"When we come to a point of rest in our own being, we encounter a world where all things are at rest, and then a tree becomes a mystery, a cloud becomes a revelation, and each person we meet a cosmos whose riches we can only glimpse."
— Dag Hammarskjöld
— Dag Hammarskjöld
Michael has already returned to Louisiana after what, for him, has been a busy three weeks on the island. He has worked more this summer than in the previous years, only occasionally taking a break for a round of golf, a short field trip or a Farmer's Market. His routine, however, also included sitting by the water in the afternoon with his book, the Straits of Georgia at his feet, the lone fishing or sailboat drifting offshore, and the ever-present eagles, herons and shorebirds passing through for entertainment.
The time has passed quickly and quietly, the settling in and catching-up feeling like anything but a 'point of rest.' My appointment at Rathtrevor for morning mystery, however, invites Mary Oliver's gentle observation: "It is what I was born for - to look, to listen, to lose myself inside this soft world." I feel like a tiny bug walking amidst the towering cedars and firs, and something is loosened inside. The protective limbs shield me from the minutes coming fast and furious, and deflect the mind's urging me to 'get on with the day.' I understand how people get lost in nature, lose time in a forest, or in any endeavor that evokes such a larger view of life.
My sacred calling, in that moment, might include watching the slugs in various sizes and colors, moving across the path so-ever-so slowly, depositing the richness that changes and nurtures the ground. Or, around the next bend, to observe the eagle in all majesty, bombarded by the common crow, as clouds scurry overhead and change the sky to a crazy patchwork of morning hues. Every morning, it takes my breath away in a deep release of any and all thoughts of concern, to see and know the Universe is unfolding perfectly, and always will.
It is with that knowing that I reflect on the people to whom I've been introduced recently, whose riches I can, indeed, 'only glimpse.' A mutual friend introduced me to Jessica Taylor, who is being interviewed right now by Oprah's producers for a possible show in the fall. She has written a book, "From Tragedy to Triumph," about her brain injury and recovery, and her current work with the brain injured around the world.
The morning after I read her book, I was admiring the work of Sharon Murphy, a wood-carver at the local Farmer's Market, when she suddenly told me the whole story about her severe brain injury from an automobile accident years ago. Up until that time, she had been 'a simple farmer's wife,' with no artistic inclination. Now she is an award-winning painter, photographer and carver, an activity that takes her mind off of her continuing pain. I happened to have Jessica's card in my purse, which I passed along to Sharon in that beautiful chain of connection and synchronicity that is the grace of life.
My lovely 87 year old friend from last summer has passed-on over the winter-time. He visited everyday for the last few years with his wife in the Alzheimer's unit of a local nursing home. The day after he was buried, his wife passed away. I like to think he picked her up on his way home. I was reminded of the story he told me, related last year in a Saga, about life being like a funnel: as we get older, we look through the narrow end, and see a broader picture. This summer, I have met an acquaintance of his, another lovely elderly gentleman, a widower, retired community-organizer and former University Professor. He is a story-teller, and his words come slowly, deliciously, carefully chosen, with no waste. When I sit with him, I feel like I'm in the room with Morgan Freeman and Sidney Poitier; there is an elegance to his cadence, a loveliness to the timbre of his voice, and a reverence for his life experiences.
With the same diminutive feeling I have in the forest, I observe and visit with these new friends. The story of each one, of each of us, is rich in the splendor to which we've been born. What is tragedy? What is triumph? Without her horrific fall, Jessica would not be traveling the world advocating and bringing change to the brain-injured. Absent her accident, Sharon may never have discovered her latent talent, or her subsequent and strange ability to spot and unearth species of fossils that she's been able to bring to scientific attention. Without his work in the Civil Rights movement of Chicago in the 60's, and the twists it took, Bill would never have ended up on Vancouver Island to tell his stories and touch our lives.
In our surrender to the perfection that is Divinely unfolding we come to that "point of rest in our own being." We revel in mystery, discern revelation and walk small in the forest of our daily lives, amongst the towering stories of those around us.
YAY GOD
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