First Revelation

This was originally written as a Prayer Note for Oasis Ministries for Spiritual Development https://www.oasismin.org/

When I got up this morning, I had the idea

to spend part of the day in

Serious Study.

Perhaps I would read the mystics,

or some accessible theologian,

or the Scriptures, themselves.

But the toads were trilling
and the white throats were singing,

and the redbud was bursting into bloom,

and my feet were itchy
and my spirit restless and I forgot

my high-minded intentions,

and went out to seek God.

I walked the woods, gazing at 

the expanses of skunk cabbage
and bowed low to examine the dwarf ginseng
and the emerging tips of mayapples.

I listened to hymns sung by robins

and titmice
and song sparrows
and peered at leaf buds
and spicebush flowers

and the trout lilies thriving under

as-yet-unclothed trees.

I sat at the feet of a yellow birch

on a bank above the rushing creek

and inhaled the scent of spring,

of new growth,

of life, 

and wonder,

and gloried in the arrival 
of the year's first Louisiana waterthrush.

God's First Revelation enfolded
and drew me into the Presence of

The One who imagined and then

breathed us all

into life.

I don't think I need to be reading

the mystics today,

after all.

At the Opening of the Day

Jubilant are the robins' songs
in the dark
before the dawn,
greeting the day from as far away as I can hear,
waves of music drifting through the sleepy landscape,
as if every robin in the world were singing.

Suddenly, 
as if the conductor has lowered his baton,
some mysterious cue quiets them and,
as their song subsides,
their attention turns to
matters of survival.
And nest building.

The towhees are back,
and the thrashers,
and the chipping sparrows,
all self-importantly announcing their arrival amid
the melodies of white-throats and titmice,
Carolina wrens and both chickadees,
cardinals and a downy woodpecker,
a cacophony of sound,
like an orchestra tuning up,
voices almost
indistinguishable.

How can a person think with all this noise?
Perhaps that is just the point.
What if all the busy humans stopped,
and listened,
and accepted this moment,
and its invitation
to noticing,
to reverence,
to caring,
to stillness
at the opening of this day?

Into the Silence

 

Season of surprising silence
when the air is still, as if
holding its breath,
when the cavorting of spring morphs into
the slow maturing of summer,

when the early and almost-forgotten
display of spring bulbs and
woodland ephemerals is becoming
the not-yet-flashy August garden,
and
the trees' and shrubs' exuberant
new growth settles into the barely discernable
process of ripening nuts and berries,

when, in the vegetable patch, the early lettuces,
spinach and peas have given way to
the not-yet-bearing tomatoes, peppers and beans
and 
the cacophony of enthusiastic avian mating song 
has become the stealthy movement of parents
going about their, day in and day out, 
never ending
feeding of nestlings 
not yet fledged.

I wait so long for spring and
once more it has come and gone.
And now?
I wait.
In this silent seasonal
liminal space
between promise and fulfillment
again
I wait for all that
comes next. 

And somehow, the waiting
becomes watching and 
the watching becomes participating,
and the participating becomes embracing
the holy space of belonging to all the
world around me.
It is enough. 

 

Of Strawberries and the Wood Thrush Song

Early June, and the strawberries are
bursting with flavor...
plump,
juicy, 
and sweet,
recalling the 
memories of every strawberry
I have ever eaten.
Each one at their succulent
peak for a day,
before the process of
decomposition begins,
still edible, certainly,
but no longer
exactly perfect.

Early June, and the wood thrush
bestows his
long-awaited, 
ethereal,
haunting melody
upon all who have ears.
Soon, however, when this year's
breeding is complete, his
voice will still, and in
silence will he forage and
flit through the trees.
In three months, he
will be gone.

Bees on the foxgloves,
newly-fledged chickadees chattering in the apple tree,
fragrance of mown hay and the mock orange,
bluebird sipping from the ant moat on the hummingbird feeder,
simple, simple noticings that ground my days.

Into what is this moment inviting you?
Be open.
Pay attention.
The Holy is beckoning.

                                                                        

Unstoppable

In the season of still-deep-winter
have you noticed
the wild things drawn
beyond this moment?

The juncos have begun trilling
from the treetops,
their restless hearts gladly
anticipating the prospect of moving on,
moving back.
And a single robin whinnies
in the damp woods across the road,
not yet singing, but heeding the
the pull towards longer days and
the hormonal shift
that awaits.
As do the bluebirds,
chortling their sweet notes,
flirting and pairing up,
preparations beginning,
the future on 
their minds.

Snow still lies heavy
on the land
and yet, the inexorable
movement towards spring
has begun, unfolding in
its own time, 
unstoppable,
untamable,
holy.

Have you noticed?

Wandering and Wondering Along the Boardwalk

At first glance, the marsh looked almost barren, particularly at low tide. Broken cattail remains dotted the mud flats and the bare branches of silky dogwood and buttonbush appeared as frozen as the ice that clung to the Potomac River shoreline.  As I braced myself against the biting wind, the bright February sunlight did little to warm me and I puzzled, yet again, at how the waterfowl swimming and feeding just beyond the ice can live, and even thrive, in the cold.

The boardwalk runs between the river and the tidal marsh, at the intersection of the two ecosystems, and offers abundant opportunity to observe the life of both.  There were not many ducks in the marsh but, on the river, several species were feeding, splashing and calling with abandon.  Furthest out were the diving ducks-the common mergansers, hooded mergansers, American widgeons and buffleheads and for the most part, each species swam alone, not mingling with others not of its own kind. Closer in to shore were the dabbling ducks, the mallards and black ducks whose bottoms we often see as they tip their heads underwater to feed. This area of the Potomac is rich in the aquatic plant life, fish and crustaceans that sustain the waterfowl who make this area their winter home and the boardwalk is an excellent vantage point from which to observe and learn more about them all.

Though I enjoyed watching the waterfowl, my attention turned to the bald eagle pair perched on a large, bare sycamore nearby. The female should be laying her first egg any day now and, though I believe I know which nest they will adopt, I won’t be sure until she is sitting still for a while.  I have come to quietly watch and wait and, perhaps, to discover.

Absorbed in the eagles, I slowly became aware of new activity around me. The dabbling ducks were on the move from the river into the marsh.  Initially, a few pairs of mallards flew over but, shortly thereafter, groups of eight and ten followed, wings whistling softly as they passed overhead and disappeared into the channels between the cattails. Within a short time, the two hundred mallards and black ducks who had been on the river had flown into the marsh and the seemingly lifeless wetland was alive with sound and splashing and what seemed like joy in returning home.  I puzzled about their mini-migration and realized that it had to do with tidal ebb and flow. I had arrived at low tide and the marsh was drained.  While I focused on the waterfowl and eagles, however, the river slowly and steadily streamed in and, at some definitive moment, the marsh held enough water for the mallards and black ducks to resume maneuvering and feeding in their favored setting. 

I was reminded, yet again, that there is always, always something to be learned when venturing outdoors, whether we live on the border of wild lands or in a suburban community. Wherever we are, we are given daily opportunities to expand our understanding of the natural world, simply by opening our eyes and minds and by paying attention. As we take them in, these opportunities grant a renewed joy in discovery and lead us into a more deeply held understanding of the land and its ways. They connect us to life beyond our own and yet, if we are willing to accept them, invite us into a life of wonder, a life that becomes our own.

Autumn's Invitation

Wildly tossed in morning gales, 
encircled by autumn-tinted woodlands,
Indian grasses cavort in the meadow remnant,
backlit, as though touched by frost,
pearly seedheads, bowing and waving as I pass by.

Tinkling of chilly ground crickets
and hungry goldfinches seeking seed,
Cawing of crows, scolding jays,
Hidden white-throats rustling in the leaf layer,
Wind whispering through sleepy trees.

Autumn's invitation to pause, to breathe,
to ponder, to exult in this one moment I am given, 
in gratitude.

Gratitude for the Fleeting

In the busyness of your life, of all of our lives, how long has it been since you stopped what you were doing, let go of what you were pondering, set aside your worries and fears and, even just for a moment, drank in the Spring? 

How long has it been since you walked outside your door with no other purpose than to breathe in the fragrances of new growth and moist earth? To listen to bird song, even if you don't know who is who? To notice the seemingly unlimited hues of green that change day by day, right now? To notice the miracle of tiny leaves that seem to grow larger overnight? To welcome this year's new generation of lightening bugs that are twinkling in the night, somewhere nearby?

If there were ever a time to practice noticing, it is now. I encourage you to spend some time outside with no other purpose than just to see what you can see. What might call to you? What might catch your attention and draw you into wonder? 

As I walk our roads lately, I have been reminded of how ephemeral is spring. Maple trees that were crowned with red flowers a few weeks ago are now covered with jaunty red seeds. Pawpaws, that a few days ago sported only their curious deep-purple flowers, are now sprouting tiny, shiny leaves, soon to be food for zebra swallowtail caterpillars. Sassafrases that were almost invisible among the other trees when bare, now boast tufts of fuzzy chartreuse flowers, similar to the green of newly unfurling beech leaves. Black cherries have surprisingly deep pink stipules, at the base of each leaf stalk, present only until the season progresses into summer.

This year, I am reminded that spring, like life itself, is not to be taken for granted. Do you remember that line in Sound of Music, "How can you hold a moonbeam in your hand?" Spring is like that. We can't keep it. We can't even slow it down and therein lies its invitation. It invites us into appreciation for the moment, into joy in the temporary and, into gratitude to the God who lives and moves among all Creation.

Noticing

Now and then, various people have commented that I seem to notice happenings in the natural world that they feel like they miss. From what sounds like wistfulness in their voices, I sometimes wonder whether they feel as though I have been granted some secret ability, not available to them. While it is true that I am now innately tuned to the life occurring around me (sometimes to the detriment of conversations with people!) such has not always been the case and, actually, I am not accomplished at noticing visual detail in general.

Certainly, affection for a subject predisposes us to be more sensitive to its presence (as so aptly demonstrated by my young grandsons, who immediately drop what they are doing and look up and into the sky at the sound of an airplane or helicopter,) but the relationship between affection and knowing is a circular one. The more we appreciate something, the more likely we are to want to know more about it, and the more we know about something, the more likely we are to notice and appreciate it.

With that in mind, I’d like to offer some thoughts to consider and questions that you might ask yourselves if you are longing to become more intimately acquainted with the Creation in which you live. Sometimes, all we need is a nudge in the right direction, and our curiosity takes over from there.

Are there still leaves on the trees, where you live? What color are they? What hues of those colors do you see? Which trees turn what colors?

Watch the individual leaves fall for a few moments…stop what you were doing and really watch and savor the wonder. How do they move in their freefall? Notice the differences in the ways that different leaf species twist and turn in the air? Do they tend to land right side up or upside down?

Fall is in the very air, not just in the colors of the leaves.  What does your air smell like? If you come across a fallen log or branch that has started to decay, pull off some bark or some of the wood and smell it.  What does it smell like? Or pick up a handful of leaf litter, feeling its softness and taking in its autumn aroma. Stop and appreciate the fragrances of this fleeting season.

When you go outside to the mailbox, or to your car or for some other reason, pause a moment…what do you see? In the trees and shrubs, what do you see? In any flower beds or weedy patches or your lawn, what is happening in the moment?  What do you hear, when you stop and listen? Insects? Wind in the trees? Crunching of your feet on dry leaves? Nearby birds? What…?

Are there oaks nearby? How long has it been since you really appreciated acorns, that currency of childhood imagination? How long since you stuffed your pockets with them, or just held them in your hand and marveled at their shiny roundness? Maybe now would be a good time to re-experience that delight.

These are just a few ideas to get you started and, if you enjoy the discovery, you have a lifetime before you to pay attention and grow in familiarity and wonder at the world in which you live. And as you notice, greet the creatures, greet even the plants, with whom you come in contact. Greet them as fellow inhabitants of this space we share, greet them respectfully, kindly, lovingly.

As written by Maltbie Babcock, a 19^th century Presbyterian minister who loved God and the land, an obscure verse in the hymn, This is My Father’s World, reads “For dear to God is the earth Christ trod. No place is but holy ground.” Take some time getting to know this “holy ground” a little better. You will be richly rewarded, indeed.