I was fortunate to learn a crucially important life lesson the easy way: I was a child and it came naturally.
The lesson is this: cultivate the habit of taking delight in the good fortune of others and you will never be without occasion for joy.
One evening after school, my father asked how my day was. My reply was an enthusiastic litany of wonderful news befalling various classmates and teachers and friends of friends, none of which involved me personally but all of which signified accolades or much longed for gifts or news of promised travel to come for others in my close proximity. I remember feeling genuine happiness and anticipation on their behalf until my father interrupted my vicarious reverie with an observation I have never forgotten. He told me that it was very rare and highly unusual for a person to evince such unadulterated and energetic happiness on behalf of the good fortune of others. He said he marveled at my child-like capacity, that such a disposition was a gift and that he hoped I never lost the habit especially as I grew into adulthood.
I was stunned. It seemed, from my very young perspective, completely counter-intuitive. How could it be rare to be happy for others? Good news, like its opposite, was daily fare. Was there any other response to good news than delight, even as an entirely selfless expression?
The more I pondered my father’s curious response, the more I was determined to heed his advice to cultivate the habit. It was, after all, the best guarantee for an other-centered, expansive life. It was the best defense against schadenfreude, the most ignoble of human responses. And it was the best predictor that regardless of the hand that life might deal me, replete with disappointment, failure and heartache, I would never be without a reason for joy on behalf of someone, somewhere.
The older I become, the more valuable has been this habit. It is not always easy, particularly when another’s good fortune — public accolade, requited love, promotion, a dream come true — seems to be at one’s own expense. But life is not a zero sum game. Happiness begets happiness; misery begets misery. And it is impossible to know the sacrifices others have made for their success or for that matter, to know what others truly endure and carry in their lives. Nothing is ever as it appears on the surface. There is astonishing personal suffering to which no one is immune for long. Given these realities, the choice to celebrate good news and good fortune, accomplishment and success, wherever one finds it, is always the wise choice.
I often wonder if I might have outgrown the habit had my father not intervened with his assessment from an experienced, adult perspective. My good fortune is that he did, while I was still so young, and that I trusted his wisdom and insight enough to act upon it. Cultivating this habit has brought a steady diet of delight into my life. And it has helped me to avoid occasions of regret, envy, bitterness and parsimony of the heart.
Regardless of the circumstances, when the choice is between generosity of spirit or jealous self-pity, there is only one life-giving option leading to freedom. Why be complicit in the world’s economy of joy? Participate in delight. Whom will you celebrate today?
We had reserved the entire day on our calendars, months in advance, in order to travel to meet with prospective donors so that our vision of a Catholic intellectual and spiritual center of consequence at one of the world's great universities would be realized.
This was a necessary discipline. Time is the rarest of commodities. With multiple competing claims for our attention exacerbated by increased personal and professional responsibilities, we treated the future dates reserved for travel as inviolable and sacrosanct.
Which explains why on this particular occasion with only one confirmed appointment in Boston, despite every effort to secure more, the Catholic chaplain at Yale and I resisted the temptation to postpone the trip.
The two-and-a-half hour drive from New Haven was pleasant and constructive. We were amiable partners in a multi-million dollar campaign with a bold and transformative vision. Time spent together in transit meant we were protected from the vagaries of interruption and distraction. It helped that we enjoyed each other's company immensely.
Arriving with precision, we were permitted thirty minutes of our prospective donor's time. He responded positively to the vision, approved of the approach and commended the accomplishments to date. And he agreed to a financial commitment. We thanked him for his time and support and took our leave.
Even before our seat belts were securely buckled, a philosophical debate commenced. Was this really the best use of this day? Would we not have been better served by canceling the appointment and rescheduling on a day when we had more people to see? What possible good would come of this day's efforts when we could have used the time catching up on correspondence, paperwork and other administrative duties? Now look at all this traffic!
To restore an atmosphere of conviviality and proper perspective, I resorted to a familiar tactic. I reminded my beloved colleague that he wasn't always an old curmudgeon, he was once a young curmudgeon. Having succeeded in making him laugh, I pointed out that we had just been given the promise of a financial contribution to the campaign, and while it constituted a tiny fraction of the campaign's ambitious goal, it was nevertheless a gift freely given in support of our mission. Furthermore, had the contribution been the very first commitment of the entire campaign, it would have been uncontested cause for immediate and joyful celebration. Perspective is crucial, but can cut both ways.
Fearing the return trip would seem unusually long if we persisted in the pros and cons of having kept our resolve to embark on the journey in the first place, we knew the matter needed to be settled and put to rest.
The Dalai Lama has instructed that if one's intentions are sound, some good will always come of one's efforts. We needed to trust in this. All we could do, I argued, is our very best, bringing our full selves to the pursuit, with tenacity and confidence and fidelity to purpose. We had an urgent mission, compelling vision, sound goals and effective strategies. It was working; our progress and accomplishments were measurable and evident. We could not afford to be seduced into postponing our plans, or giving up prematurely, sidetracked by disappointment. As long as our intentions were sound and we began every day ready to embrace hard work and effort, some good would always come.
The key was in trusting that our efforts would be fruitful without insisting we knew what constituted a successful result. Too often we expect if we do x, then y will be the optimal outcome. Not only do we imagine the optimal outcome, we ascribe timelines and defining characteristics to it. And when that outcome in all the specificity we have dictated does not materialize, we are discouraged.
What if we are thinking too small?
The example of our trip to Boston is instructive. For what we could neither have known nor predicted was that soon after our journey to Boston, our new donor encountered a classmate from Yale and, inspired by our informative, if brief, visit, proceeded to serve as a most enthusiastic narrator and advocate of our efforts.
This classmate, intrigued by what he had heard, invited the Catholic chaplain and me to visit him when we were next in New York City where he lived. And thus began what would become a deeply meaningful and caring friendship leading to a remarkably unusual gift. Years later, he informed us that he wanted to leave one quarter of his entire estate to the Catholic center at Yale, a magnificent testamentary gift, but that was not all. Having conducted his due diligence prior to formalizing such a generous offer, he said, "If you need the money now to meet the construction costs as the new center is built, I will advance all that you need -- interest free--to meet those payments, obviating the need for a commercial loan. As pledge payments from other alumni arrive over time, you can simply return what I have advanced to you so that I can continue to invest it on the center's behalf as a gift in my will."
Extraordinary.
Impossible to predict.
Magnanimous.
Retrospectively, perhaps no trip taken on behalf of Catholic life at Yale was ever more consequential than that drive to Boston so long ago. Then again, rarely do we have the capacity to trace the intricate paths that lead from purposeful and faithful action to magnificent blessing. We can only trust in a future of beneficence and grace that bear signs of the seeds of sound intentions. We can only commit, over and over again, to "taking the trip," with unwavering fidelity to purpose.
And we can marvel and give thanks that God's imagination is always greater than our own.
Charles A. Robinson, portrait, by Peter S. Robinson
My grandfather, Charles Apel Robinson, was buried on his 92nd birthday. The cause of death was simply that he had come to the end of a long and wondrous life, a life we irrationally presumed might be immortal.
Decades ahead of his time, Charlie was a champion of racial, economic and environmental justice. The moral code informing his life made obvious that every person counted, that the whole world was interconnected, and that we were mandated to care for one other, across religious, national and ethnic boundaries. He promoted peace and reconciliation. He loved the earth, the land, its people and life itself.
Most of all he loved his wife, Josephine, to whom, at the precise moment of her birth on July 4th he introduced himself, a precocious ten-year-old setting off a phalanx of fireworks beneath her first window. For the next 82 years they were co-conspirators in grace and mercy, justice and hospitality. Together they had 14 children, and countless others from across the globe were warmly enveloped into their family and home.
His life is worthy of volumes, but it is the eve of his burial that is of particular illustration.
Picture this: a beautiful, warm, sunny day in June. Hundreds of people of all ages and nations are gathered at a tea house and garden in the countryside. Life is bursting forth and joyful celebration is in the air. Martinis (gin of course) are served, perfectly. Bagpipers parade the lawn. The banquet is bounteous. There are reservoirs of laughter and the curious joy unique to reunion. Stories—familiar, embellished and new– are told, privately and communally. And there are many, many tears. This is Charlie’s wake.
Hours pass. His body is laid out in an antechamber. Flowers, memorabilia and framed photographs adorn the casket. We take turns, saying our final goodbye, kneeling by his body, praying that he is already in God’s full embrace, that he will be our intercessor, that he knows how much we love him and will miss him. We give thanks for his life, for his example, for calling us to be better people in service to a world in need.
One by one, in pairs, in small groups we exit the tea house. The sun is setting; the wake has lasted all day. We are simultaneously depleted and replenished. No one wants to take final leave of this heartbreaking setting. We take our time, cross the long swath of freshly mown grass, and stop to take a last look back to where our deeply loved father, grandfather, great grandfather, colleague, neighbor, friend and moral hero is in repose. We linger, mournfully, gratefully. Hundreds of people who loved Charlie are present, gathered in hushed tones at the edge of the garden, aching with unnamed longing, unwilling to part.
And then, as though rewarding us for our hesitation, the last mourner passes through the door. From this distance, my grandmother looks small, vulnerable and regal all at once. We are silent in reverence and empathy. Two of her sons come to her side. Lovingly escorted, she makes her long journey across the wide expanse of lawn toward all we have to offer: our spontaneous, sustained applause that seems to never end.
I knew how much my mother loved me by the way in which she addressed my sorrow. She never dismissed my emotions; She acknowledged and validated the kaleidoscope of human experience.
One evening, when I was a very young girl, she found me crying in my room. Sitting on the side of my bed, she told me how sorry she was that I was feeling sad. And then she said something extraordinary. She told me that she wished she had a beautiful crystal vial to collect and save every one of my tears. As she spoke to me, she gathered each slowing tear from my cheek onto her finger, held it to the light and said, “These are such beautiful tears. I cherish every part of you.”
It was, years later, one of many maternal lessons I carried into my own experience of parenthood. From the earliest ages, my children knew how much I reverenced all that their lives contained. With great care I would collect their tears on my finger, repeating what my mother had said to me. “These are such beautiful tears. I wish that I could save such precious tears in an exquisite crystal vial.”
Neither my children nor I can recall the cause of our sorrow in any given example, but we do remember being cherished and consoled. We remember the sense of reverence and nobility conferred on ordinary experience. We remember being taken seriously and being loved at our most vulnerable.
I imagine God to be like this: perfectly maternal, intimate witness to our joys and sorrows, falling in love with us more deeply with every example of our raw vulnerability, enveloping us with her confidence that all will be well.
In 1997, pregnant with my second child, I was invited to serve as the director of development for Yale University’s Catholic Chapel and Center.
Let me be clear: I was neither qualified nor eager for this role. The timing was terrible and my ill-informed impressions of fundraising were shameful. In fact, I viscerally blanched at the thought of the responsibility. The Catholic chaplain at Yale assured me it would be low-stress, part-time, entail very little travel and have a modest goal of only $5 million. None of which of course ended up being the case. He was persuasive, kind and inexplicably certain that I was the right person for the role. I hated the thought of the proposition but civility and manners prevented me from cutting him off in mid-sentence. He entreated me to pray about it for five days and said that whatever I concluded in prayer, he would accept and honor. I readily agreed, convinced that after prayerful reflection my “No” would be uncommonly articulate.
Imagine, then, my astonishment the following Tuesday evening when I called him and told him I would accept the invitation.
At which point the goal doubled to $10 million.
Three months into our work together, fueled by a passionate commitment to bring a Catholic intellectual and spiritual center of consequence to fruition, overwhelmed by the magnitude of work our aspirations would entail, sleep-deprived with a newborn at my constant ready, the chaplain-my prime collaborator-gave me a present. It was an elegant plaque that said, simply, IT CAN BE DONE.
It sat on my desk, a daily reminder of a truth to which we were both committed. Failure was not an option, for the beneficiaries of our effort were not ourselves, but generations of students not even yet born. We were going to do this and do this right the first time. We shared a sense of urgency. And as long as we were dedicating all of our energies to this pursuit, we were determined to aim for the highest levels of quality, creativity and excellence in every aspect of our vision. Terrifying. But it can be done.
Unwavering conviction that it can be done is essential to success in any endeavor but is especially true for those aspirations deemed impossible.
I have cherished this first of many gifts from my extraordinary colleague and now lifelong friend. IT CAN BE DONE became our touchstone when all the odds seemed stacked against us, when the work became increasingly demanding, when obstacles appeared out of nowhere, erratic, unpredictable and sometimes shocking. Knowing it can be done mitigates against the temptation to surrender or downgrade one’s vision, to acquiesce to what others will insist are more realistic expectations.
Of course, knowing it can be done is not, in and of itself, enough. There is also the necessity of hard work, the willingness to live by the maxim that much can be accomplished when no one cares who gets the credit, an indefatigable tenacity, and a genuine fidelity to purpose.
But there is one other essential quality, often overlooked or disregarded.
This time it was my turn to offer him a gift. For Christmas I wrapped and presented an equally elegant, equally instructive plaque which said, IT CAN BE FUN.
Anything worth accomplishing, is worth accomplishing well. The bigger the vision, the more demanding the task. Bringing potential to fruition is not for the feint of heart. But right in the midst of the arduous demands of the task is the chance, indeed the requirement, to bring joy to the endeavor. We learned to celebrate often. We celebrated small steps, triumphant accomplishments, mistakes along the way, and the sheer privilege of lending our lives to something larger than ourselves. We looked for reasons to be glad. We focused on the present and what we could do now that would bring future beneficence to others. We shared a superb sense of humor. We lived out of conscious gratitude. We took delight in people we met, adventures we had, and ideas that surfaced, regarding all as essential pieces of the mosaic being wrought through diligent labor.
Confidence and joyful passion are an irresistible combination. It can be done and it can be fun.
This morning I woke to a voluminous moon at a retreat center in northern Florida after presenting to priests from eleven dioceses on the spirituality of fundraising.
Before anyone else was awake, I took leave of the tranquil center and set out for the Atlantic Ocean in order to walk the beach at sunrise.
I have spent at least one week of every year of my life at the beach in any number of houses on the edge of the ocean. There is no more replenishing, soulfully familiar place for me on earth.
Five generations of women, and the men we love, have enjoyed this family tradition, marked by the sign of conviviality. Books are read, walks are taken, games are played, riotously funny stories are retold and lavish meals are shared. The ocean lends itself to meaningful discussion and discernment at every stage of life.
Once, with the entire extended family present, a deliberate conversation ensued about the secret of happiness.
A young cousin volunteered that the secret to attain happiness is to resist its pursuit and allow it to manifest itself. An aunt instructed: be present to the moment, aware and appreciative. Another suggested we take an inventory of all that our week together at the beach comprised and consider that the magic recipe. My brother was specific, “A Redskins Superbowl championship.” We agreed that happiness has an elusive quality, that there are likely many avenues to its encounter, that all responses had personal authenticity, each one worthy of deeper consideration and attempt.
The only one who had not spoken was my grandmother. It was the last time as a family gathered at the beach that we would enjoy the company of this vibrant, exceedingly joyful, vivacious woman; these were her final weeks of life. We pressed her for an answer to the question, “What is the secret to happiness?” It was frankly hard to imagine anyone more adept at a response; her easy delight in all things, her indomitable positive outlook and her laughter’s cadence were chief among her defining characteristics. So when she demurred and said that she didn’t believe she had anything to add, no real secret, no magic formula for us to grasp, we were collectively disappointed and unsettled. We wanted to be more like her, a bona fide bonne vivante. If only we knew her secret. We begged her for an answer, arguing that she exemplified in her very disposition that which we were seeking. Surely she had some clue to extend, we earnestly entreated.
Despite labored breathing presaging her final days of life, she said softly, smiling, as though it had only just occurred to her that this might in fact be relevant, “I do try to start each day with a little awe and enthusiasm.”
After she died, I held these words with reverence and tried to wake each morning with the same commitment, if only to honor her memory. I soon found merit in the exercise, benefit to the habit. There is a marked difference between beginning a day dissatisfied — with dread, weariness, fear, inertia or boredom — and welcoming morning consciousness with it’s opposite. We are apt to see what we are looking for, to encounter what we expect and to validate what we feel as the day proceeds.
This morning I got to watch the moon set and the sun rise on a spectacularly beautiful beach. Nature’s prodigal daily gift rendered me speechless with gratitude to be witness to such aesthetic majesty. How easy to greet this day with awe and enthusiasm.
How much easier still when doing so has been made effortless by practice.
In recent months I have lost two people very close to my heart. In both cases I was afforded the blessing of meaningful time spent with the dying person I cherished. I was given a last and lasting gift of intimacy, soulful discussion and heartfelt, mutual expressions of love and gratitude.
So I sat in rapt attention when on a gentle evening, as relatives and friends gathered in familiar pose and conversation on our porch, the subject turned rather suddenly to the best way to die. The question was specific in its intensity. “How would you like to experience your own death?”
Over bottles of wine and candlelight we took turns articulating the pros and cons of the myriad ways any one of us might experience our own death. It was not entirely morbid. One friend suggested that she would like to die suddenly and quickly, without warning, ideally after a spectacularly joyful celebration. Another suggested that he would prefer to have as much time as possible with the knowledge of a terminal illness in order to make amends, to thank his friends and family, and to be intentional about giving away everything he possessed. Another was certain that dying in her sleep, peacefully, at the end of a long life is the most desirable. And so the conversation ensued until the oldest at the table, my father, turned to the youngest at the table, my thirteen-year-old daughter.
“Sophie, you have been very quiet and very attentive, but you have not yet volunteered an answer. Do you have an opinion on the way you would most like to die?”
Everything became still and silent. I held my breath. Too late I wondered if she was too young for such deep, existential, potentially distressing discourse. Perhaps she had never seriously considered the matter.
Now at the center of everyone’s attention, aware that a response was being asked of her, she replied very simply, “Yes. I hope I die saving someone else’s life.”
Sometimes it is the youngest at the table who offers the greatest perspective.
“Excuse me, would you take a picture of us?”
All over the world this request is made, to strangers by strangers no less, and I have never witnessed the request denied.
Many of us have experienced both roles, that of impromptu photographer and requisite subject. The background varies: famous landmarks, exquisite vistas, personally meaningful locations. Time is often a factor: the setting sun, a celebration, a family vacation.
For the photographer enlisted, the acquiescence is pure altruism. It is a simple, kind act of service solely benefitting others. It happens so often across time and place that we forget how uniquely, endearingly human this is.
And the one who requests the photograph? If it were merely a matter of documenting the landmark, a passerby would not be needed. The motivation is often precious: to record a moment in time, shared with others, of a special place and occasion. It is a way to communicate to those with whom one is present, “You matter. Being here, with you, matters. I cherish you.” The photograph helps to circumvent the limits of time and space and memory. It captures and preserves in an instant all that is made up of our complicated, loving, seemingly transient and deeply human relationships and documents the messy, joyful experiences of life we share.
That this happens with such frequency is beautiful. It is a testament to our love and gratitude for one another, to selfless acts of kindness, and to our capacity to marvel at creation, be that the Empire State Building or the Grand Canyon, Victoria Falls or the Taj Mahal. It is a reason for one’s hope in our shared humanity.
—
My own family was at Rockefeller Center in New York City on the evening of December 29th, dazzled by the sparkling tree, ice skaters and languages from across the globe. Merriment and wonder were palpable. In an instant, as I observed an elderly man ask a stranger in the crowd to take a photo of his companions with the tree in the background, and the immediate willingness of the stranger to do so, and the happy, grateful result, I wanted to write about this. Excitedly I began to explain to my husband why I found the common encounter so captivating and a fitting subject for love in ordinary time. No sooner had he responded with encouragement and support of the idea then a young couple approached us and said, “Excuse me, would you take a picture of us?” We laughed and eagerly agreed. The young man handed over his camera, posed with his arm around his beautiful girlfriend, framed by the tree, and I watched my husband take the digital photos. I saw their shared delight and approval of the images. And then the young man said, “Would you take one more? This is important.”
And there we were, strangers to this couple, happy to be taking their photo one more time in the middle of an ebullient, busy crowd, when the man knelt by his girlfriend’s side, proffered a diamond ring and asked her if she would marry him. She was completely surprised and visibly happy to say yes. Astonished to be witness to the moment, aware of the heightened responsibility of the role, we took as many pictures as was possible, while an enormous circle formed around the lovers and of us, offering their spontaneous, heartfelt applause and congratulations. They were grateful for the photographs as we returned their camera and wished them every blessing in their new life together, and just as quickly as they had entered into our lives, they were gone.
Life is beautiful in ordinary and extraordinary ways. What a blessing to be any part of it at all.
