment in time underscored a new level of selflessness to which I’m feeling called lately.  It’s a level of letting go that’s neither easy nor comfortable.  In fact, for me, it’s quite the challenge.

This release of self is at the level of the ego—the keeper of opinions, judgments, and thoughts, with a “my will be done” approach. It often operates out of fear, particularly fear of loss.  And it doesn’t have to be overinflated to the point of arrogance to cause unhappiness, disharmony or agitation. 

I’d use the term egoism to describe my experience.  When I’m preoccupied with myself and my own learning experiences, I adopt an Emma-centric view of the universe. For example, it’s easy for me to take things personally, obsess about having offended someone, judge others and myself too harshly, or see the world through the limited lens of my past. 

I understand that this is common human behavior.  And I’ve learned to be kind to myself while I grow and mature.  But this ego-mechanism can interfere with being a clear channel of service to grace and love.

We all get to choose our thoughts and behaviors as well as our goals.  My mission is to be available to serve all life, moment by moment.  If I insist on seeing through the narrow viewfinder of my own mind, if I criticize myself or others, or if I buy into a fear of survival or failure, I risk losing this core purpose.

So, for me, now is a time of going more silent.  I know some believe that not speaking out or not engaging in socio-political dialogue is a cop out, or even indicates complicity with criminal behavior.  I’d rather give freedom to those who hold their own opinions while I research a deeper way to serve humanity.

Perhaps I’m simply saying that I aspire to be more like the waxwing, silently passing a red berry to my neighbor.

Photo by Gary Bendig on Unsplash

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Have Yourself a Mister Rogers’ Christmas

by Emma Laurence

As my friend Larry drove back from a gig as Santa Claus, he called to ask if I’d seen A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.  He found the film life changing, and it even prompted a refinement in his approach to small children when playing Santa.

Kindness, humility, grace—Mister Rogers set out not to be famous, but to be helpful.   He inspired us to activate our highest and best.  He once said that we have the opportunity to demean this life or to cherish it in creative, imaginative ways.   

Mister Rogers himself was bullied as a child.  Overweight and shy, he once shared at an interview that he used to cry to himself when he was alone.  And I would cry through my fingers and make up songs on the piano.  He learned to look deeper into everyone he met, to perceive what he called the “essential invisible.”   

Fred Rogers may have been colorblind, but he saw clearly into the hearts of children.  He found a way to be completely present to them through the camera lens.

So it probably won’t surprise you that Mister Rogers answered all his own fan mail. I can’t imagine how he found time to respond to the 50-100 letters he received daily.  An assistant on the show told the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette (2005) that no child ever received a form letter in response.  He never thought about throwing out a drawing or letter, she said.  They were sacred.

Even Koko the gorilla loved watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.  When she met him in person, she gave him a hug and took off his shoes. 

Fred Rogers’ lifetime achievement award speech at the 1997 Emmys includes an exercise he often asked people to join him in doing.  All of us have special ones who have loved us into being, he says.  He asks that we take ten seconds of silence to think of those people, those who wanted what was best for us in life.  [You may want to stop reading and try this.]  He then completes the circle of connection by sharing that, wherever that person may be now, how pleased they must be to know the difference you feel they’ve made.

Among those who loved Mister Rogers into being was his mother who knitted all his cardigans.  In an interview with American Archive Television, he told how his mom knitted sweaters for her loved ones every Christmas…until she died, those zippered sweaters I wear on the Neighborhood were all made by my mother.

Jeff Erlanger made a big difference in Mister Rogers’ life on the night he was inducted into the TV Hall of Fame.  Watch Fred bound onto the stage in delight at Jeff’s surprise appearance.  They hadn’t seen each other since Jeff came on the show as a 5-year-old:

If Mister Rogers has inspired you to be more grateful, patient or kind, to be a better Santa Claus or a better person, feel free to share below. 

Warm and Happy Holidays.

Image Owned By TV Week (Dec, 1977)

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Accepting the Love

by Emma Laurence

What I’ve learned about love is that it needs to be accepted to be realized. My cat Belle, who passed on recently, taught me very specifically how this works. She showed me many forms of surrender—in this case of this story, surrender to love.

When Belle was a kitten, she came to us as a skittish being. She hid under the bed. She was born outdoors, so we set up a way for her to go outside on her own. Over time, she learned that she could explore the local “wilderness” and still be given everything she needed when she returned home. However, as much as she was clearly a tender heart, she remained hidden most of the time.

Our other cat, Oscar, welcomed her as only cats who’ve previously established their territory can do—by hissing in her face. She didn’t seem to take it personally, but it meant that, for the time being, she was on her own.

I could tell by the way Belle looked at me that she could feel my love for her and that she appreciated it. She just didn’t trust it completely. Until one day when a young girl visited, and my husband at the time picked Belle up to let our visitor pet her. Even though they were both being gentle, Belle panicked. She leapt out of his arms, onto a windowsill and, imagining she could escape, banged her head full force into the glass pane. Dazed, she turned around and meowed in distress.

I looked at Belle lovingly and asked if I could come over to pick her up. This is the first time I remember spending many minutes waiting, moving slightly closer to her, asking again, and waiting again. It became a pattern of gentleness and patience that she was here to teach. After many minutes building trust with eye contact and soft vocal tones, Belle allowed me to lift her into my arms. I brought her to the bedroom and placed her on the bed, whereupon she immediately leapt down and slinked underneath for safety.

Over time, Belle learned that she could safely sleep on the bed when we weren’t around. Perhaps a year later, she jumped on the bed while we were actually in it, and she let us pet her. If we sat up, though, she’d jump back down. Maybe four more years passed before she discovered that she could be petted if she came up onto the couch. I coaxed and encouraged her for months by placing a blanket next to me. It took more years before I could pull that blanket onto my lap.

By the time she left her body, at 21½, Belle was lying across my lap in complete surrender.

I watched my world open, and my heart open, over the decades that Belle and I lived together. Many more lessons on surrender, patience, devotion and grace ensued. For me, these are the timeless gifts of an eternal love story.