Today, before the gentle rain set in, I took a long walk. When I give myself such a space, I find I see more clearly. I notice. The family of killdeer has gone from five to four. The lilacs have finished their blossoming for this year and the now the scent of honeysuckle is everywhere. The suet that waited for a week or more to be discovered now has four sparrows nicely perched on the basket sharing a meal. The greens are deeper. The hush of the mountain is more profound.
I walk. I notice. I think. And I open up to the thoughts larger than myself or my hard-working brain. I ask God to tell me something, to stir in me something that will move me forward in ways that my human feet cannot possibly walk. And I pose my questions and my questing:
How do I trust that the new pain in his hip is not cancer?
Will there be a way to communicate concern to one who endlessly hurts others?
What do we do with the news of the most recent shooting and the fact there is another gun show and sale just down the road?
How do I consciously yield to the needs of my own spirit when there are so many people who simply need the presence of another?
Will what is broken between hearts have the ability to mend?
Can my walking and thinking and yielding possibly evoke blessing and healing and good in this world?
I don’t know. That seems to be what I come back to time and again. God isn’t giving me some “breaking
news” information. I don’t know how to stop the cancers or shootings or heartbreaks. But I do know that this rain is tending earth. I do know that I am here to witness the good, the questions, and the intimate darkness that comes to each door each night. I know that without the questions… the answers and the solutions would be
empty.
Sometimes, it simply takes the lovely quiet of a walk just before rain to soothe the noise of every care. Maybe walking is just walking, and rain is simply rain. Maybe paying attention and bringing intention are just thoughtful kindnesses. Or maybe all of it communing together in our hearts is what actually stirs our inborn divinity toward what has been hoped for all along.
I walk. I notice. I think. And I open up to the thoughts larger than myself or my hard-working brain. I ask God to tell me something, to stir in me something that will move me forward in ways that my human feet cannot possibly walk. And I pose my questions and my questing:
How do I trust that the new pain in his hip is not cancer?
Will there be a way to communicate concern to one who endlessly hurts others?
What do we do with the news of the most recent shooting and the fact there is another gun show and sale just down the road?
How do I consciously yield to the needs of my own spirit when there are so many people who simply need the presence of another?
Will what is broken between hearts have the ability to mend?
Can my walking and thinking and yielding possibly evoke blessing and healing and good in this world?
I don’t know. That seems to be what I come back to time and again. God isn’t giving me some “breaking
news” information. I don’t know how to stop the cancers or shootings or heartbreaks. But I do know that this rain is tending earth. I do know that I am here to witness the good, the questions, and the intimate darkness that comes to each door each night. I know that without the questions… the answers and the solutions would be
empty.
Sometimes, it simply takes the lovely quiet of a walk just before rain to soothe the noise of every care. Maybe walking is just walking, and rain is simply rain. Maybe paying attention and bringing intention are just thoughtful kindnesses. Or maybe all of it communing together in our hearts is what actually stirs our inborn divinity toward what has been hoped for all along.
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