The gentle sounds of a dawn by the edge of the water:
- an eagle calls up the sun over the coastal snow-capped mountains;
- a flock of ducks pass overhead, beating a rhythm - the percussion
in this sunrise symphony;
- the beach breathes with the freedom of the receding tide,
snapping and popping with a thousand tiny unseen crabs;
- the Canada Geese, heard long before they are seen coming around the curve
of the shoreline, herald their own splashdown as the sun crests the jagged
horizon, and parts the pastel clouds;
- an enormous sea lion, chugging and panting on the high rock where he had
settled at high tide and lingered too long, struggles mightily now to move along on
his journey.
Morning quiet and morning gifts: the buzzing of insects, the busy birdsong, the eaglets' cries to be fed - all become the chant and response of the Creator and that which is created and born anew each day. "All around," Ezekiel says, "in every direction: Holy of Holies."
After 48 hours of being back on the island , the mystery of the morning finally brought me to that 'fallow corner' in the heart where seeds of the summer may be planted, and the wonder of life allowed to show itself. Our winter involved two moves - out of the home that held so many precious memories of our last 23 years into a temporary rental, and then back into our newly constructed home - just four weeks prior to returning to Canada. It was a winter of packing, sorting, unpacking, purging, re-packing, sorting and unpacking again.
There's a metaphor for our life experiences in there somewhere, something about the constant transitions and movements, the discernment - or lack thereof - of what to hold onto, the letting go of old perceptions, the purging of beliefs and prejudices that no longer serve us. Too often what we thought we had "unpacked" or forgiven has only been disguised and buried deeply, waiting for a vulnerable moment to emerge. These last four weeks have offered some of those moments for both of us! But it is only when we find what we have buried that we can look at it with grace, move through it, and heal.
Our trip back was the best kind: uneventful. We were most happy to see that our favorite restaurant survived another year; our coffee shop brought us muffins and beverages on the house. Our neighbors, too, with their warm welcome were touching and dear, with news of their own changes over the winter. One has lost her beloved mother, leaving "a hole in my heart" that I know from her own cancer challenge will be filled with love and a renewed joy with life. A grieving father tells us his 21 year old is in the end stages of her life. His sorrow is raw, his eyes red, when he says "It shouldn't happen like this - a parent shouldn't bury a child." Then he makes a golf date with Michael and the absurd normalcy of life itself, with all of its grace and blessings, sorrow and connection, changes and sameness, reveals itself. There is dying and there is golf, and each unfolds a mystery of its own, and a blessing.
On my walk in Rathtrevor yesterday morning, I was focused on the interior of the forest, the beauty and deep darkness of the old growth, the play and filter of the early morning light through the thick undergrowth, the smell of cedar mingling with the salt-water fragrance of the ocean. A slight movement on the other side of the trail caught my eye, and I turned to see a gorgeous two-point buck, his antlers clothed in soft velvet, so close it book my breath away. He was watching me cautiously but curiously, making no move to bolt. Behind him the sun was rising, and the fronds of the fern were waving gently in the morning breeze. We stood there for awhile, both observers and observed, before he casually returned to grazing, and I continued my walk, with the lighter step of reverence and awe.
"Let mystery have its place in you." The most joyful, the most glorious, the most sorrowful moments are those of mystery; they are the fallow places in our hearts that produce no discernible wisdom of themselves, yet are themselves the "Holy of Holies." Looking into a baby's smile or the eyes of a morning deer or the face of someone who has just passed or a grieving father's heart, we only know that something larger than our lives is holding us in mercy and compassion - and mystery.
YAY GOD
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