Category: Life

Pursue some path, however narrow and crooked, in which you can walk with love and reverence. ~Henry David Thoreau

A new path. Freshly disturbed wildness stirs an unnamed longing. Open meadow, shaded, tangled woods beckon us to leave the known, the obvious, the well-travelled ways, and claim with confidence what others fear.

There is treasure to be found by those willing to leave behind the safe and familiar.

Yet the undertow of safe and familiar is not easily shaken.

The trail to Codfish Falls follows the American River for a few miles, ending at a dramatic 40 foot waterfall.

Along the way, as I navigate the twisting path–avoiding steep drop-offs to the river below–there is no evidence, no sound or sign, until the very last turn, that the path leads to anywhere I hope to be. But I don’t turn back.

Sometimes the path is the point

The Hundred Acre Cove–a New England bird sanctuary, an estuary wound with trails and wooden bridges. As soon as my children walked, the cove became a favorite adventure. Each child in turn proudly led the way–fighting back brambles and branches in seasons of unrestrained growth,  eyes searching for remembered landmarks.

Some paths were easy–mower-cut swaths through meadow grass, the blue water orienting. But fainter paths often lured into dead ends, impassable swamps. We turned back, unconcerned–the following, not the ending, was the point.

You are here •

Does the metaphor hit home? Behind you is the broad road, trampled and known. Ahead is a path of sorts. Untamed, twisting, from here you can’t tell–will it open to breath-taking landscapes, or abruptly end? You look down and find your feet committed to what your heart still fears.

My feet are there too.

But I’ve forgotten the lessons of cove and codfish and am obsessed with the end. I want to know why, when and where the path will finish. I want clear reasons why the familiar must be abandoned, and a detailed map of what is ahead.

I share this with God, and he just smiles…

Are you being led into unknown territory? Are you exhilarated or afraid?

 

 

 

The creature is incapable of knowing anything except what God gives to it from day to day. If it knew beforehand what God intends for it, it would never be at peace. ~Catherine of Genoa

I wake up thirsty. My spirit, dry and gasping claws the air, croaking barely-formed thoughts of love-lack and dread. I dress in the burden of the day ahead and the unfinished tasks of yesterday. The day begins with a glass half-empty.

I often wish to be re-made, to be the one who leaps from the covers, throws open the blinds and bellows a greeting to a startled world. When the glass is half-full, only positive possibilities hang at attention, ready to be donned with chin up, straight back buoyancy.

Instead, I mutter to the kitchen, pour a steaming mug and take a breath. If I listen, if I allow myself the life-giving pause, I hear these words,

 “The Glass is Full…

Every morning your glass is filled to the brim. When problems clamor it is not because I was stingy. When others prosper, they were not given more than you. Every day your glass is full.

Full of what?

• Enough love, with no supplement needed.
• Enough power, so you can come to me weak.
• Enough forgiveness so you can fearlessly face your darkness.
• Enough joy so happiness need not be the goal.

But you turn from my love for the sake of human acceptance, you deplete yourself trying to prove you are me, you spin your delusions to avoid seeing the truth, you search the world over for what I’ve already poured.

My child, all the grace, wisdom and provision you need, is already there. The glass is always full. But it comes one overflowing cupful at a time–enough for each day–so you will learn to drink from me.”

So I sit with my coffee, one hand on my dog’s warm back. I close my eyes and let my glass be filled.

Do you see the glass as full? Is God really enough?

Photograph of Butchart Gardens, Victoria, BC by Ted Martinson

 

There are none so blind as those who will not see.

When cataract surgery was first introduced, the stories of dozens of people–those blinded from birth now suddenly able to see–were preserved.

In Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard shares the poignant results: many of the newly-sighted were so dazzled by color, space and variety; so disturbed by the enormity and confusion of what they saw, they preferred to keep their eyes shut.

The world seemed less oppressive. Life was more manageable and easier to navigate in the dark.

I’m told that when an infant turns her face away, avoiding  eye contact, this is a sign she is overstimulated. To turn her chin, to force her to look at you, is to disrespect her boundaries. The human response to what overwhelms is to choose not to see.

Learning to see

Jesus reminds us that “the eye is the lamp of the body.” Our eyes won’t automatically see. Our brains have to tell them what to notice.

So too, our hearts won’t automatically admit what is true. Our minds must will to notice. Unfortunately, we learn early the deadly dance of avoidance.

Annie Dillard’s prescription for dull-eyed vision is to say aloud what she encounters, to put into words and so train her mind to notice. This, poets, preachers and pray-ers have always known. To let in the light, to see what is really true, you must

• think it, speak it, write it, sing it, 
• shout it, whisper it, journal it, share it, 
• draw it, paint it, sculpt it, scribble it, 
• pray it until you learn it by heart,

and then listen for it to be spoken back to you.

Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Philippians 4:8

What are you refusing to see?

Image credit:dhiking on flickr

I wake expectant, hoping to see a new thing. ~Annie Dillard

Creation performs its extraordinary dance whether or not we choose to attend.

Too often I live in my head, chasing and worrying over ideas like a dog with its chewed-up tail.

I miss so much.

Years ago I flew to Germany for my brother’s wedding, with Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek as my companion. Few write like Dillard, though many try to imitate. Her words shook me awake. I walked through that European visit alert and alive to to every sensible nuance.

As we chased the sunset on the return journey, I stared for hours at what appeared to be enormous trenches cut into the arctic landscape, and looming shadows over a continent. Who was making those shadows? My brain never made sense of what I saw, but I watched,  unblinking, for the entire flight.

The gift of wonder

“Vision is a deliberate gift,” Dillard notes. I think of the two meanings of the word.

• Gift: a grace, an ability to strive for.
• Gift: a favor, an offering.

When eyes are open, ears paused to listen, our noses lifted to the breeze, our tongues savoring a taste; when we choose to gently touch, we gift our Maker, we applaud his wonders.

Pause for a moment and pay attention. Without over-thinking, what do your five senses report? A moment ago I walked out my back door and

• saw a dragonfly darting importantly among the flowers,
• heard the soft purr of a hummingbird in flight,
• felt the hot sun on my cheek,
• sniffed the subtle scent of grass,
• tasted the fresh coffee I’d poured in my cup,

And offered it all back for God’s approval.

Stop a moment and tell us what you notice.