The Voice of God

Until this morning, I have never equated
the overly-enthusiastic crowing of our neighbor's rooster,
who lives just beyond our bedroom window,
with the voice of God. 
Heard from a distance, he might sound charming,
quaint, nostalgic even, like some far-off
church bell calling the faithful to meeting.

Up close, he is loud. And insistent.
And, after living near him for so long, 
I can recognize his voice among the throng
of other roosters in the area.
Until this morning, I have never equated
his raucous, before-the-dawn, persistent,
rooster song with a call to Morning Prayer.
Nor, as he mysteriously begins again
a couple of hours before dusk, 
as an invitation to Compline. 

In the spring, his calling drowns out
the early morning birdsong I strain to hear
and, as the late-summer's soft droning
of crickets and katydids fills the background,
his crowing dominates the airways.
Morning in and evening out, in all seasons
and through all sorts of weather,
his voice opens and closes each and every day.
And, just as reliably, as I journey through each of these days,
he often interrupts the flow of my thoughts with
with his vigorous, punctuated reminders of his presence,
assuring me, sometimes inconveniently,
that whether he is vocalizing or not, 
he is always there,
always present,
unseen, perhaps, but
always hovering in the background. 

I have never thought of the rooster's crowing
as the voice of God.
Now I know better.

Communion

What was that wild emotion
as I stood grinning,
gazing up into the bare trees
and balancing on two legs and a walking stick
so as not to topple over?

What was that exhilarating sense of freedom
as I gazed at their dance,
me tethered to the ground,
them swaying far above,
blown back and forth by 
every gust of wind?

When I prayed
(something I had never asked before),
in Your kindness 
You blew a breeze 
that gently lifted every twig,
a whisper that rippled through the woodland
and then was gone.

What was that glad response 
emanating from my deepest self?
That continues on in the memory 
of the moment?

Wonder,
Awe,
Joy,
Gratitude.

Walking as Spiritual Practice

A couple of weeks ago, a friend asked me what my spiritual practices have been lately. I was caught off guard and mumbled something about reading and contemplative prayer but, at the same time, I felt like I was forgetting something important. I was. I was forgetting what has been a practice for the last several decades, though I would not have termed it as such until relatively recently.

In the last few years I have become acquainted with the importance of living and being in the moment- not fixated on the future or the past, not entertaining the myriad distracting thoughts that pass through my weary brain, not giving in to fears or irritations or even wants, but noticing what is right in front of and all around me, taking it in, paying attention, acknowledging God's presence. Do I live this way through most of my days? No. Does being aware and awake to what transpires in the real world come naturally? No. Do I even remember that I want to experience this restorative focus on the present? Not very often. 

And so, I walk. And in the walking, I am captivated by my surroundings and I slip into noticing without effort. This morning my walk took me through woodlands and along an overgrown field, and the songs of cicadas, crickets, and katydids of all species were my constant companions. I passed bright orange fungi on the shaded roadside, a spike buck who watched me warily through the trees, and a single Acadian flycatcher calling from overhead. Such are the findings I expect to encounter when I set out early in the morning. 

Today, however, there was a message woven into my wanderings. As often happens, my walking took me past an old abandoned pasture filled with tall grasses and forbs, the  sun low behind me, casting the scene in a golden glow. The insect chorus was in full swing, though the singers remained invisible among the grasses and, in fact, I could not see any animal life there at all. When I reached the end of the field, I turned around to head back home, and the scene had been transformed. With sun backlighting the pasture, every drop of dew stood out, glistening in relief. And, in what had appeared to be an empty field, shone hundreds, or maybe thousands, of spider webs, sunlight glinting off each delicate strand. 

As I stood in awe, I realized how little I had really seen on my first pass by the pasture. All these creatures, all this life had been right in front of me and I had missed them. It was as if they had been hiding in plain sight all along. I wondered then, how often do I miss understanding others' perspectives, so intent am I in seeing things from just one direction, the one in which I am heading. How often have I assumed I am right because my vantage is the only one I can see? 

Contemplation, or living with God fully in the moment, is most powerful when we allow the present to seep into our souls. Sometimes the noticing alone is enough to fill us and we are content. Sometimes, like this morning, there is a message that deepens and changes us, if we but accept it. I find that, for me, walking is one of the most natural means of being open to the present moment. Walking as spiritual practice.
                                                                                 

Solstice Respite

I began this day, wanting to write something about creating safe spaces for ourselves and those we encounter during these troubled times. I wanted to offer words of encouragement to keep working for the well being of each other and to offer illustrations of community and sustenance from the natural world. But I can't seem to find the words, as I made the mistake of looking at the news a little while ago.

And so, all I can offer today is the invitation to step into beauty, as I did this morning. Best would be for you to step outside and into whatever beauty you are afforded where you live. But I offer these pictures of what surrounds me in this place.  

Do not make the mistake of thinking that these images are of frozen lifeless, and barren landscapes for they host an almost infinite number of birds, hidden in the shelter of the grasses, cattails and tangles. Maybe there is an analogy there for us, waiting to be written on another day. 

In these moments as you look, breathe in deeply, feel the frosty air, hear the geese and ducks, woodpeckers and sparrows that are not in the pictures, note the muted hues of tans, and browns and grays and how they play together. Mourn if you need to, be renewed and gather strength for what lies ahead in your day. Breathe a prayer of thanksgiving for life, in all its forms, and a prayer for its protection, as well.

Blessings to you, on this day of the winter solstice.

Challenges to Mindfullness

I used to assume the qualities of quiet reflection and watchful mindfulness went hand in hand but, at times they seemed to be at odds. Sometimes, in fact, being mindful is just plain hard...Like this morning as I walked along the Potomac, thinking deeply about the past, the future and the present, and almost missing the strident calling of what turned out to be two flittering, agitated golden-crowned kinglets. Padding along the dirt road,my thoughts were turned inward, focused on some needed internal discussions and prayer time, and at the same time, reaching for the solace of the autumn glory of the woodlands that surrounded me.


Once the high-pitched voices overhead finally caught my attention, my focus shifted altogether to alertly waiting and watching, and the only matter on my mind was to identify the singers. Familiar as I am with golden-crowneds, what I was hearing did not register and so, after a short time of intense concentration, I was rewarded with the sight of two irritated kinglets obviously disgruntled with each other. I wondered from whence they had come and to where they were bound on their migration, and I wondered what was troubling them so on such a bountiful morning.

The most unexpected benefit of birding is that it calls for and returns me to mindfulness. When I pull the binoculars to my eyes, all other thoughts fade into the background and I am left fully with and in the moment. Sometimes I think that the more unsettled I am, the more refreshing are these short breaks in my ponderings. The natural world calls to me and as I answer, God speaks to and comforts me through what He has created. For a time, t

he moment is enough.