Contentment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Wild (2012)

  I hoisted Monster onto my back and ambled through the weeds down into the ditch and then up again, into the woods, which somehow felt like home to me, like the world that was mine in a way that the world of roads and towns and cars was no longer. I walked until I found a good spot in the shade. Then I sat down in the dirt and cracked the beer open. I didn’t like beer—in fact, that Budweiser was the first whole beer I’d ever drunk in my life—but it tasted good to me, like beer tastes, I imagine, to those who love it: cold and sharp and crisp and right. While I drank it I explored the contents of the plastic grocery bag. I took everything out and laid each item before me on the ground: a pack of peppermint gum, three individually wrapped wet wipes, a paper packet containing two aspirin, six butterscotch candies in translucent gold wrappers, a book of matches that said Thank You Steinbeck Drug, a Slim Jim sausage sealed in its plastic vacuum world, a single cigarette in a cylindrical faux-glass case, a disposable razor, and a short, fat can of baked beans. I ate the Slim Jim first, washing it down with the last of my Budweiser, and then the butterscotch candies, all six of them, one after the other, and then—still hungry, always hungry—turned my attention to the can of baked beans. I pried it open in tiny increments with the impossible can-opening device on my Swiss army knife, and then, too lazy to rummage through my pack for my spoon, I scooped them out with the knife itself and ate them—hobo-style—from the blade. I returned to the road feeling slightly hazy from the beer, chewing two pieces of the peppermint gum to sober up, while cheerfully stabbing my thumb at every vehicle that passed. After a few minutes, an old white Maverick pulled over. A woman sat in the driver’s seat with a man beside her and another man and a dog in the back seat. “Where you headed?” she asked. “Old Station,” I said. “Or at least the junction of 36 and 44.” “That’s on our way,” she said, and got out of the car, came around the back, and opened the trunk for me. She looked to be about forty. Her hair was frizzy and bleached blonde, her face puffy and pocked with old acne scars. She wore cutoffs and gold earrings in the shape of butterflies and a grayish halter top that seemed to have been made with the strings of a mop. “That’s quite a pack you got there, kiddo,” she said, and laughed raucously.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  3. The Apostolical Constitutions, the most complete and important Church Manual. It is, in form, a literary fiction, professing to be a bequest of all the apostles, handed down through the Roman bishop Clement, or dictated to him. It begins with the words: "The apostles and elders, to all who among the nations have believed in the Lord Jesus Christ. Grace be with you, and peace." It contains, in eight books, a collection of moral exhortations, church laws and usages, and liturgical formularies which had gradually arisen in the various churches from the close of the first century, the time of the Roman Clement, downward, particularly in Jerusalem, Antioch, Alexandria, and Rome, partly on the authority of apostolic practice. These were at first orally transmitted; then committed to writing in different versions, like the creeds; and finally brought, by some unknown hand, into their present form. The first six books, which have a strongly Jewish-Christian tone, were composed, with the exception of some later interpolations, at the end of the third century, in Syria. The seventh book is an expansion of the Didache of the Twelve Apostles. The eighth book contains a liturgy, and, in an appendix, the apostolical canons. The collection of the three parts into one whole may be the work of the compiler of the eighth book. It is no doubt of Eastern authorship, for the church of Rome nowhere occupies a position of priority or supremacy.265 The design was, to set forth the ecclesiastical life for laity and clergy, and to establish the episcopal theocracy. These constitutions were more used and consulted in the East than any work of the fathers, and were taken as the rule in matters of discipline, like the Holy Scriptures in matters of doctrine. Still the collection, as such, did not rise to formal legal authority, and the second Trullan council of 692 (known as quinisextum), rejected it for its heretical interpolations, while the same council acknowledged the Apostolical Canons.266

• From Wild (2012)

  There are all the grand things he wanted to be, a longing so naked and sorry I sensed it and grieved it even as a young child. There is him singing that Charlie Rich song that goes “Hey, did you happen to see the most beautiful girl in the world?” and saying it was about me and my sister and our mother, that we were the most beautiful girls in the world. Oprah’s note: I love words, and there are some sentences that I love spoon-feeding to myself. This is one of those spoon-fed sentences. “A longing so naked and sorry”: even if you’ve never had that kind of longing, it so accurately describes it that you know what that feels like. Click here to return to the text. Of all the things I’d been skeptical about, I didn’t feel skeptical about this: the wilderness had a clarity that included me. Oprah’s note: That may be my favorite line in the whole book. First of all, it’s so beautifully constructed, and it captures what this journey was all about. She started out looking to find herself—looking for clarity—and that’s exactly what happens. The essence of the book is held right there in that sentence. It means that every step was worth it. It means all the skepticism of whether this hike is the right thing or not the right thing—it all gets resolved in that sentence. Click here to return to the text. It seemed like a long time and also it seemed like my trip had just begun, like I was only now digging into whatever it was I was out here to do. Like I was still the woman with her hole in her heart, but the hole had gotten ever so infinitesimally smaller. I took a drag and blew the smoke from my mouth remembering how I had felt more alone than anyone in the whole wide world that morning after Jimmy Carter drove away. Maybe I was more alone than anyone in the whole wide world. Maybe that was okay. Oprah’s note: I liked the self-realization that’s coming here: that if you can’t be alone with yourself and be happy, then you can never be happy. All her life she’s been running from herself, and finally she has this moment where she sees that she’s alone—and that’s really okay. Click here to return to the text. Miles weren’t things that blazed dully past. They were long, intimate straggles of weeds and clumps of dirt, blades of grass and flowers that bent in the wind, trees that lumbered and screeched. They were the sound of my breath and my feet hitting the trail one step at a time and the click of my ski pole. The PCT had taught me what a mile was. I was humble before each and every one. Oprah’s note:

• From Bold Move

  Turning Values into ActionTo transform your bold vision into a clear plan, we will rely on one of the most revolutionary frameworks I have seen in recent years: Simon Sinek’s Golden Circle. Simon is a world-renowned public speaker, author, and unshakable optimist.21 In his book, Start with Why : How Great Leaders Inspire Everyone to Take Action ,22 he describes the utility behind the why, how, and what that fuel actions using an image of concentric circles. Although the book focuses heavily on examples from the business world, he has written extensively about the application of the Golden Circle to many diverse domains in life. I use it to structure a lot of my work, life, and ambitions. In fact: I actually used it to structure this book! I start with the why for the entire book (because avoidance sucks!), then each part (e.g., Shift , Approach , Align ) dives down into how we avoid in that domain (3 Rs of avoidance: react, retreat, remain) and then what to do about it (boom: science!). So it might not surprise you that I use the same framework to help my clients create a plan to achieve their bold vision. I’ve found that it’s most helpful to consider four things when creating the steps of a bold plan: 1) Is it aligned (the why)? 2) Is it specific (the what)? 3) Is it doable (the how)? and 4) Is it scheduled (the when)? Asking these questions will help you arrive at a workable step. Workable steps will help you navigate life with a plan that is aligned with your values so you don’t stray (like I did) by focusing only on the outcome (goals) and not on why you are doing this in the first place (value). Ricardo’s and Stephanie’s Values in ActionLet’s revisit the stories of Ricardo and Stephanie to get a feel for what bold plans look like. Ricardo’s plans were challenging to work on because they involved his children, which meant that, whatever step he outlined he would need to clear with his wife in the midst of an uncomfortable divorce process. Ricardo explained to me that he felt this would be impossible given how challenging their relationship had been. The reality is, Ricardo was actually avoiding a bit here: as we discussed things further, it became clear that there were in fact times when he was with his children and could focus on his connection (aligned ). While arranging for these moments might be challenging, it was not some insurmountable impossibility. To achieve this, we worked on exactly what he could do within the context of what he could control (doable ), and he found a great solution. He decided that he would spend forty-five minutes without his work cell phone when he was with his children (specific ) twice a week at dinner time (scheduled ). Specifically, Tuesdays and Thursdays: this was literally in his calendar (laser alignment ).

• From Wild (2012)

  But he was wrong. There were no buses that went all the way to Sierra City, we learned. We’d have to catch a bus that evening and ride seven hours to Reno, Nevada, then take another one for an hour to Truckee, California. From there we’d have no option but to hitchhike the final forty-five miles to Sierra City. We bought two one-way tickets and an armful of snacks and sat on the warm pavement at the edge of the convenience store parking lot waiting for the bus to come. We polished off whole bags of chips and cans of soda while talking. We ran through the Pacific Crest Trail as a conversational topic, through backpacking gear and the record snowpack one more time, through the “ultralight” theories and practices of Ray Jardine and of his followers—who may or may not have misinterpreted the spirit behind those theories and practices—and finally arrived at ourselves. I asked him about his job and life in Tacoma. He had no pets and no kids and a girlfriend he’d been dating a year. She was an avid backpacker too. His life, it was clear, was an ordered and considered thing. It seemed both boring and astounding to me. I didn’t know what mine seemed like to him. The bus to Reno was nearly empty when we got on at last. I followed Greg to the middle, where we took pairs of seats directly opposite each other across the aisle. “I’m going to get some sleep,” he said once the bus lurched onto the highway.

• From Don't Feed the Monkey Mind: How to Stop the Cycle of Anxiety, Fear, and Worry (2017)

  hands to yourself!” They also looked for other instances of desired behavior from Joey, as well as from the other children, and gave attention to those behaviors too. As this strategy became part of normal classroom protocol, all the children who had been acting out, including Joey, began doing it less. This strategy improved the entire atmosphere of the classrooms, helping to create a culture of inclusion where everyone tended to progress, regardless how far along they were. Positive Focus Conventional wisdom is that we should be punished for doing wrong so that we will want to do right instead. In every situation we encounter we tend to keep our focus on noticing what we are doing wrong. While negative reinforcement does help us learn when it comes from our environment, for instance learning not to grab a rose by the stem, it is rarely effective when it comes from other people or from ourselves. As I have seen over and over in my professional and personal practices, we learn best when we are consistently rewarded for what we are doing right. This is true for learning anything new and difficult. A pianist who is praised by her teacher for her focus and her expression—even when she misses notes—will ultimately make better music than an equally talented pianist who is praised only when she performs flawlessly. A basketball player who is praised by his coach for shooting with correct form—regardless of whether he hits the basket—is more likely to develop a good shot than a similar player who is praised only when his attempts are successful.

• From Bold Move

  Of course, I’m not promising you that learning this skill is the key to feeling amazing 100 percent of the time, but what I am promising you is that if you take the time to really Align your values and actions, the journey of your life will be far more rewarding than it would be otherwise. But before we wrap up this chapter, there is an important caveat: values can change across our lives. In fact, given that life is change, you should expect your values to shift throughout the days, weeks, months, and years of your life. As we evolve, situations change, and we can decide to prioritize other values. After all, our values are no more static than our lives are, and depending on what is going on at any given moment, we will have to realign what we are doing so that it matches up with our new true north. Think of it like values-driven compass maintenance. As I learned in my first yoga class back in 2000, everything is a journey, not a destination. With a good compass on hand, you are equipped for the journey. This journey can be rough at times, gorgeous at others, and sometimes just meh. But it is a journey worth traveling because you have a true north pointing you in the direction of fulfillment. And not just the cheap fulfillment from the material world. I’m talking about the satisfaction that accompanies you to bed and makes you excited to see what happens tomorrow. When the downpours of life occur, and you are jolted off course, don’t be discouraged: the compass is still there. I have never met someone who always stays dead straight on the course of their true north—that is just humanly impossible. To move boldly forward is to give yourself time to pause whenever you find yourself in the wilderness. When this occurs, identify your avoidance pattern and match it with a skill that overcomes it (slay that dragon!). If your thinking is what is setting you off course, it will be Shift to the rescue. If your reactivity is robbing the best of you, Approach through opposite action will recalibrate your journey. And when you’re doing what you have always done, following someone else’s GPS, it is time to Align with your values. As ex-Navy SEAL, author, and speaker Jocko Willink is fond of saying on his podcast: “When you get off the path, it’s alright. Just get back on the path.” There is no single solution that will work for everyone forever because these are skills designed to be matched to your current avoidance pattern. With practice, you will be able to catch your avoidance faster, match the solution skill, and act—but that takes practice! There is only one way to fail here, which is to not do anything.

• From Wild (2012)

  “I never got to be in the driver’s seat of my own life,” she’d wept to me once, in the days after she learned she was going to die. “I always did what someone else wanted me to do. I’ve always been someone’s daughter or mother or wife. I’ve never just been me.” “Oh, Mom,” was all I could say as I stroked her hand. I was too young to say anything else. At noon I went to the cafeteria in one of the nearby buildings and ate lunch. Afterwards, I walked through the parking lot to the Crater Lake Lodge and strolled through the elegantly rustic lobby with Monster on my back, pausing to peer into the dining room. There was a smattering of people sitting at tables, handsome groups holding glasses of chardonnay and pinot gris like pale yellow jewels. I went outside to the long porch that overlooked the lake, made my way along a line of grand rocking chairs, and found one that was set off by itself. I sat in it for the rest of the afternoon, staring at the lake. I still had 334 miles to hike before I reached the Bridge of the Gods, but something made me feel as if I’d arrived. Like that blue water was telling me something I’d walked all this way to know. This was once Mazama, I kept reminding myself. This was once a mountain that stood nearly 12,000 feet tall and then had its heart removed. This was once a wasteland of lava and pumice and ash. This was once an empty bowl that took hundreds of years to fill. But hard as I tried, I couldn’t see them in my mind’s eye. Not the mountain or the wasteland or the empty bowl. They simply were not there anymore. There was only the stillness and silence of that water: what a mountain and a wasteland and an empty bowl turned into after the healing began. 17 INTO A PRIMAL GEAROregon was a hopscotch in my mind. I skipped it, spun it, leapt it in my imagination all the way from Crater Lake to the Bridge of the Gods. Eighty-five miles to my next box at a place called Shelter Cove Resort. One hundred and forty-three miles beyond that to my final box at Olallie Lake. Then I’d be on the homestretch to the Columbia River: 106 miles to the town of Cascade Locks, with a stop for a holy-shit-I-can’t-believe-I’m-almost-there drink at Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood at the midpoint of that final stretch. But that still added up to 334 miles to hike.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Roger Bacon had felt revulsion from the hairsplitting casuistries of the Schoolmen, and given expression to it before Eckart began his activity at Cologne. Scholasticism had trodden a beaten and dusty highway. The German mystics walked in secluded and shady pathways. For a catalogue of dogmatic maxims they substituted the quiet expressions of filial devotion and assurance. The speculative element is still prominent in Eckart, but it is not indulged for the sake of establishing doctrinal rectitude, but for the nurture of inward experience of God’s operations in the soul. Godliness with these men was not a system of careful definitions, it was a state of spiritual communion; not an elaborate construction of speculative thought, but a simple faith and walk with God. Not processes of logic but the insight of devotion was their guide.428 As Loofs has well said, German mysticism emphasized above all dogmas and all external works the necessity of the new birth.429 It also had its dangers. Socrates had urged men not to rest hopes upon the Delphian oracle, but to listen to the voice in their own bosoms. The mystics, in seeking to hear the voice of God speaking in their own hearts, ran peril of magnifying individualism to the disparagement of what was common to all and of mistaking states of the overwrought imagination for revelations from God.430 Although the German mystical writers have not been quoted in the acts of councils or by popes as have been the theologies of the Schoolmen, they represented, if we follow the testimonies of Luther and Melanchthon, an important stage in the religious development of the German people, and it is certainly most significant that the Reformation broke out on the soil where the mystics lived and wrought, and their piety took deep root. They have a perennial life for souls who, seeking devotional companionship, continue to go back to the leaders of that remarkable pietistic movement. The leading features of the mysticism of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries may be summed up in the following propositions. 1. Its appeals were addressed to laymen as well as to clerics. 2. The mystics emphasized instruction and preaching, and, if we except Suso, withdrew the emphasis which had been laid upon the traditional ascetic regulations of the Church. They did not commend buffetings of the body. The distance between Peter Damiani and Tauler is world-wide. 3. They used the New Testament more than they used the Old Testament, and the words of Christ took the place of the Canticles in their interpretations of the mind of God. The German Theology quotes scarcely a single passage which is not found in the New Testament, and the Imitation of Christ opens with the quotation of words spoken by our Lord. Eckart and Tauler dwell upon passages of the New Testament, and Ruysbroeck evolves the fulness of his teaching from Matthew 25:6, "Behold the Bridegroom cometh, go ye out to meet him." 4.

• From 50 Shades Uncovered (2015)

  Agnes: I think it's nice that she refers to her inner goddess. I think all women should think of themselves in that way sexually and-- and in life. The terms that she used to describe her, uh, vagina. She described it as "my sex." And I just think, the writer had a world - of metaphors and terms to use. - Anything, anything. - You could've called it "my zebra crossing." - "My pineapple." You could have called it "my Elizabeth Taylor." - "My Elizabeth Taylor." - It could've been anything. "My mimsy." Anything. -"My sex." -"My sex." It's very interesting that these are very young people. The-- the Christian and the girl, they're in their twenties. So what happens to some women who maybe have been in long-term relationships with the same guy, they get to go back in their fantasies to a stage where maybe they were more sexual, and then that creates a very, very interesting feedback loop in the sense that they tap into their own sexuality and then they say, "Well, what can I do with it? "Maybe I need to go buy more lingerie. "Maybe I need to realize this fantasy that this book really provides." (music playing) Narrator: Historically, our relationship with explicit novels has been cyclical. The eighteenth century was a time of glamour and excess, when affairs were forgiven and mistresses were on show. (giggling) By the time Queen Victoria took to the throne in 1837, contemporary morals had shifted. The Queen was a young virgin, and the most celebrated women were no longer mistresses, but reformers and writers. The Victorians preferred to read about love, not sex. Up until the early 1950s, society could be described as a nation of prudes. People talk sex. Every paper talks about sex. It's all very common, very down-market, and very horrible. Narrator: And so remained the status quo until 1960 when Penguin won the right to publish D.H. Lawrence's explicit novel, "Lady Chatterley's Lover." Francis: If you go back a century you've got "Lady Chatterley's Lover," which for that time was explicit and illicit. Kite: "Lady Chatterley's Lover," that was a really shocking book at the time. White: It certainly created a lot of publicity around the whole case in the early '60s. Hodson: We've got a long history of banning books because we're afraid of the sexual practices that they describe possibly spreading into respectable society. "Lady Chatterley's Lover" was actually prosecuted in this country and banned because of the sexual violence in it. Mellors, the gamekeeper, is very angry with Lady Constance because she wants to be a feminist in bed. Two books that people kind of always refer to when they're thinking about historical "dirty books," they are the "Story of O" and the Marquis de Sade. I think Enid Blyton in her own way was rockin' it for a while, but it wasn't close enough to porn.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  It was the Thames, I knew, which widened at its estuary to form the kind, clear, oyster-bearing sea I had grown up on. It gave me an odd little thrill, as I stood gazing at the pleasure-boats beneath Lambeth Bridge, to know that I had journeyed against the current - had made the trip from palpitating metropolis to mild, uncomplicated Whitstable in reverse. When I saw barges bringing fish from Kent I only smiled - it never made me homesick. And when the barge-men turned, to make the journey back along the river, I did not envy them at all. And while we strolled and gazed and grew ever more sisterly and content, the year drew to a close; we continued to labour over the act, and Kitty herself became something of a success. Now, every contract that Walter found her was longer and more generous than the last; soon she was over-booked, and turning offers down. Now she had admirers - gentlemen, who sent her flowers and dinner invitations (which - to my secret relief - she only laughed over and put aside); boys, who asked for her picture; girls, who gathered at the stage door to tell her how handsome she was - girls I hardly knew whether to pity, patronise or fear, so closely did they resemble me, so easily might they have had my role, I theirs.And yet, with all this, she did not become what she longed to be, what Walter had promised her she would be: a star. The halls she worked remained the suburban ones, and the better class of East End ones (and once or twice the not-so-nice ones - Foresters, and the Sebright, where the crowd threw boots and trotter-bones at the acts they didn’t like). Her name never rose much or grew larger on the music-hall notices; her songs were never hummed or whistled about the streets. The problem, Walter said, lay not with Kitty herself but with the nature of her act. She had too many rivals; male impersonation - once as specialised as plate-spinning - had suddenly, inexplicably, become a cruelly overworked routine.‘Why does every young lady who wants to do her bit of business on the stage these days want to do it in trousers?’ he asked us, exasperated, when yet another male impersonator made her debut on the London circuit. ‘Why does every perfectly respectable comedienne and serio suddenly want to change her act - to pull a pair of bell-bottoms on, and dance the hornpipe? Kitty, you were born to play the boy, any fool can see it; were you an actress on the legitimate stage you would be Rosalind, or Viola, or Portia.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  A rustling from the neighbouring yard disturbed me and I started, fearing rats. It was not rats, however, but rabbits: four of them, in a hutch, their eyes flashing like jewels in the light I turned on them.I slept in my petticoats, half-lying, half-sitting between the two armchairs, with the blankets wrapped around me and my dress laid flat upon them for extra warmth. It does not sound very comfortable; it was, in fact, extraordinarily cosy, and for all that I had so much to keep me ill and fretful, I found I could only yawn and smile to feel the cushions so soft beneath my back, and the dying fire warm beside me. I was woken, in the night, twice: the first time by the sound of shouting in the street, and the slam of doors and the rattle of the poker in the grate, in the house next door; and the second time by the crying of the baby, in Florence’s room. This sound, in the darkness, made me shiver, for it recalled to me all the awful nights that I had spent at Mrs Best’s, in that grey chamber overlooking Smithfield Market. It did not, however, last for very long. I heard Florence rise and step across the floor, and then return - with Cyril, I supposed - to bed. And after that he didn’t stir again, and neither did I. When I woke next morning it was at the slam of the back door: this was Ralph, I guessed, leaving for work, for the clock showed ten to seven. There was movement overhead soon after that, as Florence rose and dressed, and much activity in the street outside - amazingly close, it all sounded to me, who was used to slumbering undisturbed by early risers in Diana’s quiet villa.I lay quite still, the contentment of the night all seeping from me. I didn’t want to rise and face the day, to pull my pinching boots back on, bid Florence good-bye, and be a friendless girl again. The parlour had grown very cold overnight, and my little makeshift bed seemed the only warm place in it. I pulled the blankets over my head, and groaned; groaning, I found, was rather satisfying, so I groaned still louder... I stopped only when I heard the click of the parlour door - then lifted the blankets from my face to see Florence squinting at me, gravely, through the gloom.‘You’re not ill again?’ she said. I shook my head.‘No. I was only - groaning.’‘Oh.’ She looked away. ‘Ralph has left some tea. Shall I fetch you some?’‘Yes, please.’‘And then - then you must get up, I’m afraid.’‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I shall get up now.’ But when she had gone I found I could not get up, at all. I could only lie.

• From Wild (2012)

  I sat in my tent with my feet propped up on my food bag, reading the book I’d gotten in my box—Maria Dermoût’s The Ten Thousand Things—until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. I turned off my headlamp and lay in the dark. As I dozed off, I heard an owl in a tree directly overhead. Who-whoo, who-whoo, it hooted with a call that was at once so strong and so gentle that I woke up. “Who-whoo,” I called back to it, and the owl was silent. “Who-whoo,” I tried again. “Who-whoo,” it replied. I hiked into the Three Sisters Wilderness, named for the South, North, and Middle Sister mountains in its boundaries. Each of the Sister peaks was more than 10,000 feet high, the third-, fourth-, and fifth-highest peaks in Oregon. They were the crown jewels among a relatively close gathering of volcanic peaks I’d be passing in the coming week, but I couldn’t see them yet as I approached from the south on the PCT, singing songs and reciting scraps of poems in my head as I hiked through a tall forest of Douglas firs, white pines, and mountain hemlocks, past lakes and ponds. A couple of days after I’d said goodbye to the Three Young Bucks, I took a detour a mile off the trail to the Elk Lake Resort, a place mentioned in my guidebook. It was a little lakeside store that catered to fishermen, much like the Shelter Cove Resort, only it had a café that served burgers. I hadn’t planned to make the detour, but when I reached the trail junction on the PCT, my endless hunger won out. I arrived just before eleven in the morning. I was the only person in the place aside from the man who worked there. I scanned the menu, did the math, and ordered a cheeseburger and fries and a small Coke; then I sat eating them in a rapture, backed by walls lined with fishing lures. My bill was six dollars and ten cents. For the first time in my entire life, I couldn’t leave a tip. To leave the two pennies I had left would’ve seemed an insult. I pulled out a little rectangle of stamps I had in the ziplock bag that held my driver’s license and placed it near my plate. “I’m sorry—I don’t have anything extra, but I left you something else,” I said, too embarrassed to say what it was. The man only shook his head and murmured something I couldn’t make out.

• From Wild (2012)

  “They have cinnamon rolls,” said Rex, trying to tempt me to join them as they walked away, but I waved him off, and not only because the idea of eating made my stomach roil. Between the burger and the wine and the snacks I’d purchased the afternoon before, I was already, and yet again, down to a little less than five bucks. When they left, I culled my resupply box, organizing my food into a pile to pack into Monster. I’d be carrying a heavy load of food on this next stretch—one of the longest sections on the PCT: it was 156 miles to Seiad Valley. “You and Sarah need any dinners?” I asked John, who was sitting at the table, the two of us briefly alone in camp. “I’ve got extras of these.” I held up a packet of something called Fiesta Noodles, a dish I’d tolerated well enough in the early days but now loathed. “Nah. Thanks,” he said. I pulled out James Joyce’s Dubliners and put it to my nose, the cover green and tattered. It smelled musty and nice, exactly like the used bookstore in Minneapolis where I’d purchased it months earlier. I opened it and saw my copy had been printed decades before I was born. “What’s this?” John asked, reaching for a postcard I’d bought in the convenience store the afternoon before. It was a photograph of a chainsaw carving of a Sasquatch, the words Bigfoot Country emblazoned across the top of the card. “Do you believe they exist?” he asked, putting the card back. “No. But the people who do claim that this is the Bigfoot capital of the world.” “People say a lot of things,” he replied. “Well, if they’re anywhere, I suppose it would be here,” I said, and we looked around. Beyond the trees that surrounded us stood the ancient gray rocks called Castle Crags, their crenellated summits rising cathedral-like above us. We’d pass them soon on the trail, as we hiked through a miles-long band of granite and ultramafic rocks that my guidebook described as “igneous in origin and intrusive by nature,” whatever that meant. I’d never been much interested in geology, but I didn’t need to know the meaning of ultramafic to see that I was moving into different country. My transition into the Cascade Range had been like the one I’d experienced crossing into the Sierra Nevada: I’d been hiking for days in each before I felt I was actually entering my idea of them. “Only one more stop,” said John, as if he could read my thoughts. “We’ve just got Seiad Valley and then it’s on to Oregon. We’re only about two hundred miles from the border.” I nodded and smiled. I didn’t think the words only and two hundred miles belonged in the same sentence. I hadn’t let myself think much beyond the next stop.

• From Bold Move

  How many of you would just not show up at all for an important doctor’s appointment, especially if it was potentially lifesaving? I bet only a few of us. So, by making an appointment with yourself, you are more likely to keep it. If you find yourself in a pinch, in which you know you are about to miss your appointment, I urge you to do the same thing you would with a doctor: reschedule it! In my well-being plan, I had to exercise at 9 p.m. one night because I just could not get it done during the day. Before lunchtime, I looked at the rest of my day and moved the appointment to the only time that was free: 9 p.m. Once I realized that ambition no longer guided me at my work, I arrived at impact as my professional core value. Specifically, I wanted to find a way to decrease the mental health crisis and as such impact the world in a positive way. For my value of impact, I focused on creating steps related to this book. After all, I am writing Bold Move because I believe that the science and experiences in these pages can help make a real impact out there, but writing on a publisher’s deadline is challenging. Given that I’m still relatively new to this whole thing, writing is one of these things that ebbs and flows for me. Sometimes my brain gets locked in negative thoughts and stops me from writing. So I realized that the goal could not be about the practicalities of creating the book, per se. I actually didn’t set workable steps around the book until I got to chapter 6 and realized that my first draft was horrible, I was frozen in terror, and I needed a kick in the ass to keep this wagon moving toward its deadline. Here is what I committed to: writing sessions of thirty minutes, three days a week, for three weeks. I often can write for two hours without noticing, so the time commitment and number of days were definitely measured and achievable, but I still ran into a snag. Can you guess what it was? I couldn’t picture it! So, I thought some more and came up with a plan I could actually envision. It turned out that to be successful, I needed to adjust it to: writing at 9 a.m. (when Diego is off to school), Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, for thirty minutes for three weeks. This is the plan that made its way onto my calendar. But just because I created this plan, it doesn’t mean it was easy. Sure, it was easier than no goal at all, but keeping it up for three weeks was tough, and I wish I had made a commitment for fewer weeks.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  The shilling was nothing compared to the pleasure of having you here among us all.’‘Shall we see you here again, Nan?’ her friend with the tattoo called then. I nodded: ‘I hope so.’‘But you must sing us a proper song next time, on your own, in all your gentleman’s toggery.’‘Oh yes, you must!’I made no answer, only smiled, and took a step away from them; then I thought of something, and beckoned to Jenny again.‘That picture,’ I said quietly when she was close. ‘Do you think - would Mrs Swindles mind - do you think that I might have it, for myself?’ She put her hand to her pocket at once, and drew out the creased and faded photograph, and passed it to me.‘You take it,’ she said; then she could not help but ask, a little wonderingly, ‘But have you none of your own? I should’ve thought...’‘Between you and me,’ I said, ‘I left the business rather fast. I lost a lot of stuff, and never cared to think of it till now. This, however — ’ I gazed down at the photo. ‘Well, it won’t hurt me, will it, to have this little reminder?’‘I hope it won’t, indeed,’ she answered kindly. Then she looked past me, to Florence and the others. ‘Your girl is awaiting for you,’ she said with a smile. I put the picture in the pocket of my coat.‘So she is,’ I said absently. ‘So she is.’I joined my friends; we picked our way across the crowded room, and hauled ourselves up the treacherous staircase into the aching cold of the February night. Outside The Frigate the road was dark and quiet; from Cable Street, however, came a distant row. Like us, the customers of all the other publics and gin palaces of the East End were beginning to make their tipsy journeys home.‘Is there never trouble,’ I said as we started to walk, ‘between women at the Boy and local people, or roughs?’Annie turned her collar up against the cold, then took Miss Raymond’s arm. ‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘Sometimes. Once some boys dressed a pig in a bonnet, and tipped it down the cellar stairs...’‘No!’‘Yes,’ said Nora. ‘And once a woman got her head broken, in a fight.’‘But this was over a girl,’ said Florence, yawning, ‘and it was the girl’s husband who hit her...’‘The truth is,’ Annie went on, ‘there is such a mix round these parts, what with Jews and Lascars, Germans and Poles, socialists, anarchists, salvationists... The people are surprised at nothing.’Even as she spoke, however, two fellows came out of a house at the end of the street and, seeing us - seeing Annie and Miss Raymond arm-in-arm, and Ruth with her hand in Nora’s pocket, and Florence and I bumping shoulders - gave a mutter, and a sneer.

• From The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (2004)

  When I was working in television, the phone rang constantly. I had to go to endless meetings to discuss shooting schedules and talk for hours at a time with colleagues about the concept. But now, researching A History of God, I found that the telephone rarely rang, and I would sometimes go for two or three days at a time without speaking to anybody. I was alone with my books. I would get up each morning, eat breakfast, and drink a cup of coffee while I walked around my long, narrow garden, examining the plants or my elderly apple trees, and then go up to my study. The street outside my window was deserted; the clock on my desk ticked steadily, hypnotically, and nothing came between the words on the page and me. At first this silence had seemed a deprivation, a symbol of an unwanted isolation. I had resented the solitude of my life and fought it. But gradually the enveloping quiet became a positive element, almost a presence, which settled comfortably and caressingly around me like a soft shawl. It seemed to hum, gently but melodiously, and to orchestrate the ideas that I was contending with, until they started to sing too, to vibrate and reveal an unexpected resonance. After a time I found that I could almost listen to the silence, which had a dimension all of its own. I started to attend to its strange and beautiful texture, which, of course, it was impossible to express in words. I discovered that I felt at home and alive in the silence, which compelled me to enter my interior world and walk around there. Without the distraction of constant conversation, the words on the page began to speak directly to my inner self. They were no longer expressing ideas that were simply interesting intellectually, but were talking directly to my own yearning and perplexity. I was no longer just grabbing concepts and facts from my books, using them as fodder for the next interview, but learning to listen to the deeper meaning that lay quietly and ineffably beyond them. Silence itself had become my teacher. This, of course, is how we should approach religious discourse. Theology is—or should be—a species of poetry, which read quickly or encountered in a hubbub of noise makes no sense. You have to open yourself to a poem with a quiet, receptive mind, in the same way as you might listen to a difficult piece of music.

• From The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (2004)

  But instead I felt a great calm and an occasional flicker of excitement. It was time to go, I acknowledged as I stood with the other members of staff at the back of the hall for the final assembly. I recalled my first morning at the school, when I had stood up in the gallery with the sixth form, looking down at the hundreds of girls in the hall below, and felt suffocated by the all-too-familiar rhythms of institutional life. Against the odds, I had gained something from these years, but now it was time to move on. I listened to the very generous words of the headmistress as she thanked me for my contribution to the school in her detached way, almost as though she were speaking of somebody else. It felt as if I had already gone. Later that morning I was able to joke in my farewell speech to the staff and admire my present: a set of elegant cocktail glasses with dark red stems. I smiled to myself. Not an obvious present for an ex-nun. As I left the school grounds to wait for the bus that had been the bane of my life during the last six years, I felt as though I were beginning a new journey. Other people seemed to progress much more smoothly through life, I reflected wryly, as the bus finally crested the hill and roared toward me. They went through college, chose a career and a partner without all this drama. But that didn’t seem to happen to me. I kept getting derailed, ejected from one job, one lifestyle after another. Doors kept slamming in my face. But had I really wanted to be ordinary; had I really wanted what T. S. Eliot had called “the usual reign”? I forced myself to remember all the times I had been bored and frustrated by the school, despite the regular salary. I couldn’t have it both ways. And now, here I was again, heading into the unknown, and yet I felt in some strange way as though I were back on track. The bus was taking me away from my nice safe job, but it seemed to be going in the right direction. 3. I Renounce the Blessèd Face Looking around my new room, I smiled with relief and delight. Yes, I would be able to work here. This would be the place where I would write my doctoral thesis. The walls had been painted a long time ago in a pale green, which had now faded into a pallid, dreamy wash. There were two pretty leaded windows, surrounded by a leafy creeper, which gave the low-ceilinged room a cottagelike air.

• From Worried about Everything Because I Pray about Nothing (2022)

  Chances are, you’ve heard this prayer enough times to have some or all of it memorized. It even shows up in movies, often chanted by an overly solemn priest and a bored congregation, or recited by some poor soul facing an impending apocalypse. Hollywood loves its stereotypes. However, the Lord’s Prayer is anything but a boring chant or a prayer of resignation. It’s actually a simple but revolutionary way to pray. KEEP OUT OF THE GUTTER Think of the Lord’s Prayer as bumper bowling. If you’ve ever been bowling with little kids (or if you are terrible at bowling and don’t care who knows it), you know what bumper bowling is. Normal bowling involves rolling a ball down a long lane to knock over a triangle-shaped group of pins. We all know that. The problem is that on both sides of the lane, there is a gutter. If your aim is off, your ball ends up in the gutter and does a long, slow roll of shame into oblivion. Hence, bumper bowling. Bumpers are placed in the gutters on both sides of the lane. Now, if your child (or you) can get the ball rolling in the right direction, it will eventually knock down some pins. It’s not cheating—it’s just bowling with a little help. The Lord’s Prayer is like having bumpers for prayer. It’s praying with a little help. It gives you an outline to follow, some topics to cover, and even some language to use if you’re unsure what to say. If you’re intimidated by prayer and/or feel like your prayer times often end up in some cosmic gutter, following this model can help. Let’s look briefly at each phrase in this prayer. Again, prayer is not meant to be a ritual, so don’t turn the Lord’s Prayer into one. Notice Jesus begins by saying, “This is how you should pray,” not “This is what you should pray.” It’s not an incantation. You don’t unlock a heavenly level by getting the words right or nailing the intonation. We humans have an amazing ability to take truths and turn them into formulas. Something about structure makes us feel safe, I guess. But if we exchange heart for structure, we’re missing the point.

• From Worried about Everything Because I Pray about Nothing (2022)

  Our perspective shifts in prayer: from our weaknesses to His greatness, from our failures to His holiness, from our need to His supply, and from our goals to His purposes. No matter what words you choose to pray, beginning with these two truths—God is our Father, and life isn’t all about me—is a powerful way to start seeing reality as God does. If you can, take a moment right now to make this personal. Meditate on what the truths in this first line mean for you and spend a few moments praying about them. That might look like telling God thank-you, asking Him to help you understand these truths, or something else entirely. It’s up to you. There is no script. Practicing the Lord’s Prayer Our Father in heaven What emotions come to mind when I pray to God as, “My Father”?How does He view me?What rights and benefits do I have as God’s child?Hallowed be your name How big and great and powerful is God to me?Have I made life too much about me?Where is my focus—on God or only on myself? Does He want to shift anything in my perspective?“YOUR KINGDOM COME, YOUR WILL BE DONE” The second line of the Lord’s Prayer says, “your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” This doesn’t mean that God is not sovereign here on earth. Instead, it is a recognition of the current reality of sin, shame, disease, death, hatred, and a host of other things not found in heaven. And in the midst of that chaos, we are asking God to be just as sovereign, just as powerful, just as triumphant, as if none of those things had any power. Because they don’t. Well, they do and they don’t at the same time. On one hand, the pain and evil of this world have real consequences. We can’t deny that, and prayer should embrace reality, not ignore it. But on the other hand, nothing we face in this life is bigger than God. The “real reality” is that God is more powerful than our circumstances. That’s the point of this line: recognizing the sovereignty of God. Before God, nothing stands. There is no failure, no weakness, no enemy, no problem that lies outside His power and authority. So when we come to God in prayer, it is with a recognition that He has all we need. Notice that up until now, the prayer has not even mentioned our needs, wants, or desires. “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” The prayer begins by recognizing who God is and surrendering our will to His. Now, your prayers don’t always have to start with this lofty, mature perspective. A lot of mine don’t. They go more like this: “Dear Jesus . . . help!” And I’m in good company with that prayer.