"I have a friend who speaks of knowledge as an island in a sea of mystery...the larger we make that island, the longer becomes the shore where knowledge is lapped by mystery. (Chet Raymo)
"We are here and now. Further than that, all knowledge is moonshine." (H.L. Mencken)
When our friends who introduced us to this area come up for their annual visit, Keith and Michael always spend time on a fishing trip. This involves getting up (usually earlier than Michael wants to, and since Keith expects it, Michael obliges by grumbling and sleeping in the car), driving an hour up island, chartering a fishing guide/boat, and spending a few hours on the water near the magnificent Seymour Narrows. I have speculated that the cost of the salmon may be in the $100/lb. range, but the guys say that isn't the point.
This summer, on a very chilly morning, there were few bites and little action. Michael resisted the call of nature for hours, before finally giving in and excusing himself to use the "facilities": a milk jug in the cold temps on the other end of the small boat. And, as you can probably guess, in that moment he heard Keith say, "Hey, Mikie. Do you want me to reel in your fish?" He was in no position to argue, so Keith "caught" the only fish of the trip: the 'p-fish.'
True to his Cajun-nature, Michael tells this story much better than I do, of course, complete with descriptions of the early hour, peeling off the outer-wear, the chill in the air, the shivering body gestures. We did enjoy fresh-grilled salmon that evening, and the story will enter our Island adventure lore, as will the teasing that naturally goes along with long-friendships forged of such experiences. I look forward to the embellishments (the temps become colder, the hour earlier, the fish larger) that always grow from such legends, and already have.
Since we've been back, we have had an unusual warm spell for this time of year, allowing us comfortable walks on the beach at low tide, and quiet moments of reading in our chairs near the water. We sit and listen to the giggling waves that share laughs with the tickled shoreline. Gulls and oystercatchers, with their comical flaming orange bills, wander a riffle of land being held captive by the encroaching tide. On this lazy afternoon, the bees seem as lulled as we are, half-heartedly buzzing and bumping into chair legs and books, flying slowly away in their search for nectar. Over our shoulders, the moon slowly takes shape in late afternoon, an emerging fullness appearing out of the nothingness of a pale sky.
In the later light of morning these days, walking early becomes a bit of an eerie outing. It's still a murky dawn when I get to the boardwalk, which may explain why I missed seeing the cougar last week. He walked the fence-line of the nearby campground, I was told, and it was about the same time that I was also walking, on the other side of the fence. But I was watching the tide taking its gentle leave, and the distant mountains, layered with a cloud-creme filling in a strawberry-meringue sky. I was singing softly, "Surely the Presence of the Lord is in this place; I can feel God's mighty power and God's grace." Perhaps it was the singing; perhaps it was the Presence and the constant prayers of my Mom. I am ever so grateful that he was either full, or, as my friend told me, "uninterested in you because you're so thin; you're not worth the fight."
This is the fourth recent cougar sighting; two have involved injuries to children, which is why they had to shoot this one. And while I'm usually thrilled to see an animal in the wild, that close encounter made me more aware of my surroundings as I walk and drive in those early hours.
There was little we could do to prepare, however, for the disorienting and unexpected shaking we felt earlier this week. Michael and I were in different rooms at our computers when we both felt a gentle rocking sensation, like we were back on the cruise ship for a moment. He says it lasted about 3 seconds, but for me the 3 seconds came after the mind/body registered that something strange was already happening - especially when the vase on the table rocked back and forth. Most of our neighbors felt nothing. One woman said she and her husband were driving, and she would've blamed anything unusual on his driving anyway.
Now we're told we should have an earthquake survival kit, the contents of which are remarkably similar to our hurricane survival kit, with batteries, flashlights, water, food, and cash. But I'm wondering: we're on an island, with one major access road. Where would we go?! When I ask the question, people look at me curiously, laugh nervously, and change the subject. I don't think anyone has an answer.
My sister says, after the cougar incident and the earthquake event, that it's time for us to come home. With the shorter days, the color changes, the last of the farmer's markets, and the rush to get all of our visiting in, we can feel the ending of the season. As much as we enjoy our lives up here, we also look forward to re-engaging with family and friends in Louisiana after the long summer.
On the last day of our brief visit back home in August, Grace told me with great excitement that she has learned to ride her bike without training wheels. Her Mom had tricked her, she said, telling her that she was being supported. "Then she told me that she just made that up. I had been riding by myself the whole time!" She is proud, and amazed, and I see that her reactions to her milestones have a universal quality. We surprise ourselves when, sometimes with great effort on our part and sometimes in just pure grace, life unfolds its treasures for us.
I told her that, just as her Mom was teaching her, my Mom had taught me things when I was little, and then I taught Brett, and now she was learning some of the same lessons I learned from my Mom. She looked at me brightly: "And then when I have my little girl, I'll teach her!" I don't know what prompted me, but I found myself saying easily: "Isn't it wonderful? You'll be teaching these things to a little girl that I won't even meet."
She looked at me, puzzled. "Why won't you meet my little girl?" "Well," I told her with a smile, and as nonchalantly as I could, "by the time you're old enough to have a little girl, I probably won't be here." This time, a bit of horror crept into her eyes and her voice: "You mean you'll," and she lowered her voice to a whisper, "d...d...die?" "Oh, yes." I answered. "Everyone will sooner or later. Don't you think you'd get tired of just being here all the time, and doing the same things over and over again? I think we'd want to get ready for our next adventure." "But, you stop BREATHING! Won't that be scary?" she asked. "Yes," I say, wondering how we got into this so quickly, wondering about having this conversation with a seven year old, but feeling a perfect flow. "You breathe out. Then before you can breathe in, you're onto the next experience. It's probably like other things we do that are new to us."
"HEY!" She said excitedly, and I can see the ah-ha! in her face, a tiny bulb of enlightenment switching on. "It's like ME riding my bike! At first it was scary because I didn't know what I was doing and then Mom told me I was doing it and I was and it felt like I had already been doing it and now I can ride my bike!" All of her words came tumbling out in a rush of connected wisdom. She 'got' it, integrated it, turned it around to a practical experience in her life, and applied it. And I stood in awe at the process, realizing this is exactly what we are called to do from our little islands of knowledge, which are already immersed in the ocean of wisdom.
No wonder Jesus wanted children all around Him. Children listen; they come with what Suzuki Roshi called "beginner's mind," filled with the joy of endless possibilities, unlike the expert who is limited by the rational mind of certainty. Too often we settle for the moonshine of knowing, drunk on our own island of knowledge, unaware that at shore's edge there is a vast expanse of ocean surrounding us. But our souls are adrift on a sea of numinous possibilities, bumping occasionally into islands of knowledge.
"...we speak the wisdom of God in a mystery, even the hidden wisdom, which was ordained before the world unto our glory," says Scripture (1 Cor 2:6-7). In God's time, perhaps on that last exhalation when we "d...d...die," we lose our training wheels. Our islands of knowledge slowly disappear, submerged into the mystery of grace. We return. And in returning, we finally remember a truth beyond knowing, beyond wisdom, beyond mystery. We remember Who we are.
YAY GOD
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