The Narrow Strait

The best any of us can do when it comes to understanding God more deeply is seek out metaphors and images that somehow give us a glimpse into the mystery in which we share.  We are surrounded by them each and every day if we allow ourselves even moments to be aware of the eternal presence shaping our own journey, breaking in, in one way or another.  It’s hard, at times, when you find yourself in paradise, not to miss the moments and signs that are pointing us to a deeper way of life.  It can be something as simple as walking along the beach or watching a sunrise or sunset to even some of the great obstacles we face in trying to pass through in this life.

As I was out walking along the beach yesterday there was one such sign that came in the form of an obstacle.  In parts, the beach is quite narrow right now and you have to practically walk over people in order to keep moving in some direction.  Yet, as you walk, there comes a natural obstacle that would make most pause, at the least, or simply turn around because of the difficulty in passing through.  There is a narrow path in which you can only pass through in single file.  If you’re on the other side it’s best to wait for others to pass.  It’s that narrow of a space, which added with rock formation and water breaking in through that formation, it can easily throw anyone off balance before passing through to the other side.

Yet, if you handle it carefully and with some awareness, you can pass through the narrow strait, which opens up into what appears to be the paradise desired of endless beach, few people, and a sense of stillness that all but makes the memory of the journey thus far all but forgotten.  Now I did happen to notice a woman that thought she’d outsmart it and walk around the narrow strait.  She was going to avoid it all together and somehow go around it to pass through but quickly realized that was nearly impossible, climbing over slippery and jagged rock, of course with phone and other items in hand, before turning back because it was too hard.

Is it not true of our spiritual lives as well?  We too are often left with such a choice as to how we are going to move forward.  It appears that the options are endless, and God knows, we’ll try every one of them before attempting the narrow straight.  We think and convince ourselves that somehow we can outsmart the process and avoid the seeming danger of passing through the most narrow of spots along the journey.  We turn around and settle for a life that we’ve outgrown, that feels crowded and yet lifeless all for the fact that we fear passing through.  We try to avoid that passing and attempt every other option, no matter how dangerous, all but to avoid the one, narrow straight that promises us an openness into what it is we’ve desired.  Maybe it’s why it appears, with the naked eye, to have so few people on the other side because so few of us are willing to take the risk in passing through.  Yet, what lies beyond transcends words and is simply something to be experienced for our own selves.  Otherwise, all we can do is listen in on a story and experience that our hearts long for and desire and yet we continue to allow ourselves to get in the way of possibility all because we convinced ourselves that there should be an easier way to all of it or if I wait long enough I’ll find the way to outsmart it all.  We’ll be waiting a long while if we live our lives that way, lacking the depth and meaning we desire.

Now, it’s not that we toss out that life once we pass through.  We still look behind at times to learn and heal the narrowest parts of our lives that at time continue to plague our hearts.  They remain; but when we allow ourselves the opportunity and invitation to pass through the narrowest of straits, time and again, we are afforded the opportunity to let go and to be healed of the memories that often stand as our greatest obstacle of passing through that space.  It is the fear that has become attached to our memories that hold us back.  More often than not, the fear of being hurt or rejected.  Sure, we may get hurt passing through, but it’s the only way that promises life and the paradise desired by our hearts and souls.

All any of us can do is seek out these metaphors and images.  We can study theology for years on end, and that’s a good thing.  But in the end, when it comes to deepening a relationship with God, it’s the images that find a way to transform our hearts or at minimum open us up toward greater possibility and to the impossible that we tend to avoid.  All too often we settle for being trapped, confined, and allowing our hearts to be overcrowded with a life that once was and setting up shop there thinking we have it all.  At some point, though, we start to get the nudge.  It may take months and years, but eventually cracks begin to break us open enough to realize that narrow strait is unlike the rest and what’s on the other side is something that we desire all the more.  It takes great courage to live now and not hung up in some past life or anxious about what’s next.  In the great moments of passing through that narrow strait, there’s no space for fear or worry, simply about being.  It isn’t until finally braving that space that we learn we need not fear it each time we encounter it because once we encounter the spaciousness of the paradise beyond there’s no turning back.  It’s images like this that speak to us but most importantly, transform our hearts into knowing and understanding the primal message of the sacred word, fear not.

Convergence

acadia

“Keep close to Nature’s heart…and break clear away, once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods.  Wash your spirit clean.”  John Muir

“The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.”  Jacques Yves Cousteau

Mountains and Seas, unlike most other natural realities, have a way of pulling us out of ourselves and often moving us to the needed and necessary perspective on life.  For me, Maine has become the home of where the two converge into one, where climbing can lead to some of the deepest places and the depths of the sea move you to some of the highest reaching points of discovery, all at the same moment.  Even upon departure there’s a sadness that overcomes in that, with the return to the world of life and work, where depth and heights are all but a mystery, stagnant, and even discouraged, the longing and call to nature never leaves, that, as Cousteau points out, casts a spell and captivates forever.  Nature has the ability to seduce us in ways unlike much else, pointing to greater depths and heights that often can only be left to the imagination.

A great deal has been written about nature depravity that has become the norm in our culture.  The days of spending our summer’s as kids outdoors and using our imaginations has all but dissipated with time.  The use of electronics, structured play, and all the rest may have progressed us as a people, but the long-term impact of cutting ourselves off from what is most important and what provides us meaning in our lives will be hard to recover in the generations that follow.  Despite the relentlessness that nature can have on us, as we see through the extremes of weather plaguing the globe, its ability to show compassion and care for the wanderer and seeker isn’t to be overlooked.

Climbing a mountain or spending that week in the woods along the endless shoreline, resurrects that child within to expand the imagination and open the heart to new possibility.  Even in watching others hiking along side at times, it was fascinating to see that much of it was about accomplishing another task, just as we do in our work lives, in order to move onto the next mountain or the path that follows, rather than allowing ourselves to stop and be in the moment, allowing the natural world to speak to and with our souls.  More often than not it speaks a language that remains foreign to us, not dictated by ourselves but by the eternal and the unearthed creation in which we share and walk, hand in hand.

Over time the line and all that separates begins to fall away like scales from the eyes, noticing the intricacy of a freshly spun web, the movement of the fog that seems all too real in life at times, the fallen trees that have been given the proper reverence to return to the earth untouched in order to continue the cycle, all of this unfolding before our eyes and within our very beings waiting to be explored and discovered all anew as if seeing it for the first time yet over and over again.  The natural world, in all its beauty and wonder, provides us all with what we are often lacking in our lives, the natural silence in which can only be heard the groans of new birth breaking forth from the earth, mirroring to us the gift that is freely being offered to us in this very moment if we can only allow ourselves to stop, to breathe, to surrender, and to recall from where and whom we have come.  As much as things change, life and death and the perpetual mystery that surrounds remains intact, ever-true and ever-deepening, nature pointing the way to the naturalness of it all.

It was, though, the guide while whale watching, that reminded us all that we only but see the surface with any of it.  What lies beneath the sea remains unexplored and ever-expanding.  Her reminder to all, whether it was heard or not, is true of each of us.  We only see what our eyes allow us to see in any given moment while so much remains undiscovered.  We trust that what is unseen is there and contains much life but our own fears prevent us from embarking.  The mountains of Acadia, as breathless as the are to see, pale in comparison to what lies beneath in the depths of the earth and sea that continues to call us forth.  Noise, life, distractions, success, accomplishments, and all the rest act as faithful guards to the unexplored.  I don’t have the time.  I’m busy with work.  I can’t get away.  Excuse and excuse, at our own doing, keeps us safe from going to such places and not closing the gap between nature and ourselves, and even more so, closing the gap between me and myself and you and yourself.  Nature opens the door to another world, a world of possibility and healing, a world in which we desperately want to hide, or for that matter, avoid.

It doesn’t take long to begin to feel that loss when, after being immersed for days, we return to life and what often feels so unnatural.  The beckoning and longing only seem to deepen and yearn all the more as the days and years march on.  In these moments of my own life I’m not sure I could even stop myself from making that time to return in order to be found once again, breathing a sigh of relief that all is right with the world again and again, freely falling into the hands that wait.  Until then, the memories remain of the light dancing off the water, waves crashing against the sea, stumbles and falls, tears and joy, of all that the natural world continues to provide for me and so many others that feel that deprivation.  If anything, it stands as a safe place, a place that only wants you to be you and nothing else and where nothing else matters.  It allows us to stand naked, unashamed and unafraid, in all our own highs and lows, light and darkness, and even the glimpses of the shadows that provide shelter.  When the mountains and sea converge into one the consequence is a convergence in our own lives, standing in the tension of life and death, what stays and goes, while continuing to walk on and through, allowing mystery to be revealed step by step.

A Vulnerable Mission

Amos 7: 12-15; Mark 6: 7-13

I don’t know what Jesus is talking about today.  When I travel anywhere I tend to overpack!  So I was at a conference this past week at a retreat house right on a beach in Jersey.  Now there was no swimming in that spot so it was quite nice and quiet, but I couldn’t help and watch everyone else doing what they do on the beach.  If you’ve been to the beach you probably have noticed, or have been the one, who appears to bring everything with them when they come to the beach even to the point where they can barely carry it all.  It’s crazy.  It looks as if they’re moving in despite knowing that they’re going to have to haul it back in a few hours.  I also, at times, feel like I grew up in antiquity watching them.  I saw a woman with her two daughters.  The two are running while the woman is practically hunched over carrying stuff.  I refrained from saying anything but I couldn’t understand why the kids weren’t carrying it!  If we couldn’t carry it, it didn’t get to the beach!  Not a good way to learn to live without.  We carry a lot of baggage.  If it’s true that our environment says something about our interior landscape then there are many that are carrying serious baggage.

Maybe Jesus has a point then about taking very little.  You know, for a gospel that doesn’t give a lot of specifics, Mark is pretty specific on this point.  You notice there’s not much about what they are to do but it’s very specific about what they should take and not take.  Sure, carrying a lot of stuff, like at the beach, becomes exhausting after awhile, but there are deeper reasons for sending the disciples out in such a fashion.  All that they know about Jesus up to this point is that his encounters have been with the most vulnerable.  He encounters the poor, the sick, those who have been shunned from society and outcasts for one reason or another.  They’re the people that have nothing to lose and pretty much have nothing, including no status in the life of the community.  An encounter with the most vulnerable needs to be met with a great deal of vulnerability and trust as well.  It’s the deeper reason to send them with nothing. 

Yeah, they’re pretty simple guys, simple fishermen themselves.  Although they may not be carrying much physical baggage, they still carry with them ways to avoid the most vulnerable, building walls around themselves to somehow prevent getting hurt, avoid rejection.  It becomes easy to hide behind status, role, career, our belongings, all of which prevents the authentic encounter with the vulnerable one.  As the disciples are sent out two by two today, they aren’t being sent to fix people’s problems or anything like that, but in the process of encountering the vulnerable they also become more aware of themselves.  They become aware of their own demons that act as baggage in their interior life.  It’s how they begin to become aware of it around them and to not give into the fear that they often invoke.  Will they always get it right?  Far from it.  Will they be perfect at it?  Absolutely not.  They’re not Jesus nor are they supposed to.  Will they face rejection like the prophets?  Absolutely, but that too will become a point of meeting and encountering the vulnerable and learning to trust over and over again.

The same is true for Amos in today’s first reading.  Again, a rather simple man.  He’s someone that would prefer to go back to his own way of life of shepherding.  Things seemed much easier for him as that and quite frankly doesn’t want much to do with God or being this prophetic voice.  He learns, though, today, about shaking the dust off of his feet or shaking out the sand and moving on.  Amaziah wants nothing to do with him or his message of God.  Like most of the prophets, the message often sounds quite harsh to the powers that be because they try to maintain the status quo.  They prefer to invoke fear in the people but often at the hands of the most vulnerable.  The poor become forgotten and take the brunt of what is done.  The women and children, the refugees, people fleeing the violence that is often sparked at the hands of the political authorities of their day.  Amos, as he learns of himself as well, learns the difference of when that word falls on deaf ears and moves on.  It doesn’t stop him from being the prophetic voice.  Some are just unable to hear and receive the message.  Just as at times we aren’t.  There are times when people try to reach us and we’re unable to hear and see because we trust more heavily on our own baggage rather than being open to the possibility of God.  Jesus has every reason to send them out today with very little in order not to create a barrier, separating them from the most vulnerable and learning to trust that God will give them all they need.  When it’s not being heard, they shake off the dust and carry on.

We tend to carry a lot with us.  We have all learned ways to avoid pain, suffering, being rejected, but in doing so we close ourselves off to love.  We build walls to separate ourselves rather than allowing ourselves to be vulnerable.  These readings challenge us in our own lives to be aware of what it is we use in our lives that acts as that barrier.  There are times where we need to literally go to the most vulnerable, whether the poorest of the poor on the street or even someone suffering in pain or loneliness in the home next to us.  When we go with a sense of openness and vulnerability, it does as the disciples do today, heals.  It heals not only the other but our own hearts and souls.  The most authentic encounters we can have are when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable before the other and the Other.  It’s too easy to close ourselves off but today Jesus invites us on a different path and a different encounter, one of great vulnerability, opening ourselves not only to the possibility of hurt, but more importantly a great deal of healing, love, and compassion for others and ourselves.

A Dancer’s Gaze

sunrise

It’s quite easy in the spiritual life to become fixated on the incompleteness of our lives.  We become enthralled by the longings, the desires, the failures, and all the rest, hoping one day that we can present them to God in the way that we see fit or somehow would make us worthy of that unconditional love.  It may very well be what it is our minds tell us of ourselves, all the while our hearts are left with the longing for something more, and all the more that we can provide will never satisfy.  Quite the opposite.  They only leave us wanting more, leaving a gaping hole that never seems to subside.  It all, when we can finally admit it to ourselves or rather, find ourselves so lost in the darkness, that rather than trying to deem it perfect by our own standards, we step into it and find a God who awaits and cries with joy trusting that we’ll be seen through rather than rescued from our own pain and longing.

Those that know me well know that I will spend as much time at the ocean as I can.  What started as something rather playful, a young boy digging in the sand and wrestling with the waves, has turned into much more of a love affair that never seems forgotten.  If there is any grace, the moments of return always seem to leave me in awe of the vastness of what lies before me and yet has a way of quieting what becomes chaotic within, with trying to perfect it in my own way. Its vastness reminds me of the very smallness of all that I cling to over time, what often seem gargantuan at the moment, all but seem to dissipate in a single breath as I stand before the wide-open sea.

Over time, though, it has been the nights sitting here, when all glimmers of daylight have faded, where it all seems to come alive in a very different way.  It’s as if we stand before each other completely unknown and willing to trust what it is that we cannot see.  There are those moments when the gleam of the moon bounces off the water, shedding some ray of hope to the infinite darkness that lies before, but more often than not, learning to navigate through the darkened sea and all it throws at you prepares you more than anything that can be done by day.  There is a great beauty in the darkened sky at the water’s edge, where everything converges and all becomes one. 

As much as we convince ourselves that we can see more clearly in the light of day, and on some level that is true, the midnight sky, blending with the vast ocean blue, shifts our eyes into seeing on a deeper level.  Imagine what life would be like if we knew the limitless degree of life that happens beneath what the naked eye witnesses, gazing towards the horizon.  It’s easy to convince ourselves that there is nothing out there that matters, until life emerges.  A whale, dolphin, porpoise, all of whom have learned to breathe under water, surface themselves leaving us in awe, left in wonder of what else is possible, of what lies in the darkness beneath the ever-present surface.  Yet, we learn to accept only what we see with our two eyes, leaving all else to wonder, to imagination.  There is, in all of it, a sense of completeness in the incompleteness that we have come to witness with our very eyes, eyes which often deceive or allow us to see only what it is we want.

Maybe, and it is a big maybe, that God has more to do with darkness than the light.  It’s quite simple to know the boundary in the light of day, as to how far I can proceed into the water, what my limits are, how everyone else has judged the situation.  It is in the dark, though, where we step forward and not knowing where we will land or whether we will land at all.  With one step forward, we find ourselves falling to the depths of the watered earth and beginning to envision our lives in a different way, a way no longer limited to what we see but to be seen with the eyes of the heart and soul.

It really is no longer about sand castles, frolicking, or the other things we do as children.  That’s not to say that we don’t as adults; it too is necessary lest we wither and die, returning to the dust-filled beach.  But when our lives and the experiences become about stepping into that incompleteness, and falling into the darkness, and learning to trust when the path between light and darkness, earth and sky, seem to all but have vanished in the summer’s night, it becomes about the more that really matters.  It becomes about the more that satisfied the endless longings in life.  This vast ocean becomes, in some sense, a tragedy in and of itself, fully displaying the paradoxes of life and love.  We can be moved to joy and tears.  We can be pushed to chaos and even find peace in what is stirred up within.  We can spend hours studying it by day and yet held in captivity and seduced by its nighttime beauty.

As mere visitors passing through this place and in this time, maybe its our reassurance that come the dawn of a new day and fire begins to emerge again against the horizon, bouncing its beauty off the waters, dancing with the quiet of a new day, where we find our hope.  We all know that in the darkest of moments it’s often difficult to find hope.  It’s a challenge when we feel ourselves consumed by the darkness below to see the horizon yet alone the glimmers of a new day.  But in these moments of passing through and falling more in love with this vastness, nature reminds us that although we may feel separated from the dawning of a day in the darkened night, even lost in all its beauty, the dance continues and we become more deeply what it is and who it is upon whom we gaze.

Really Living & Living Really

“Everyone needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in…where nature may heal and cheer and give strength to body and soul.”  John Muir

“It is astonishing how high and far we can climb mountains that we love, and how little we require food and clothing…No sane man in the hands of nature can doubt the doubleness of his life.  Soul and body receive separate nourishment and separate exercise, and speedily reach a stage of development, wherein each is easily known apart from the other.  Living artificially, we seldom see much of our real selves.”  John Muir

I came across both of these quotes today by John Muir, legendary activist and protector of the woodlands of this country, who in many ways has a love affair with the outdoors.  It becomes not only the avenue for finding himself but for finding a being greater than himself, although rarely wrote about God.  He is considered the Father of the National Parks.

If there is one thing I have learned in spending time in the outdoors, whether it’s here at Acadia, the Grand Canyon, the vast forested area of Alaska, or even the shores of Maryland and Jersey, it’s that deep down what defines the soul is something much more than an urban landscape but rather a never-ending twist and turn, yet explored area that very much resembles these wild and uncharted lands that I’ve had the opportunity, and really, privilege, to explore.

His sentiments have been mine through these experiences, that the natural mountains that we climb or even the vast chasms that we descend throughout this land, how little, we begin to realize, that we truly need.  What becomes our challenge as humans is that we often climb illusions of mountains in our lives, seeking power, prestige, so often missing along the way just what it is we’re losing, forgetting, ignoring, that we become blinded by the climb itself.  A return to the mountains is a good reminder of how we fall prey to the illusions that power and climbing seems to offer, leaving us insecure and fearful of losing something that was never really real in the first place.

Of course, descending the chasms can be just as challenging.  The fall from the illusion of grandeur can be a humbling experience when we begin to see what it is that we have forgotten or ignored along the way.  I had that experience climbing, and descending, in Acadia this week, so intent on getting to the top of the mountain and not until I started to descend did I begin to see things differently, as if the hardness of the climb began to dissipate, noticing a fallen tree, a sparkling stream, an unnamed path that leads to one of the most spectacular views and serene locations in the park.

It seems in either instance, our temptation to remain at the top or simply climb, as we see so often in our culture and society, but also to become attached to the bottom, walked upon, taken advantage of or needing to please, both begin to increase what it is that we seem to need in our lives, when the insecurity and fear begin to take root in our hearts and souls, no longer free.  In the words of John Muir, a separateness of heart and mind begins to form, creating a deeper chasm within ourselves.  In some ways, we become needy and no matter what it is, nothing seems to be enough.

The more I give myself the space to explore the outdoors, which in turn frees me to explore myself, the more I see the value in protecting our lands and leaving them as a place of wonder and exploration.  Whether it was watching a group of young boys play the 21st Century version of “cops and robbers” on Cadillac Mountain or even getting lost myself and being aware of the anxiety it brings up within myself and learning again to trust that deeper instinct and voice.  Over and over again, the natural world has something to teach and to help us to understand not only about itself, but about ourselves and even about God.  In not only helps to fill the chasm between the head and heart, it helps to fill the chasm between humans and the natural world, where everything belongs.

The freedom necessary to not live an “artificial” life as Muir speaks about, requires a letting go, surrendering, and living a life filled with the grace of detachment.  No, not in the sense of not caring, but rather in its natural sense, where I can surrender outcomes and trust God no matter what happens.  Otherwise, we predict the outcome, which in and of itself, is an illusion, artificial.  And we’ll do it to ourselves again and again.  The natural world teaches us to be free, to go where the wind blows, and to accept not what should be, but rather, what is, gradually dispelling the artificialness and leading us to a holiness and a wholeness, reminding us how Muir is correct, in how little we really need to experience the fullness of our lives.

 

Summer’s Winter

As someone who grew up in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania, you know that there’s something very unique about the winter.  For one thing, it seems to last forever, grey skies linger, snow cannot be ruled out until well into Spring, and maybe more than anything, there’s a different feel to the season, in the way the wind blows and even howls, biting through layers of clothing to the depths of your bones, chilling every part of your body.

It’s not quite as noticeable in the other seasons, when leaves fill the trees, but during the winter there is a unique feel and sound to the wind’s wailing.  There seems to be a hollow and even haunting sound to the pines and evergreens, the perennials that manage to survive the stiffness of winter and withstand the mark of death brought on by the season.  It’s a sound that reminds you that the dog days of summer are all but a memory and the sting of winter has seemingly found its day.

As I sat atop Flying Mountain in Acadia National Park today, I was reminded of that wind.  This far north and the extent of the winter season, leaves its marked presence by a sea of evergreens and pine trees filling the top of the mountain and not much else.  As a matter of fact, it’s as if the ground cannot even handle much more than that, when walking along it feels as if the ground beneath is hollow, roots exposed to the surface, creating an obstacle for even the most avid hiker.  There was, though, that wind and the haunting sound.  Interiorly I recalled the days of winter past in the mountains while my body reminded me that we’re at the height of summer season, a seemingly contradiction taking place within and around me.

For a moment, I thought maybe it’s winters way of reminding us that it’s never fully gone, that atop the beauty of summer below, winter awaits its turn, never separated from the warmth of summer life but simply receded to another day, blowing where it will and knowing at some point a necessary transition will take place in order for more growth to bloom.

All too often we try to separate life from its partner, death.  We try to separate anything that we fear or have a disdain for, not necessarily because we don’t know it’s a part of who we are, but rather, a lie we convince ourselves of, that it’s something for another day and another moment.  There’s a house that sits down below on Somes Sound, which is noticeable from Flying Mountain, being the only home along the shore.  The only trees around it protect it from the water, lined along that shore.  When winter knocks, though, not even a longstanding perennial has the whereabouts to stop and prevent what seems to rock what we have protected, cherished, most valued in our lives, trying to weather the storms that seem to haunt us at times during life, like that winter wind that remains atop that mountain.

Summer doesn’t seem to mind that it’s there.  It seems to go about its business as the wind continues to howl above.  Somehow they know they work in tandem with one another, almost instantly, the seasons of life and death dance with one another, each leading the way for the other.  Sometimes the harshest of times are when they try to hold on too long, well aware of their impending future, wreaking havoc on the life cycle.  But don’t we all?  We seem to love Fall and Spring.  They seem to come upon us so gradually and before we know it, we’re sideswiped by change we knew was coming and yet told ourselves, it’s for another day and another moment.  It’s what we tell ourselves as a way to linger, hold onto what we loved but no longer is.  How summer and winter do it will always remain a mystery, so much unseen and non-rational, bending and stretching the mind to something that lies beyond it and yet so much a part of it.  The howling winter wind has a way of reminding us of that, even on a mild summer day.

Nature’s Way

I started reading a book entitled Lassoing the Sun while here in Acadia.  The author, Mark Woods, spent a year traveling to twelve different national parks.  Ironically, the very first chapter, January, takes place here in Maine at Acadia National Park.  One of the points of the year was to get a different glimpse into the parks and where they’re going into the future.  People are, of course, the greatest asset to the parks, but the concern is that the greatest asset is also becoming a great obstacle, as more and more treat the parks as vacation destinations rather than the place of wonder and exploration in which they were created.

I couldn’t help but think of that as I was hiking Beech Mountain today.  There seemed to be a lot more people than the last time I had visited.  As I hiked along, from time to time I also just sat and tried to take in what was before me.  With stops, though, came the passing through of people, who often felt like a distraction to the solitude that would often accompany each stop along the way.  I often wondered if they had even recognized that I was sitting there, usually off to the side or at least somewhat off the path.  I heard two women who were discussing whether their hair color was natural.  I heard two gentlemen discussing their tax brackets.  What maybe most struck me, though, was a young family that came traipsing along.  I saw, first-hand, the intersection of generations in relation to the natural world.

There they were, the grandparents and grandkids going off to pick blueberries.  The kids were beyond excited at the view and the enormous number of berries that surrounded them, overlooking Long Pond.  It was so great to witness their excitement for something so simple as the body of water below, which sparked a wow, a sense of wonder that was exuding them.  But like the others that passed through, there were the others that were more concerned about the lighting for their photo and selfies, a phone intercepting the natural beauty before them.  They quickly tried to pull the kids out of the bushes for the perfect photo, a memory, rather than allowing the kids to be one with this natural world which has so much to teach each of us, and to simply be kids of wonder and adventure.

It stuck with me all day, thinking of that interaction.  At times I found the people a distraction and oblivious to where they were and what we were a part of.  I had to tell myself time and again that I’m making judgment about them.  It all just seemed to lack depth.  As I sat there, now on the outermost rock formation, relaxing and taking it in, I noticed how artificial the world too looked around me, as if like the phone, even my eyes acted as an interception to the wonder.  There was a stillness in the air, prior to the rain moving in, and everything seemed untouched and motionless.  When no one was around, all you can hear were far off voices in the distance of people passing through.  It wasn’t until I got down into the thick of it that I began to see otherwise.  I had to go beneath what I had seen with my eyes to begin to see a world of life at my fingertips, as if all the critters were going about their business before the anticipated weather.

As the day grew on, the air chilled and the rain began to fall; I listened to it bounce off my jacket, zipped to the top.  It’s July but feels more like Fall here in Acadia.  The silence, as the rain began to fall, seemed to deepen and any distractions and noise had fallen to a hush.  Sure, I should be able to find solitude anywhere, but none in the way out in nature, in places like this, which has a way of folding you into her arms and holding you, embracing you, and for those final moments in Acadia today it was there.  It was present.  I was present, no longer needing to feel frustrated and annoyed with the people that passed through, somehow taking from me what I wanted from this time.  They too are on their own journey but it didn’t have to stop me from mine, of moving these days to being one with creation with one great act of Love showing the way.  It’s much too easy to separate from others and judge.  In reality it does say more about us than them.  If I can be grateful for anything it’s that I was even aware of what was going on within me, leading me to my own adventure and wonder in my heart.  Ever so gently and slowly, nature has a way of revealing ourselves to us in a way like none other.  In the quiet, in the solitude, the truth begins to reveal itself and the truth then sets us free to wonder and explore not only the great outdoors but the inner depths of the soul’s landscape being revealed in spite of and before our very eyes.