At a recent retreat, there was a man, Jeremy, who was blind.  When it came time to do the collage of what we love--pulling out pictures from magazines--Jeremy clearly could not participate. After everyone else got involved in the exercise, I took Jeremy's hand and we went out to a porch in back of the retreat center. We sat down, and I asked him to tell me about what he loved.

"This is hard for me," he said. "It reminds me of when I was a child in school. I could never be part of art projects, I couldn't see the blackboard, I could never join in sports. I was always like this, on the side, different, excluded." There was a weariness of old sadnesses gathered up from many years. We both sat with that weariness for several moments.

Then I repeated: What do you love?

Jerey smiles. "I love music," he began. "I play guitar. I love the way it feels, the way it vibrates, the melody, the harmony." We both smiled, sharing a mutual passion for the guitar.

What else, I pressed.

"I have always loved the beach. I love the sound of the waves moving in and out, the smell of the air, the moisture, the feeling of the wave as it comjes up to my feet, covers them in cool water, and then gently recedes, leaving my feet buried in the sand. It is so wonderful.

"I loved my father, times we used to have together, talking for hours. I could feel his love for me so strongly." Jeremy paused. "He's dead now. So I also feel sadness with the love.

"One time," he said excitedly, "a friend took me to a cross-country ski track. The track was so well worn into the snow that all he had to do was get my skis in the track, and off I went. I could actually ski! Completely blind, I didnt' have to worry about hitting ny trees or getting lost. The track let me just push and go. It was an incredible experience, finally being able to play a sport, not needing anyone's help. It was one of the happiest days of my life."

By now, people were finishing their collages, and it was time for us to go inside. I wanted Jeremy to be able to present a collage to his group. But how, without a visual language, could he construct such a collage? This is what we decided: He would make a tactile collage. For his love of music, he could put in a guitar string; for the beach, some sand. He could also include something that reminded him of his father, perhaps two small sticks to recall his ski poles and his friends. This way, when he wished to remember what he loved, he could use his hands to revitalize those moments when his love was fresh and alive.

Herbie Mann is a brilliant jazz flutist. I was fortunate to become friends with him and hiws wife, Janeal, when I officiated at their wedding. Last year Herbie and I performed together in a concert; I spoke of sorrow and grace, and Herbie accompanied and responded with beautiful flute interludes.

Later Herbie and I spoke of how well our languages seemed to interweave in the performance. "I have always had trouble with spiritual language," Herbie began. "It seems like 'spiritual' people are always after power or money, and they just use their language to get inside other people's heads, or else into their wallets. Usually whenever I hear holy men start to preach, I run in the other direction.

"But when I play music," he continued, "that is my spiritual language. It doesn't have words, nobody is trying to convince anybody of anything. It is just simple, it is what it is. Then, I feel completely comfortable. That is God to me."

Excerpt from "How, Then, Shall We Live?  Four Simple Questions That Reveal the Beauty and Meaning of Our Lives.  Copyright 1996 by Wayne Muller. Bantam Books, a division of Random House Inc.