The King and the Ring
I recently heard this story and researched it a little.
According to internet sources, it is a Jewish wisdom folktale as told by a man
from Turkey named David Franko. I really like it:
“One day Solomon decided to humble
Benaiah Ben Yehoyada, his most trusted minister. He said to him, “Benaiah,
there is a certain ring that I want you to bring to me. I wish to wear it for
Sukkot which gives you six months to find it.”
“If it exists anywhere on earth, your
majesty,” replied Benaiah, “I will find it and bring it to you, but what makes
the ring so special?”
“It has magic powers,” answered the
king. “If a happy man looks at it, he becomes sad, and if a sad man looks at
it, he becomes happy.” Solomon knew that no such ring existed in the world, but
he wished to give his minister a little taste of humility.
Spring passed and then summer, and
still Benaiah had no idea where he could find the ring. On the night before
Sukkot, he decided to take a walk in one of the poorest quarters of Jerusalem.
He passed by a merchant who had begun to set out the day’s wares on a shabby
carpet. “Have you, by any chance, heard of a magic ring that makes the happy
wearer forget his joy and the broken-hearted wearer forget his sorrows?” asked
Benaiah.
He watched the grandfather take a
plain gold ring from his carpet and engrave something on it. When Benaiah read
the words on the ring, his face broke out in a wide smile. That night the
entire city welcomed in the holiday of Sukkot with great festivity.
“Well, my friend,” said Solomon,
“have you found what I sent you after?” All the ministers laughed and Solomon
himself smiled.
To everyone’s surprise, Benaiah held
up a small gold ring and declared, “Here it is, your majesty!”
As soon as Solomon read the
inscription, the smile vanished from his face. The jeweler had written three
Hebrew letters on the gold band: gimel, zayin, yud, which began the words “Gam
zeh ya’avor” — “This too shall pass.” At that moment, Solomon realized that all
his wisdom and fabulous wealth and tremendous power were but fleeting things,
for one day he would be nothing but dust.”
This
too shall pass. I’ve worn this phrase out as I have moved through my years in
the rooms of 12-step communities. It’s the mantra I recite when I am stuck in
traffic, or having a bad day at work, or sneezing and coughing my way through
the Tennessee allergy season. It’s the “note to self” that I keep handy for the moments when I feel the dark waters of depression lapping at
my feet, or the clutch of anxiety tightening in my chest. In these moments, this too shall pass is grace.
And
then there are those times when this too
shall pass is kind of a bummer. When we are enjoying time with those
dearest to us. Vacationing in a tropical paradise. Holding a newborn baby in
our arms. Being recognized for our hard work in the field we are passionate
about. This too shall pass. Damn.
The Truth of Impermanence
Impermanence
(or Annica in Pali) is one of the 3
marks of existence described in the Buddhist teachings – along with suffering (dukkha) and the non-self (anatta). Every being that exists in
this moment is going to change, leave, or die. It is the natural order of things.
What we find in this moment may very well not be found in the next. This too shall
pass.
Life
is busier than it has ever been for most of us. Our calendars are overflowing
with appointments and deadlines and meetings as we multitask between screens
and conduct conference calls in our cars during the evening rush. So many of
our moments slip by completely unheralded and largely unnoticed and, as the clock
strikes 11 or 12 and we crawl into bed exhausted, we look back and ask
ourselves: “Where did this day go? What was I doing all day?” Our moments turn
into our days, and into our years, and into our lives. And this too, all of it,
shall pass.
The
biggest wake-up call that I have ever gotten around the truth of impermanence
was when my mother passed away.
I
have spent, really, my whole life being in denial about ever losing my mother.
She would sometimes try to talk to me about her end of life care, and more
often than not, I would cut those conversations short with a lighthearted, “Oh,
mom, you aren’t going anywhere — you will probably outlive me!” During our last
visit before she died, she had a sense of urgency that I had not seen in her
before. Over and over, she told me how proud she was of me and how she never,
ever wanted me to forget that. When she hugged me goodbye, it was the tightest,
longest hug I have ever experienced and, as I waved goodbye from the backseat
of my cab, it hit me. The clock was running out. The moments were sifting sand
between my fingers. The next thing I knew, my mother was gone and I was plunged
headfirst into what Francis Weller describes in his book The Wild Edge of Sorrow as an “apprenticeship with grief.” [1]
This term really resonates with me because this grief, alive and deep and relentless,
has proven itself to be a most prolific teacher. I continue to learn its
lessons every day.
We Think We Have Time
Paulo
Coelho writes: “One day you will wake up and there won’t be any more time to do
the things you’ve always wanted. Do it now.” [2]
For
years, my mom asked me to move closer to her and spend more time with her,
which was something that I very much wanted to do. But, you know, I am an
anxious sort and a little (a lot) aversive to big changes in my life. So, I had
my conditions. I made rules for how much money I would need in the bank and
decided that I would definitely not be comfortable moving without a job in
place at my new destination. When I would sit and think about everything
involved with moving my somewhat small life 700 miles northeast, I would get overwhelmed
and mired down in the details of hiring movers, packing my things, finding an
apartment that will let me have my dogs. Best to wait until the circumstances
were right, right? I thought I had time.
The
irony about the whole thing was that my mom was never afraid of a move,
sometimes leaving everything behind to start completely over. She didn’t always
love it, but it didn’t paralyze her. She was always open to a new adventure. I wonder if, during the time I was grappling with the decision, she ever
wondered where on earth I got that from. If she did, she never said it out
loud.
I
wonder what it would have been like had I challenged my conditioning to play it
safe, put everything I own (except my dogs) into storage, and taken the chance
on the possibilities of a new locale. How would my life be different now,
having spent more face to face moments with my mom and cherishing the
relationship that we had built, particularly over the years of my sobriety?
This
is lesson number one: This too shall pass.
Do it now.
Holding Back Our Hearts
The
second lesson is not really so different from the first. How many reading are
holding on to words that have never been spoken to those that might need to
hear them? Why are we, as a society, really, so afraid to let others know what
is in our hearts?
I
didn’t really even know until my mom was gone just how many things were
unspoken between us. Important things about love, and life, and forgiveness,
and grace, and the bond that was so strong that it couldn’t be broken even in
the direst circumstance. I told my mom daily that I loved her, but I realize
that it was sometimes in that way of feeling a bit recited. A bit usual. I always
meant it with my whole heart, but now I really have a deeper understanding that
there was so much more to be said. Thank you. I’m sorry. Forgive me. I hope
that, when I grow up, I will be just like you.
Again,
from Paulo Coelho: “Life is too short for us to keep important words like ‘I
love you’ locked in our hearts.” [3]
This
is the second lesson: Reveal your heart.
Say what you need to say.
Showing Up for Every Moment
My
meditation teacher often shares a story about a busy, single mom that is
constantly scurrying around, trying to get things done and hurrying her toddler
through meals and activities trying to keep them both on schedule. Then one
day, she went to the doctor and was given the news that she had cancer and
really could only expect to live another year or so. She later described how,
in those moments and days after the diagnosis, her mantra became: I have no time to rush.
My
parents moved to Washington DC in 2012, right about the time I started to get a
little room in my budget for travel. I visited as often as I could, and my mom
and I would spend time together shopping or walking in the park that was across
the street from her apartment. She had some physical limitations that caused
her to move kind of slowly, and I can remember times when I felt impatient and
sometimes frustrated … hurrying us both along. So many times, I was only
halfway there.
Like
nearly everyone in our society, I spend much of my time focused on some
destination. I’m preoccupied with my phone, or a text, or Facebook notification
or figuring out what is next. Anticipating, planning. Trying to hack the next
moment instead of showing up for the one that’s right here, touching it,
savoring it. When I look up from the phone, or step away from the computer, a
strange kind of anxiety sets in. I don’t know quite what to do or how to act in
that state of disconnection. What I didn’t realize during all of those missed
moments with my mom, was that the connection that I was longing for would never
be found in my iPhone, but it was right there for me if I could just let go of
the gadget and reach, instead, toward the loving soul walking next to me.
This
is the third lesson: Show up for every
moment. All the way. All in. Connect to what’s right here.
It’s
not a cliché that this moment is all we have. It’s truth. This too shall pass.
All
of these — taking action, revealing our hearts to those we cherish, being
present for our moments — really spring forth from the root of intention. We
have to do it on purpose. Each morning before my mind has a chance to get too
busy, I do a short meditation and ask myself: How am I going to live my life today? How will I keep my heart open
today? How will I show up for my moments today? How will those I cherish know
that I love them today? When I walk out the door with these questions in my
back pocket, I find myself acting in ways that honor my heart’s aspiration to
be kind, to be open, to be brave, and to be present.
This Moment is Our Greatest
Teacher
Perhaps
the lesson I’ve most deeply learned in this ongoing apprenticeship with grief
is that my greatest and most accessible teacher becomes whatever is arising
right in this moment…no matter what it is. Oscar Wilde once wrote: “Where there
is sorrow, there is holy ground.” [4]
My moments with grief have, indeed, been holy ground. I have learned to
approach this soul sadness with reverence. To touch it all…as Rilke says, the
beauty and the terror…gently and with great compassion.[5]
The longing, when you take it by the hand, will lead you directly to the sacred
center of your own heart where you will find that which you thought was lost,
the loving from which you can never be separated, because it is actually who
you are.
Our
moments on earth are fleeting. They are unrepeatable. Here and then gone. This
too, shall pass.
What
is your intention for your moments today?
[1] Weller, F. (2015). The Wild Edge of Sorrow: Rituals of
Renewal and the Sacred Work of Grief. Berkeley, CA: North Atlantic Books.
[2] Coelho, P. (1993). The Alchemist. New York, NY:
HarperCollins.
[3] Coelho, P. (2013). Manuscript Found in Accra (M. J.
Costa, Trans.). New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf.
[4] Wilde, O. (1905). De Profundis [Gutenberg Project eBook]. Retrieved
July 10, 2017, from http://www.gutenberg.org/files/921/21-h/921-h.htm
[5] Rilke, R. M. (2001). Go to the Limits of Your Longing (A. S.
Kidder, Trans.). In Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to a Lowly God.
Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press.
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