"All this hurrying soon will be over. Only when we tarry do we touch the holy." (Rainer Maria Rilke)
"Hasten slowly, and ye shall soon arrive." (Milarepa)
Canada Day dawns rainy, completely grey and overcast, not good weather for the two small-town parades in the area, the concerts, numerous barbecues and outdoor events. The outside temp gauge reads 10C, which, when I do the math (double and add 30), tells me it's 50F outside. I feel quite guilty that I'm perfectly content watching the almost invisible drizzle, drinking a cup of mocha and enjoying a warm muffin while huddled in a fleece vest, with the small space heater at my feet. I almost walked in Rathtrevor this morning, because this weather brings out the deer and the rabbits, and keeps humans away - as it did me!
Fortunately for Michael, with his distaste for this kind of weather, he has flown back to home base, after delaying an important meeting for as long as he could. He was here for the visit from his brother, his wife and their friends, who were up for a short stay recently. My sister-in-law and her friend are both mobility impaired with knee and foot injuries, slowing our progress on walks, and preventing some of the usual sight-seeing which involves hiking and more strenuous walking. The slower walks gave Michael and I the opportunity to take even longer looks at these old beautiful familiar treasures, which we have never taken for granted. The guys played golf, we visited some galleries and shops, and shifted to a less active routine. The weather cooperated with cloudy chilly mornings turning into beautiful sunshine and skies, and we enjoyed the quiet evenings beside the water with wine and snacks and conversation. On their last evening, we went to the tiny Qualicum airport where we enjoyed a smashing dinner at our favorite restaurant, The Final Approach, aka La Cage Au Folles, where the black owner/chef has roots in New Orleans.
But it seems that we haven't been able to settle into a rhythm yet this summer, with my late arrival, having guests, and now Michael's unplanned departure for a month. In the meantime, we've changed toilets and the hot water heater, have had one of the bedrooms and a bathroom repainted, toyed with the idea of changing the flooring, and have created upheaval in the process with books and boxes stacked against walls and on tables as the paint dries.
Our lives for the last three years seem to reflect the state of our human condition, one of chaos and a lack of balance. I feel sometimes like I'm in a funny house where the floor is shifting, and I'm constantly needing to readjust to remain grounded. Even the eagles have been out-of-character this summer, quiet and seemingly withdrawn from their usual soaring and playful sky-dancing.
Many years ago, a Benedictine monk on one of my retreats told a lovely story about chaos and peace. He described an art contest held by a Chinese emperor, who commissioned two of the most famous artists in the land to paint a picture of peace for him. He gave them a year to finish their project. On the appointed day, both artists arrived with their rather large pieces. The first proudly showed his lovely picture, a pastoral scene of immense beauty and color. The second artist humbly drew the simple cloth from his portrait of a fierce and ugly rain storm, lightening bolts, and a raging waterfall. The Emperor was furious, and accused this man of mocking him. The artist quietly walked to the painting, and drew the Emperor's attention to the tiny nest behind the waterfall where a mother bird sat tranquilly, her wings covering her small chicks. Father Dominic didn't mention an end to the story, whether the Emperor had a reaction or if the man won the prize. If he did, I don't recall it. The message was clear: we are to be at peace IN the storm, not FROM the storm.
Michael and I listened to a broadcast recently on CBC, the Public Broadcast Radio in Canada. An 'immersion' journalist, one who takes a particular topic, thoroughly lives it for a year, and then writes about the experience, was being interviewed about his most recent work. He spoke about one of his former books, a total immersion for one year in the Bible and its practices, and he ended the interview with a marvelous observation: the people in the Old and New Testaments, he said, constantly gave praise and thanksgiving. He began to do the same, and was struck by the extraordinary number of opportunities for gratitude that arose in one day: he turned on the facet, and water appeared; he clicked a switch, and the lights came on; his food was kept cold by the refrigerator and warmed by the oven or stove; he turned his ignition and his car started; he pushed a button and the elevator door opened; he pushed another and was carried up long distances, and his days went on and on with minor miracles. He gave thanks, and found himself living in a costant state of awareness of the awe of being alive, which he still carried with him years later. Brother David Steindl-Rast carries the practice to even more basic opportunities: we open our eyes, he says, "What a miracle! What a miracle to breathe!"
When we are in our own particular states of chaos, we forget to be thankful. We see the storm, hear the thunder, and our praise and thanksgiving are drowned out by our personal raging waterfalls of the misfortune du jour. We misstep, and find ourselves off-balance in an apparently random world. What I do know is that when I'm thrown off-center, a lifeline is always tossed: a new friend, a spiritual teaching, a lovely book, a breath-taking snippet of a rainbow, a glossy and graceful slug on a perfectly mulched trail, an undeniable synchronicity of light and joy. It can be looking at a photo of Grace, or touching the picture that my nephew, Michael, painted for me when he was here years ago, or hearing my niece's joy in announcing her engagement, or just walking beside the water, mesmerized by the hypnotic chant of the surf of a quiet or pounding morning.
Barbara Kingsolver wrote, of those lifelines: "Be still, and the world is bound to turn herself inside out to entertain you. Everywhere you look, joyful noise is clanging to drown out quiet desperation." So many of the wisest teachings begin with those two words: "Be still." This is the tarrying that touches the Holy, that brings peace amidst the chaos, and calls us to rest in the nest of all that is Divine when the world rages around us.
YAY GOD
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