So, once again, my old friend Jim Austin was in town. He co-led a workshop at the Cumberland Zen Center on Saturday, stayed on to give a talk at the Brown Medical School on Monday, and today I picked him up at the school’s inn to have lunch together and then to drive him to the airport.
As it was early and the airport is only half an hour away, we decided to throw out fates to the winds, drive out and see what kind of restaurant we might find. Actually we knew there was a Legal Seafood there and that would be our ace in the hole. We arrived, there was the Legal, but it turned out it wouldn’t open for an hour. Which if we came back would give us half an hour to eat before I had to roll Jim out to have sufficient time to check in and pass through the various safety measures we now all endure when we fly.
We drove around a bit, to see if we could find a better deal. Couldn’t.
Jim then suggested we take a walk. So, we drove into a housing tract, parked and started walking.
We had a lovely conversation with a Japanese Maple.
Then down the road we saw a figure in a front yard tucked into one of those bathtubs that one usually sees containing a figure of Mary. The figure in this tub, however, was a man about quarter size. He held a book and at his side a large club. And on top of his head, a topknot of fire. Sort of like one can see in some Middle Eastern pictures of Muslim saints.
Neither of us knew who this was.
Me, having appreciated it, I was ready to walk on.
Not so Jim.
He went up to the door and rang the bell. We waited. We waited a little more. Then a woman came to the door and Jim introduced us as taking a walk and the “reverend” (pointing to me) and he were wondering who the magnificent figure in the bathtub was.
St Jude.
Ah…
We walked a bit more, returned to the car, went to Legal Seafood where Jim had a bowl of New England clam chowder and I had a bowl of the discretely named “Rhode Island red clam chowder.” (For those in the know, Rhode Island clam chowder isn’t red. But there is that name which should not be mentioned within the boundaries of Red Sox nation…)
We drove to the airport, exchanged hugs, and off we went…
St Jude.
Sometimes called Judas not Iscariot.
Sometimes thought of as a brother of James the Great and therefore another brother of Jesus.
His name is attached to a small letter in the New Testament.
And, somehow, at least in the Western calendar he has become the go to guy for people in lost causes…
Not a bad saint to remember.
And somehow, as I’m, probably like many others, currently caught up in a number of projects, only some of which might actually come to fruition in ways I’d hope, I think about the whole enterprise of engagement in life. And how we need to stand in relation to those projects.
Beyond you pay your money and you take your chances.
Somewhere in the neighborhood of one continuous mistake.
I find myself thinking about that caution.
We need to throw ourselves into the matter with great passion.
We need to care and care deeply.
And we need to do.
The rest, whatever follows, is none of our business. Or, it can be framed, let go of the results.
Good advice, I think.
Do that and perhaps you will go into whatever task with St Jude as a companion.
Already lost.
What a beautiful place.
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