"I wish I could show you, When you are lonely or in darkness, The Astonishing Light Of your own Being!" Hafiz
As we walked, we realized it was slack tide - that brief moment when the tide is neither ebbing nor flowing, yet shifting. Waters released from captivity high up on the sand rushed out to meet water rushing in from the ocean, and our feet were being washed by both. Suddenly Kabir Helminski's beautiful quote about the spiritual journey washed over me, too: "we are knee-deep in a river, searching for water."
We began our walk in cloudy weather, with occasional raindrops and a chill wind. The coastal islands and the panorama of the mountain mainlands were veiled, as they were last week when the sun lingered behind a hazy smoke-filled Eastern sky, delaying what would eventually be a spectacular blood-red sunrise.
On that beautiful morning, I knew the mountains were behind the smoke, and the sun was rising behind the clouds, and although they were hidden in the moment, I knew they were there; I did not believe they were there. I have experienced the sight of their massive presence and golden light at daybreak. On this morning, as on most mornings, I faced the invisible curving panorama of the coastal profile and, through the smokey haze, gave thanks for the gift of the unseen sun on this 'sunless' morning.
This, ultimately, is the Light of our spiritual faith. We do walk by (and in) faith, not by sight. This is the Light of faith of the terminal patient in prayer.
This is the Light of faith of the grieving before their God.
This is the Light of the faith of our friends, who held their 16 year old daughter's hand through her 10% chance of living 30 years ago, and now hold their grandchildren, born after her miraculous survival, and after she was told she could never have them.
This is the Light of the faith of other friends who lost their 16 year old daughter to cancer around the same time, as they continue to worship and sing songs of praise in their Church choir.
This is the Light of the faith of the 16 year old girl who, "By The Grace of a Goodbye," gives her infant son up for adoption, finds him joyfully 40 years later, and writes the song that touches her audience with emotion and tears.
This is the Light of the faith of a friend who was in a near fatal car crash that killed his best friend, and went on years later to create Saints for Sinners medals, which have brought joy and solace and consolation to so many.
This is the Light of the faith of knowing only that we will never 'know,' because knowing is limited by the intellect, and faith lives beyond reason. "No matter how individually brilliant this brain may be," the Episcopal priest, Cynthia Bourgeault writes, "it cannot exceed the limits of its operating system." So we have been given other guideposts along the ways of faith, like tides and mountains and sunrises behind dark morning clouds, and the beauty of laughter - in joy and despite tragedy - and in our compassion and love for each other. "Faith," Tagore writes, "is a bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark."
I always thought that when the heart breaks, it lets the Light of faith in. But walking along the ocean, with its symphony soundtrack of breaking waves and shorebird song, I wondered if maybe when the heart breaks, it lets the Light out, that original goodness that we are born with, the "Astonishing Light of our own being." This Divine image somehow gets shrouded in smoky layers of defense and guardedness over the years. Through the quaking of our intense grief, or immense joy, the heart is shaken open and radiance pours out from the Source. Those in the depths of emotional turmoil or spiritual bliss are rarely aware of the chorus of grace they bring to the suffering world around them.
As we walked back to the car with our treasure of sand dollars, tall sea grasses bobbed and swayed, adding a maestro's baton touch to this aria of reflection. I was reminded once again that we are, as Jacob Boehme said, "a string in the concert of God's joy."
This morning we have cooler temps and bright blue skies, with the promise of wonderful blueberries from our organic farming friend. Michael's biking injuries are healing, and he has stopped accusing me of trying to cash in on his insurance policy. (He was tailgating - gasp of shock here - and when I encountered a sharp turn and braked suddenly, his bike skidded and he went down in the gravel, with brush burns as his war wounds. This is, of course, my version. In his version, he stars as the hero who crashed rather than running into me, a charming story on its own. Once again, our two stories converge into one truth: there was a crash, he was hurt, he thought of my well-being, and is now healing.) He will be returning to Louisiana on Monday for two weeks of business, then back up here until we come home in October. And although the moments seem to move slowly here with unhurried days, the summer itself continues to speed by. "When we go slower," Easwaran writes, "we are more patient - and when we are more patient, we have a choice in how we respond."
For the moment, we're responding by planning a whale-watching trip to the cooler realms up Island this weekend, when the temperatures and haze again threaten to encroach on Paradise. The eagle nest here is empty and the skies are quiet from the incessant pleadings of the eaglets for food during their last days before heading North with their parents. The sun is rising a bit later and setting earlier now, as the wildflowers, though still in full-bloom, are beginning to tone down their riotous displays. The cycle of the seasons prepares the earth for the harvest fruits of autumn, and the fallow of winter. All is patient. All is faith. All is well.
YAY GOD
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