One spring several years ago, our wonderful adult Sunday school class read Eckhart Tolle’s book A New Earth.  I was intrigued by what it had to say about our inner character. Recently I’ve been thinking about how the lessons in the book apply to helping others. They reinforce two points I’ve come to believe with all my heart: As much as anything, service is a spiritual practice. And the journey—the approach you take when you help others—is every bit as important as the destination.

In my favorite chapter, Tolle writes about the social roles we take on and how tightly they constrict us, if we let them. Like it or not, our social standing largely determines how we move through the world, and how others orbit around us. “The way in which you speak to the chairman of the company might be different in subtle ways from how you speak to the janitor,” he writes. True, and I’m ashamed to admit it. Watch carefully, he writes, and you will detect this kind of performance first in others and then in yourself. Often it’s a formidable barrier to loving kindness.

But how do you not play a role? As soon as you try to be “just yourself,” Tolle notes, your mind creates a role for you, perhaps something like “wise one.”

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AuthorJan DeBlieu

Last week Jeff and I spent a couple of days in New York. I love the city and always try to save a little time for seeing art or music in out-of-the-way places. If you read my Facebook posts, you know that on this trip I made a point of noticing and trying to connect for a moment or two with folks who were outside the norm—street people and men and women who were acting a little different. Folks on the fringe. Outcasts.

Several times over the past year I’ve asked readers to take a chance and try smiling and maybe chatting with outcasts, just to see what happens.

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AuthorJan DeBlieu

“They arrive by the truckload in poor, waterside communities,” the New York Times reporter wrote. They’re bed nets to prevent the contraction of malaria—and they are considered a great gift.  But once the trucks leave, the nets may be put to a more pressing need: sewn together and used as giant sieves for fishing. Pulled through the water from shore, they can feed families that might otherwise starve.

As writer Jeffrey Gettleman noted, in the poorest parts of the world, “There is no fear but the fear of hunger.”

Thus begins the report from Zambia and other African countries that has badly rattled one of the largest, most efficient, and most reputable of humanitarian aid projects.

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AuthorJan DeBlieu

This week marks the sixth anniversary since we lost our son Reid, our only child, in a car accident. It’s never an easy time for us. Thankfully, it was one of those mishaps in which none of the three drivers involved was entirely at fault. Each made the kinds of mistakes we’ve all made. That has helped Jeff and me absolve them from blame.

Many people have helped comfort us and prop us up. Some of those folks have asked the obvious question: Why did this have to happen? Reid was such a great kid—handsome, smart, funny, and compassionate in that I-want-to-be-nice-without-seeming-nice macho teenage way. From what his teachers later told us, he was just coming into his own.

I learned pretty quickly that asking why why why and other unanswerable questions did me absolutely no good. What did make sense, all the sense in the world in fact, was to focus on the most obvious question: What now?

It started as, “What do we do now that he’s gone?” That was unimaginably difficult to confront. Gradually it shifted and became, “What can we do to honor Reid’s life and memory?”

Now, years after I decided to remember Reid by learning to live in service to others, the question has settled into, “What qualities can I nurture within myself, today, that will help me be the person I want to be?

In losing Reid, I felt as if everything I had previously been and experienced had been burned away, leaving the empty shell of my body. Nothing existed of my original self. Although friends might argue with that description, to me it rings true.

But wait. If the searing intensity of grief really reduced my former self to ashes, then a unique opportunity awaits me. I can rebuild myself, carefully choosing what to include and what to leave out.

This is the most sacred and difficult of spiritual practices. I would never have volunteered to embark on it. Having been plunged into it, though, and having tried to embrace it and learn from it, I can honestly say that it is cleansing my soul.

There’s no need to tell you here about the qualities I’m trying to cultivate to become a practitioner of selfless service. I write about them in my forthcoming book, and I regularly post thoughts about them in this blog and on my Seva Facebook page.

The important lesson for today—the most important lesson of my existence—is that given time, even the most unimaginable loss can be an avenue to a new life. Six years later, I am well into the journey down that path.

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AuthorJan DeBlieu

It was one of those busy days when the entire world seems bent on tossing impediments in my path. I was on my way to a workout, which I badly needed, when traffic stopped dead. Ahead of me, taillights glowed as far as I could see. Nobody was going anywhere.

I sighed, relaxed my grip on the wheel, and remembered a promise I’d made to myself. Especially when stressed, I would try to be on my nicest behavior. So when the woman in the oversized SUV tried to nudge her way from a side street

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AuthorJan DeBlieu