Tuning the Instrument

My brother, who somehow became both an engineer and a musician, has a phrase he reminds me of often.

“You have to tune the instrument.”

Coming from him, it makes perfect sense.

Engineers know that neglected equipment eventually fails.

Musicians know that even the finest instrument won’t make beautiful music if it isn’t tuned; the same is true of people.

Most of us wait until something breaks before we pay attention.

We wait until we’re exhausted before we rest.

Until we’re dehydrated before we drink water.

Until our relationships are strained before we make time for the people we love.

Until our souls feel empty before we pray.

Then we wonder why life feels so difficult.

St. Benedict called it a Rule of Life.

The Rule of St. Benedict is often summarized in two words:

Ora et Labora.

Pray and work.

Simple enough.

Beneath those two words is something much larger: the idea that a good life doesn’t happen accidentally.

It is cultivated through rhythm.

Most of us don’t have the desire to be Trappist monks and pray seven times a day.

Fortunately this wisdom is not limited to one tradition.

Recovery programs have the 12 steps along with the concepts and traditions.

And other programs like Waldorf have found the benefits for a rule - or rhythm - of life.

We flourish when our lives have rhythm.

A rhythm that cares for our bodies.

A rhythm that strengthens our communities.

A rhythm that tends our relationship with God.

I’ve discovered that I have my own rule of life.

It is the collection of practices that keep me becoming the person I hope to be.

Too many of us think of these things as rewards.

“I’ll rest when I finish this project.”

“I’ll spend time with my family when work slows down.”

“I’ll pray when life gets less busy.”

Life doesn’t get less busy.

There is always another meeting.

Another email.

Another obligation.

If we aren’t careful, we’ll sacrifice the very practices that make us capable of carrying those obligations with grace.

I’ve stopped thinking of these things as luxuries.

They’re maintenance.

No one is surprised that a violin needs tuning.

Or that a car needs an oil change.

Or that hiking boots eventually need new soles.

You don’t want to discover your violin is out of tune on stage.

Or your engine needs oil on the side of the interstate.

Or your boots are worn through four hours into a hike.

So we schedule the maintenance.

Every 3,000 miles.

So why are we continually surprised that human beings need tending?

None of these are indulgences.

They're part of being fully human.

We need sleep.

We need nourishing food.

We need movement.

We need beauty.

We need friendship.

We need laughter.

We need silence.

We need prayer.

The people I most admire seem to understand this instinctively.

They don’t protect these rhythms because they’re selfish.

They protect them because they know they cannot give away what they no longer possess.

Those wells have to be replenished.

And there’s more.

Our rule of life provides us support in days when nothing else seems to go right.

A seeker once asked his Zen master, "What is the secret of life?"

The master looked at him and asked,

"Have you had your breakfast?"

"Yes."

"Then go wash your bowl."

A Rule of Life isn't a list of obligations.

It's an act of stewardship.

It's the quiet recognition that the work we've been given tomorrow depends on how well we care for the instrument today.

My brother is right.

You have to tune the instrument.

Not because today’s performance will be especially difficult.

Because that’s what musicians do.

And because, in the end, you are not the music.

You are the instrument through which it is played.

Now, go wash your bowl.