May Day

“Belief consists in accepting the affirmations of the soul; unbelief, in denying them.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Yesterday was May Day. It’s a national holiday in France and many other European countries. Almost every shop was closed, including the boulangeries. Few cafés were open. The city was quiet. I was out for a walk when I was suddenly approached by a woman standing on the curb who appeared to be about to cross the street. She turned to me and began speaking in French and, when I could not completely understand her, I asked if she spoke English. She nodded and then in broken English asked if I could spare any money.

She did not look destitute as so many who ask for money do. She said that she had four children and then held out her hand. I reached in my pocket, gave her fifty euros, and asked her name. She smiled and replied “Anka.” Her name one letter different from Anke, my friend from Kraków, who was with me at Auschwitz where I learned what it means to stand and not look away. The similarity gave me pause as if I was meeting a familiar friend.

No sooner had I turned and walked away than my internal accountant woke up and started criticizing.

Fifty Euros? What were you thinking?

You can’t afford to throw money around like that.

I immediately felt like I had done something wrong. I felt like I had been taken advantage of, swindled even.

But the interesting part was that when she asked for help, I didn’t think about it. In a gesture both spontaneous and immediate, I pulled out the largest bill I had and gave it to her. I also believe that I was not the one doing the giving. It was as if my hand moved of its own volition. It was only after I walked away that self-recrimination began.

Shortly after leaving the woman, I stopped in a nearby church to look inside and rest for a moment. The church, like most churches, was marvelous. I was one of two people in the church; long tapered candles were burning near the altar, and the coolness and quietness of the place was soothing. I sat there for a while, said a few prayers, and left.

As I was exiting, just outside the door, another woman approached me and, again in French and with outstretched hand, asked for money. I shook my head, no, and proceeded to walk away. I didn't look back. I have thought about that moment more than I have thought about the fifty euros. The first woman got my money and my attention. The second got neither. Whether that makes me a man in progress or simply a man with limits, I genuinely cannot say.

Two women, very much alike in appearance and posture. I gave to one and withheld from the other. I could argue that the reason I did not give to the second woman was because I had already done my charitable duty for the day or that it was her mention of having four children. But neither of those thoughts occurred to me.

What I have come to believe is that the first instance was precipitated by the God within — and I'm aware some may cringe at that phrase. For me, it resonates. I felt the two moments move in different directions. One felt like expansion; the other like contraction. I have learned, slowly, to trust that sense of opening more than the tightening that so often calls itself prudence.

I don’t know why I was compelled to give, only that it felt true. The second instance, which was also brought on by the God within, I could not hear. It was blocked by my ego and fears of having given too much or of being taken advantage of. This is the “problem” I am working on. This disparity between my true nature and the man I so often am.

But I need to be careful here. I cannot prove that the first encounter was my acceptance of the God within and the second was blocked by ego. I have spent a long time confusing those two things — fear and wisdom, caution and cowardice. But one felt solid and the other empty. And I also need to be clear that the voice within has not always served me well. There have been times I acted on sudden certainty and regretted it. There will be again. The God within and my ego aren't always easy to tell apart. That's precisely why this is still a problem I'm working on rather than one I've solved.

Fear sent me fleeing from the Italian Alps, fear can fill a Paris apartment with ambient anxiety at three in the morning, fear is the voice that says go home, this is stupid, you can't afford it. That fear is not protecting me. It is keeping me small.

The next morning, reading from one of my daily books of reflection, I came across this passage from Evelyn Underhill.

“The moment in which we become aware of the creative action of God and are therefore able to respond or resist, is the moment in which our conscious spiritual life begins. It is this step that takes us beyond self-interest, beyond succession, and sets up a direct intercourse with the soul’s Home.”

I was able to both respond and resist the creative action of God. Underhill would recognize the difference, I think. The gift itself was of no real consequence. My self-centered fears and fragile ego are there at every turn, drowning out the voice within and thwarting any true expansion. That first encounter closed the gap for a moment between who I wish to be and who I actually am. The issue is how open I am to this presence and then how willing I am to let it guide my actions.

I don't know what became of Anka. Whether the fifty euros fed her children that night or disappeared into something else entirely is not mine to know. I gave it and walked away, and what happened next belonged to her, not to me. That is perhaps the point. The gift, once given, is no longer yours. You release it the way you release a name spoken aloud in an empty forest, not knowing what it does, only that the speaking mattered.

Standing there on the sidewalk, my hand still warm from the brief contact with hers, I wanted nothing more than to walk away quickly and not think about it. The understanding came later, at my desk, the way most understanding does — quietly, and only after I had given up expecting it.

I am not seeking to disappear. I am seeking to appear as I truly am.