Didn’t hear from many of you after last post (about stirring up your gifts), though a number told me in person that it spoke to them. I’m grateful when that happens. And I do like the response; it lets me know someone’s out there, reading, thinking with me.

On another topic, here’s a quote that convicts. It’s about the waste of haste, from a pastor relating what he said was the most profound regret in life:

“Being in a hurry. Getting to the next thing without fully entering the thing in front of me. I cannot think of a single advantage I’ve ever gained from being in a hurry. But a thousand broken and missed things, tens of thousands, lie in the wake of all the rushing . . . . Through all that haste I thought I was making up time. It turns out I was throwing it away.”

It’s quoted in the beautifully written, One Thousand Gifts, Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are, by Ann Voskamp. More about that another day perhaps. For now it’s just that one quote by a pastor, in the context of a funeral, that captures my attention and catches me up short.

The pastor’s not named, but maybe just as well, as it’s something most of us could say if we thought about it.

That’s all.

(Keeping this one short as I know you have much else to do. Me too.)

Next, about slowing time down.

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Have you identified your gifts? Of course you have. You’ve known for a long time what you’re good at. Gifts, talents, they’re the things that come fairly easy to you, even when they don’t to others. Or even if they don’t always come easy, they’re the things you want to do. If you aren’t doing them, you aren’t being you.

Moreover, people tell you that you’re good that them. The affirmation further confirms, and encourages you to find ways to use them, or should.

Finding such opportunities may be a challenge. But even that further indicates your particular set.

I’ve been reminded lately that these gifts we’ve been given are not for us but for others. River-like, we’re just the source for the flow, or rather, the conduit.

Such a way of looking at it keeps us from being too self-conscious about it all . . . either proud or over-humble. These gifts are what they are; ours is to identify them, hone them, and put them to work.

“Tool,” in fact, might be the better word. A tool has been placed in your hands (your head, your heart, whatever) and yours is to figure out how it works and the unique contribution you can make with it.

And this should be happening all the more as time goes by. By now you should be better at what you were good at before. And, with use, you’ll be better yet.

This is both for your sake (it’s no fun going dull) and for the sake of others, whose world is less without your part.

So, stir up the gift that’s within you.

Only you can do what you can do
in the only way that you can do it.

It’s for the rest of us. Don’t stop. Or start again. We’re waiting.

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Okay, I said I’d not bring this up again, but you have to see this. Actually I’d seen it before, but a friend forwarded it with the title, “What happens when you’re forced to work past 70.” Could actually help my painting style, “loose” being a style with much a-a-a-traction. Check it out here.

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We’re still in Oregon, departing today. We’ll head to Napa where Anne will host a printmaking workshop for a number of artists gathered there.

The time here has been profitable in many ways, some in the big “hoped for” ways, others in smaller, unexpected ways, like coming across a book in a used book store with a message from God.

The same happened last time we were here. I don’t know if this town has an abundance of Christian readers, or a population of such now casting them off. Either way, I’ve added to my library cheaply with some gems. And not just the library but the mind, which is the point, and the spirit.

If God is guide in all things, I suppose there should be no surprise. But imagine mine when, after all my recent reflection on voluntary slavery to the Lord of the Universe, even piercing my ear as symbol and reminder, I happened by a sidewalk bin of free books, picked one up, opened it randomly and read the following:

“When we think of a servant, in our sense of the word, we think of a man who gives a certain agreed part of his time to his master and who receives a certain agreed wage for doing so.  Within that agreed time he is at the disposal and in the command of his master. But, when that time ends, he is free to do exactly as he likes . . . . But, in Paul’s time, the status of the slave was quite different. Quite literally he had no time which belonged to himself. He had no moment when he was free. Every single moment of his time belonged to his master. He was the absolutely exclusive possession of his master, and there was not one single moment of his life when he could do as he liked. In Paul’s time a slave could never do what he liked; it was impossible for him to serve two masters, because he was the exclusive possession of one master. That is the picture that is in Paul’s mind.”**

I was stunned. How did the air know I’d been thinking on these things? Apparently it’s literal, in God we live and move and have our being.***

I took the book and have been eating it since. As it happens, that passage was the only one on that specific topic, making my happening on it all the more, what? Guided?

The book goes on to explain how the analogy isn’t perfect, the Christian being also the freest person in the world . . . and the one that can most expect to be provided for, and rewarded as he goes along.

Like finding a book on the street whose message carries more value than anything I might have thought I’d traveled a long way to get.

For you, too.

__________________
*     Walt Whitman, quoted in an early Blank Slate, Jan. 8, 2012.
**   William Barclay, in a book on the Holy Spirit by Billy Graham.
*** Acts 17:28

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This is me, by me, casting around for something to paint some weeks ago. I was just 69 then. So young. Here are two quotes sent to me by another friend: “Aging seems to be the only available way to live a long life,“ and “I will never be an old man. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am.”

At the risk of beating this thing to death, here’s one more on the subject. After this I won’t commemorate any more birthdays until age 75.

Many people have offered their good wishes for the day. The fact is, the day passed like many others. At least like others where we’re showing art at an art festival.

We’re in Toledo, Oregon, the place we’ve been the last two Februarys making art. This time it’s to show it. Haven’t sold any. Maybe the day didn’t start with enough prayers. Not that prayers were neglected, just didn’t remember that subject. And I did earn some gas money, offering my five-minute portraits for ten dollars to passers by. That was fun. Then there was the artist’s presentation mid-day where Anne and I and a few others spoke to an audience about “our journey.”

In a sense it was a day representative of the life: Time with God, time with friends, painting, speaking, and (right now) writing. Add to that, travel, and what more could one want . . . but maybe quality time with spouse, and that’s happened too!

All this and, I’m affirmed, God is for me!

I’ll drink to that!!!

This morning I opened an e-mail from a friend, one Becky, who with her husband is part of our weekly home group. All in the group are scholars in their way, and some are poets. Becky’s one. Here’s her greeting:

The calendar has decreed
the page must be turned
you stand at the threshold of new decade
no scrambling to complete exploits on a bucket list
because, of course, you are Hyatt.
Jettisoning the detritus of life
you continue the continuum.
Introspection
circumspection
going back to the beginning
distilling life down to the essence.
Jesus/you

So…Happy Birthday to you!! To have a weekly front row seat to a life well considered, well lived and shared with honesty and creativity, is a gift. Thank you, dear friend.

And thank you Becky. Words are the best gift. They came from others too, and especially Anne, too precious to share.

I’m grateful. And very rich.

Now, onward and upward. Where we’re headed is God.

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Here it is, barely visible, but to me a reminder. Photo by Allison.

I said I’d continue the story from last time. And about my birthday, it’s not till September 1, Labor Day. (Wasn’t everybody born on labor day?)

In my morning meditations of late I’ve come across the Apostle Paul’s metaphor of slavery. Actually it was Jesus who first said, “He who sins is a slave to sin.” Paul went another step, renouncing “slavery to sin” and instead adopting “slavery to righteousness.”*

These are words we don’t use much. I rarely hear about sin unless it’s in a joke. Righteousness seems like a starched collar and just as out of date. And the word slave has no good connotation at all.

But that’s how Paul saw it. Living in a time when a third of the Roman empire was slave, the metaphor was relevant.

Moreover, the slave population looked pretty much like all the rest. A Roman senator once proposed a dress code to identify them but the idea was rejected: The slaves might recognize their numbers and revolt!

There were abuses in the system, of course, but not always. And a slave’s work was not always menial; some were teachers and physicians. Their lives were just not their own.

Going back further in time, Moses instructed on slavery . . . about limited-time ownership. But if a slave loved his master he could opt to stay. They went before the elders and pierced the slave’s ear.**

It was voluntary, and for life.

And that, friends, explains my 70th-birthday ear piercing; my loving and trustworthy master is God himself.

Interestingly, the professional I went to asked why I was doing it and I told him. He said he liked that story, that he’d never heard one like it.

He asked me, when he did it, how it felt. I told him, “meaningful.”

The next day, just happening to have been asked to speak at my church, I made the whole thing public. They, too, found it meaningful.

It’s a public thing, yes; but its reason is personal. It’s a reminder. For the remaining years of life, I’m not my own.

By several commenters last blog, that “talk” was well received; again it’s linked here.

_________________________
*   Romans 6:18
** Exodus 21:5-6

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Me, last week, in front of my studio painting wall, taken by daughter, artist and photographer Allison. It was a shot between poses but perhaps the most revealing.

When I turned 60 instead of a party I took a long walk. I’d read somewhere that 60 was “the beginning of old age.” Not exactly an inspiring thought. So how should I feel about turning 70?

My dad at age 70 had just retired and was building a house in the mountains. It was something he’d always wanted to do, took him five years, and later he said it was the greatest experience of his life.

Me, I’m not retiring (still finding interest in painting) and am completely satisfied with the house we’re in, being its own work of art. Still, it seems there should be some meaningful “gift to self” to commemorate beginning of old-age-plus-ten.

But what, at this point, do I really need? A new pair of jeans?

For awhile I thought it should be a motorcycle. That’s an intrigue from my youth that never went completely away. A classic Triumph Bonneville would be nice, or a Norton Commando . . . beautiful machines, very fast, very loud, and fun!

But when would I ride it? When I’m out I’m almost always carrying art, or art supplies.

Besides, I know what people would think: “There’s a guy denying reality!”

But who cares? I’m 70 and I can do whatever I want!

Actually I’m not so sure about that, which is why I’ve come up with something else, something not so life threatening, but to me a certain meaning about life.

It’s an earring!

What? An earring? And this coming from a fellow who’s 70 years old, and one who’s never had much use for tattoos or any of that sort.

But it’s for a different reason. Really. It’s like in Bob Dylan’s famous song, You’ve Got to Serve Someone: “It could be the devil; it could be the Lord; but you’ve got to serve someone.”

Though I’m 70, I am serving someone. I really can’t do whatever I want. Or even want to.

And the earring will be a personal reminder.

More about this next blog.

Meantime, if you’d like the full story of where this is going, click here for the message I gave last Sunday.

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It’s amusing, the expression we use, “sending our regrets.” Or at least it was in vogue when manners were. It was the polite way to turn down an invitation or an “RSVP” (another politeness, mostly gone).

But regrets can loom much larger in our lives than small infelicities. They can grow into mind monsters that won’t stop shouting and, if allowed, crowd out everything else.

Thanks to God, there is solution. Ultimate. And satisfying.

But still, we have our histories. And there are parts we’d just as soon weren’t there. These are in areas of what we’ve done and rather we hadn’t, and what we’ve not done and rather we had.

It’s the “commission” and “omission” thing.

Take wife Anne, the purer spirit between us; her sensitivities are more in the latter category. Mine are more obvious, more protruding—like icebergs still apparent on a cold sea where I don’t want to return.

The difference is, while mine are numerous, they’re numerable. The list of omissions, however, can tend to be infinite.

Sometimes I’ve thought it’s a female thing—part of the race that can only be happy if feeling guilty.

Of course, I jest.

And digress.

As I said above, there is solution. Without it we’d never get out of our wallowing. With it, we can acknowledge the facts . . . that we’ve too often done what we shouldn’t, and too often not done what we should.

Either way, by God’s grace our regrets can be sealed up and sent to the outer abyss.

As for heaven’s invitation, best not to neglect it. Best to RSVP with, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

No regrets.

__________

PS: For anyone interested, or in the area, I’ll be speaking this Sunday at Heritage Christian Fellowship in San Clemente, 9:00 o’clock service.

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Here’s an amusement that came out of the blue the other day. This person, “Matt,” apparently located me on an internet search. The following brief comments were each a separate e-mail coming at intervals. I’ll put his in blue. The (non)punctuation is his own. Who knows, maybe Matt will be a famous art collector some day, or already is one?

I found a painting of two children that was signed hyatt moore 64′ on canvas I was wondering if this sounds like your work and if you would like to see it

A 64 ft. canvas with two children signed with both my names? Sounds interesting. Where is it? Sure, show it to me.

its not 64ft I think its from 1964 I will take a picture of it

here is the piece I emailed you about I was wondering if it was your work thank you

I did paint it! In another lifetime. How did you come across it?

I will be honest I rescued it from a trash can

what do you think the value would be is it some thing you would like to have back

You must have retrieved it from Palos Verdes. I painted it in 1964, though I couldn’t have told you the year if the painting didn’t say it. [It was signed and dated on the back; he sent a photo of that too.] I was working as a fry cook at the Palos Verdes Fountain, now long gone, in the Palos Verdes Plaza. A woman customer overheard that I did some painting. I think she had money, lived on the hill, was the wife of the Midas Muffler magnate (though I may have that wrong) and said she liked to give young artists a chance. I think she wanted to save money. She had these two daughters and supplied their photo. Or did I take it? She said she wanted a Rembrandt look. I said, “What’s that?” She said that the figures came out of dark backgrounds.

I can still hardly believe that I never looked up a Rembrandt at that time or the painting would have come out a lot different. Maybe. In any case, I took it seriously and worked hard at it, figuring she’d like it when I finally presented it. She didn’t. And that was the end of it. I rather quit painting. Or at least I didn’t continue with any confidence.

I was never going to anyway, it being a side line interest. My “career” finally began with fits and starts and went far afield, starting with art-related things and then broadening. If you’re curious, a cursory resume is on my website under “About the Artist.” In my mid-50’s painting returned in a big way and now I am a painter, full time.

Seems I came across that painting some time back at my parents’ where they still live (now ages 94 and 96) in their same house in Palos Verdes. I saw the damage that had happened to it over the years, but the rest was pretty much how I saw it last. I didn’t know what to make of it or do with it. No doubt it’d been in the garage and the caregiver threw it out; my parents wouldn’t have. Not only would they be sentimental about such things, but they are pretty much immobile these days.

Do I want it back? No. Is it worth anything? No. Not unless you can locate Mrs. Midas and find out if she’s had a change of mind.

Then again, I could become famous someday, not likely during my lifetime, and then it would be a relic of “early work” and go up in value as the centuries wear on.

Curious what you think you’ll do with it . . . and where you’re writing from.

well i’m writing from laguna Niguel and that is where I found the painting it was in an apartment dumpster as for what ill do with it ill just hold on to it I like the story that is tied to it if you change your mind about wanting it back drop me a line I would be happy to give it back to its rightful owner if not you can be sure it will not end up in the trash again thank you for your time

That was the end of the correspondence. It’s still a mystery to me how the painting wound up in a dumpster some 40 miles from its point of origin. Who knows where others pieces of mine might end up (as the centuries wear on)?

Meantime, keep checking galleries, and dumpsters.

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I drew this elderly Peruvian in ’96; he’s probably Catholic, not Hindu, but the point is the same.

Many years ago I led a high school youth group through a course on comparative religions. I did it partly for me, to make up for a certain lack in my own education. And making up for such lacks, particularly in later life, is one thing I learned from the Hindus.

From the Hindu perspective, four stages of life are clearly defined: Childhood, parenthood, grandparenthood, and old age. Moreover, many live multi-generationally under one roof. The children grow up in a home that includes grandparents as well as parents.

During the growing up years while the parents are busy making a living the grandparents care for the children. This isn’t altogether unfamiliar to us in the west; for some families it’s the only way. But what I found most intriguing is how in the last stage the mature adult turns himself to learning.

“Why then?” we might ask, coming from a different mindset. “Don’t we apply ourselves to general learning when young, then add some sort of specialization so we can earn a living? Are we not at that point educated?”

Too often that’s as far as it goes. Later life seems a time to just relax.

That’s not how the Hindus see it, and I’m rather inspired by their take.

Not only is it an issue of finally having time, but the mature mind has more hooks to hang things on. There’s a perspective born of experience, and a thirst still unsatisfied for things only touched on before.

For the Hindus this is primarily for pursuits of the spirit, for things religious, which need getting to all the more as life wears on. There’s an example there.

But not just for that; there are a thousand things to study. And not for the test, the motivation that so drove us when we were taking classes and just trying to get through. Rather it’s for the wonder of it all. There’s intrigue in all things, and beauty, unreachable depth, and mystery.

Basically it’s a quest for understanding.

And things are just interesting!

It’s something I’m learning.

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