One Conversation

I wasn't prepared to speak—which was the point

“Would you like to give a talk?” my teacher asked me, fifteen minutes before the next scheduled session at the event.

I froze in the headlights of the question. That was the day I learned there are over sixty types of sphincters in the human body, because every last one of them simultaneously and reflexively clenched as he made the invitation.

A wind chime sent sweet drifting notes into the surrounding Juniper trees from a distance as he waited for my answer there in the Arizona heat. Several early arriving students walked by us into the ranch greenhouse, temporarily repurposed into a meeting hall, with their spiral notebooks in hand.

“When?” I asked, buying time and desperately hoping he meant tomorrow, or perhaps next year, though I knew him well enough to assume he meant now. He confirmed that was indeed the case as an odd mix of compassion and mischievous glee glinted in his eyes.

I’d been a member of our spiritual community for years which hosted three celebrations annually. They were oriented around inspirational and educational talks, discussions, and presentations that explored the roots of everything from eastern spirituality, Christian mysticism, meditation, diet, right livelihood, the fundamentals of self-awareness, and the principles of kindness, generosity, and compassion. My teacher was a sink or swim kind of guy, the type who’d throw you into the water without a life preserver so you’d be forced to discover your buoyancy.

“Sure . . .” I said hesitantly, searching for a glimmer of enthusiasm in the ashes of my dread.

He walked away and left me to grapple with my unsightly ambivalence. I could have said no, and he would have respected my decision, but I wouldn’t have. I had signed on for growth as a student in our tradition—and trusting my teacher’s sometimes unpredictable and eccentric ways of facilitating it—I didn’t take his invitations lightly.

I’d been giving talks at our community celebrations for years, long before I ever spoke in hotel ballrooms to the gray-suited leaders of corporations. In fact, it was the informal setting of our plastic folding-chair gatherings that paved the way for professional speaking at a Hyatt or Four Seasons hotel beneath a thousand pound chandelier. Our gatherings, by contrast, were lit by our passion for the human spirit.

But previous invitations to speak at one of our events had come with weeks or months notice, lead time I amply utilized to gather materials, consider my points, plan my approach, and even script large portions of my remarks. Having not been asked to speak for this particular event, I’d relaxed my engagement around the celebration theme, sat back, and prepared to be a passive spectator of other presenters.

Suddenly I was a cold oven being asked to serve a hot meal.

Notebooks, water bottles, the occasional shawl, or an extra cushion were carried past me as the hall filled up with sincere students who would be paying attention, taking notes, asking good questions, or—attempting to stifle yawns and keep themselves from nodding off if my remarks were rambling, incoherent, or inauthentic.

Indeed, the latter was the unfortunate outcome.

I’d developed a reputation for my prepared talks, delivering creative and engaging stories and insights that highlighted traditional teachings. I was used to leaving the hall and seeing a big smile, a thumbs up, or even a remark like, “Fabulous talk!” from my teacher.

On this day my insecurities took center stage. I hedged my bets, played it safe, hoped to get to the end unscathed and dimmed the light of an eager audience with too much pontificating and not enough honesty or truth. I could feel my misalignment from the beginning and never relaxed enough to hit a flow of authentic expression. I veered into personal disclosures that were irrelevant and made myself and the audience cringe at the same time.

Lessons from my teacher were often delivered like this. Not through a lecture from him, but in the wake of a first hand experience he’d create the opportunity to embrace. He’d ask the most insecure person to write a book, or sing in a band, and the most confident to clean the bathrooms. Saying “yes” to his unexpected invitations and assignments guaranteed some form of growth, though sometimes it would take a while to sink in.

“What was the point of that?” I lamented to my wife later that day about my failed presentation.

But the surprise invitations continued to come my way. It seemed, at first, that he never wanted me to be prepared to give a talk. Then I finally realized his intent was precisely the opposite.

He was suggesting I could always be prepared to give a talk.

He already knew with my background in performing that I could whomp up a compelling narrative in a burst of scripted theater, and then promptly have it fly out of my head, like facts I’d crammed for a mid-term. His invitation was to sustain one inner conversation with continuity, a conversation I could draw upon or share at a moment’s notice. A conversation that I nurtured in my everyday life, because it had magnetic appeal and truly mattered.

When I made that shift, attending celebrations without knowing whether I’d be asked to speak became joyful instead of harrowing.

I fondly remember my graduating lesson in this training around one enduring conversation.

I was standing in nearly the same spot from years earlier when he sprang his first invitation on me to spontaneously speak. My wife and I were side-by-side, preparing to enter the hall. My teacher approached with the same bright energy that preceded his invitations, and I celebrated the feeling that I was now always ready to step up and share my clarity.

Finally, just steps away, he began the sentence I had grown so fond of hearing from his lips, “Would you like . . .”

But he never finished delivering the question to me.

In mid-sentence, he turned to my wife, looked warmly into her eyes, and completed the invitation to her.

“. . . to give a talk?” he completed.

My dear wife—who wasn’t trying to perform her way through life—simply said yes, and proceeded to do just that.

There I was looking like an over-confident home run hitter who’d been pitched a whiffle ball and knocked himself out swinging at thin air. A grandstand hero being asked to step aside for the next batter.

It didn’t matter whether I had time to prepare, no time to prepare, or no opportunity at all to publicly share that inner conversation.

The point was its integrity and continuity, for me, not as a show to gain fans. When one conversation is alive in the heart, it can be publicly shared, or privately honored through simple action, small kindness, or silent appreciation.

“Sometimes you’re just playing for the angels,” my teacher would say.

He showed me that once you can play for the angels, you can play for anyone.

The secret is knowing your song.