High Places Calling

Spring is well established in Northern California. We’re past daffodils and first faint veil of greening tree leaves. The Bradford pears have bloomed and gone and the season of iris, daisy, and lily are upon us. But before that, of course, was winter.

Ours was not a winter as some experienced winter this year—snow to the knees or beyond and day after day of bone-chilling cold. But it was not spring, shall we say.

I love spring. The green is so fresh and welcome, it almost hurts your eyes. Bare branches boast new clothing, and gone are the browns and tans of wintertime.Yet without winter there can be no spring. Without spring, no summer. If summer does not happen, there are no leaves to turn colors in the autumn, and without the autumn to send the earth  to sleep, instead of pulling sap inward, plants and trees would die when winter rolls around.

I got to thinking about this and about how often we are willing--even  desireous--to skip seasons in our own lives. If given the option of fast-forwarding the finals week at school, skipping the stress of change, or waiting for a broken bone to heal, we definitely would.  

But here's what's highlighted to me:

 If we seek to fast forward or skip to the end of something, we shortchange ourselves, for we miss out on what would have been our process.

In a world where escaping pain has almost become an overarching life goal, one might argue that to skip a currently uncomfortable, unpleasant set of life circumstances is the whole point. By all means, fast-forward. 

But what if—rhetorical question here—what if we need the process of the season we’re in to ready us for the one to come? Opting out would leave us unprepared for our next stage in life. I find it interesting that what is usually a verb—process, to process something—is also a noun. Being in process. Synonyms include prepare, refine, distill, transform, change. 

I once read a story in which the character had a book that contained his life. When he didn’t like what was happening—an argument, an unhappy employer, a very cold winter day—all he needed to do was turn the page and skip the unpleasantness. Too tired to get up? He’d turn a page and find himself back home that
night. He never had to live through any pain at all. But the problem was, of course, that as he fast-forwarded those times, stages, or seasons, they were past, and one day he came to the end of his book and realized two things: one, he had reached the final page and there was no way to skip dying, and two, that his life had been so short. Tragically short,  and so lacking in depth of memories, challenges met and conquered, character acquired. His relationships were shallow because he had skipped over the more gritty aspects of working things out with people he loved. He mostly had happy memories, but they were not deeply happy moments, for he had never experienced the lower, painful places of his life and because of that, he could not really feel the heights of joy that might have been his.

Not too many people actually like the hard stuff. Me included. But there is a verse I love that puts it in perspective for me: "...the sufferings of this life are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. (Romans 8:18) As we go through the processes of  life, we have the opportunity to let them transform us, refine us, change us, and if we do, we get to experience not just pain and unpleasantness, but the heights of love and joy and beauty. Justice. Loyalty. Friendship, and so much more.We escape from the flat plain of neither pain nor pleasure, where abides neither sorrow nor joy. While we do not invite pain, we need not fear the low places in our lives. In fact, perhaps we can rejoice in the process as we move through these seasons, for they and they only develop in us the capacity to feel deeply, to experience the upper reaches of the pleasant happiness we all so desperately want. Whatever may be the valley, it exists between the heights, and those high places call us ever upward.

MT Shasta

Choosing Relationship

Choose Relationship. 

That was the phrase I woke up with this morning, and with it a picture and a perspective to ponder...

We need truths. We do. They anchor us in life, like the North Star, like Mt. Shasta above the surrounding mountains, like the sun ever rising in its strength. But truth is tricksy, for while it is immovable-- a pivot, the axis on which life revolves--it is comprehended by beings who at best will only grasp a portion of its entirety--the individual portion we see and understand.

Truth is also a bit like a rock on which the waves crash. They rush upon it, kiss it, embrace it--but ultimately break and run off, and the rock is left alone. Relationships with people are like the ocean that swirls; connected, cohesive, filling everything. It teems with life, it sustains life and is a thing of beauty and wonder. While I agree that a rock can be beautiful too, it has no life in it nor can it sustain life within its makeup. Yet a rock encompassed by, washed with, and adorned by the acean illustrates the lovely interplay between truth and relationships.

I'm also pondering the difference between believing truth and being right, and the sad fact that if we choose being right (defending truth as we see it) over relationship with someone who may not be seeing truth from our perspective, it will erode our connection. And if we consistently choose our definition of right over our our relational connection with another person, we will destroy the bridge that links them to us.

Being right is not the same thing as embracing truth, and needing to be right results in choosing truth as we see it over a person we may love but with whom we disagree. When we do this, the truth becomes a shell, a structure devoid of the life that it might have held and even if our "right" thing is an important truth, we lose any chance of it healing, helping, or enriching people when we defend our truth as if it is more valuable than they are.

And one last analogy: Truth is a banqueting table loaded with food. Needing to be right--defending our truth at the cost of relationship--is like placing the table within sight, but barring all entrance to partaking. Ah, but if we can share that truth in a way that values the other person and preserves the relationship, we put silverware in their hand and make room for them to dine!

I'm not advocating that we abandon truth or partner with error in order to get along, but rather that relationship with people remains priority so that our presentation of the truth is done with connection in mind. The alternative--interacting with our perceptions of truth--fine-tuning them, rehearsing them, finding comfort in them by reiterating them to ourselves and to anyone we haven't already alienated by elevating being right over relationship is a very sad and lonely way to live.

Choosing relationship is a thing of beauty and a joy forever :-) 

Finding Gold

Like a day out of a dream-scape, the sky-hued creek flows through the green hollow.

Winter-bare trees hug hills of velvet , looking down upon a scene that might have been taken from the goldrush days more than a century and a half before. We, gold seekers for the afternoon, bend over our pans of streambed gravel.

In a patient process that alternates agitation with a gentle slipping of the layer that has risen to the top, bit by bit we reduce the contents of our pans, careful not to wash so vigorously that the gold we court with such care slips out with the sand.

Washing

Bit by bit we reduce the contents until there, hugging the pan in the midst of the final clean grains of sand, a piece of gold smiles up at us. Apart from the thrill of history and the magic of walking where gold seekers of 1849 also walked, I am struck with the process of panning itself and the strong parallels between the search for physical gold and the finding of treasure in realms other than the world we see with our eyes.

More washing

Almost always, gold is hidden away from plain sight,
and certainly we see none as we survey this particular Northern California creek. But that's to be expected. Below the ripples where the water slows, we scoop up a mixture of dirt, sand, and gravel, and to the accompaniment of birdsong, we wash the mud from the sand and gravel, agitating, stratifying, rinsing until the water runs clear.

Color?

When looking at all the gravel and mud, it may be hard to believe any treasure exists. It's tempting to give up half-way or almost at the end, when nothing has yet come to light. And not every pan shows "color". We may wash through three or four shovels of stream bed for every litle piece of gold. Still, the truth remains: real gold lies hidden there.


In much the same way, whether treasure obscures itself in the hearts and souls of the people around us; lies quiet in the every-day-ness of our own lives; or waits in the realm of the Spirit for us to find that which the God of creation  has hidden for us, the analogy holds true. Value and worth is there, but rarely does it lie on the surface--easily seen, easily found. No, we must search for it, eyes ever watchful for the gleam, and sometimes, there is much mud, sand, and gravel to sift through before something of  value shines out.

It was a good afternoon, full of friends and laughter and fresh air, more precious than the small bits of gold we found. Indeed, mere gold cannot compare to the wonders awaiting discovery within ourselves, our fellow man, our kind Creator.

Gold!

Even one glimpse into these eternal realms surpasses mere earthly wealth, for to know each other, to know ourselves, and to know God in His infinite beauty--these are quests grand enough to last a lifetime, worthy of countless days spent thus pursuing.


And to each goldseeker belongs the knowledge that of all things they could do in this life, what they have chosen and the treasure they find will remain long after the riches of this earth have perished.

Journey with Honor Continues

Honor has arrived in Caifornia, and our journey together has begun a new chapter. He is getting acclimated to sunshine in February and two new pasture mates. As always happens when a new horse is introduced, there is a certain amount of chasing about and establishing who's who, but on the whole, he seems to be settling in just fine.

Horses are great that way. They don't hold on to what was, moping in a corner, refusing to eat or drink or mingle because they have been transplanted. They step into the now. I like that, and I am struck with how valuable that ability is, because we get stuck so easily--stuck in the past or stuck on our past, and that past interprets our present and dictates our future.

Of course, it's not as simple as just deciding to move on. Then again, maybe it is. If we turn our eyes to what we have today, they turn away from yesterday, and really, that's pretty simple.

We may wish to change some of our choices and past experiences, but if you find out how to do that, please give me shares in your company! Or maybe our past was more pleasant than our present. But how sad if we live our days looking back to what was, rather than living the day we are in and looking forward to what is to come.

And for the wounds garnered along the way, regrets, and pains of life, the best thing to do is to take them to the Great Healer and then move on. Like Honor. He does not look to the past.  His eyes are bright and his ears are perked forward, taking in this new place he's landed in.

One of Those Days

I'm having one of those days. You know the kind--where you can think of about eight things you'd like to do, but when it comes right down to it, you end up doing nothing.

So here's what I could have done today, if I'd summoned up sufficient willpower:

• Taken a walk in the absolutely perfect weather.
• Written at least one of several letters I want to write.
• Call someone to catch up on their life happenings.
• Read something for fun.
• Worked on taxes.
• Had a meaningful conversation.
• Played the harp.
• Petted the cat.

I actually started to do the last two things, but the cat left before I was quite ready for her to, and the harp was not as satisfying as I wanted it to be. So now, I'm back where I started. What to do with myself and the unexpected bit of leisure time.

What I'm tempted to do:

• Complain to anyone that will listen (which is, I suppose, what this blog is really all about)
• Whine (which I am doing).
• Eat something. (Waiting for the apple pie to come out of the oven).
• Go to bed (but it's only 5:42).

What I will do:

• Count my blessings (which should take me at least until the pie comes out of the oven).
• Eat my pie while I read something fun.
• Find the cat and pet her until she leaves again.
• Encourage myself in the Lord by remembering how lovely and faithful He is.
• Look forward to tomorrow and maybe a more brilliant blog entry next time!

Rumination

Rosie and Bucky out to graze

I'm hard at work on an article for Hobby Farms magazine on--of all things--the subject of grazing genetics. In the process, I've learned a lot of interesting things about parasite resistance, why conformation is important (at least for sheep), and how a rumen works.

Fortunately for us humans, parasites aren't usually a big issue, and no matter what our conformation, we can thrive on healthy food. But there is one area that I see a real correlation between us and the walking wool or milk factories of my article: rumination.

First a few details about this process: The cow, sheep or other ruminant stuffs itself with grass, hay, or what-not--just gulps it down without hardly chewing, and all that graze piles up in the first compartment of its stomach, known as the rumen. This place is literally awash with all sorts of bacteria and protozoa, which go to work to soften the load of fiber while the animal tucks in a few last mouthfuls and goes to find a comfy spot on which to lie.

We, too, graze through our day. True, we're not chomping on grass, but we are gathering experiences, conversations, thoughts, information, etc. This may go on for days, even weeks sometimes depending on our schedules, before we find a place and time to ruminate. Meanwhile, things are perking below our conscious mind in the realm of spirit and soul, sort of pre-digesting.

And then it's cud-chewing time. Wad by wad, up comes the pre-softened forage to get a thorough chewing before the final swallow, after which it is assimilated into the animal's system as nutrients. In much the same way, when we take time to ponder all the happenings, feelings, and interactions we've been gathering, they have a chance to be brought up to our minds to be chewed on, processed, enjoyed, and understood.

If the cow or sheep doesn't ruminate, it can't draw the nutrition it needs from its food, and ultimately it will not thrive. I think there's an allegory in this as well, for if we don't pause to process the input of our days--stepping outside of time and into the realm of the spirit where thoughts and dreams and aspirations flourish--we won't receive the insights and wisdom we need to live life well.

Hmmm. Come to think about it, it's been an incredibly full last couple of weeks around here. Yes, and I'm hearing the quiet places calling me to come. To ponder. To ruminate!"

A Million Beautiful Things

I was stirred recently by a story about beauty. Not beauty seen, but beauty playing its heart out while people walked by unheeding.

For forty-five minutes, a world-class violinist on his multi-million dollar instrument graced a Washington D.C. subway station with the intricate, perfect music of Bach, and of the thousand-plus people that rushed past him, only seven stopped to listen...

Something tugs at my heart when I ponder that. All but seven failed to see and hear, and in so doing, they passed by treasure unaware, realizing too late that they had forfeited a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. How sad!

It's not that I blame the passers-by, or think them less valuable or cultured. After all, one doesn't go to the subway for recreation or relaxation. They were commuting--deadlines to make, appointments to keep. So they walked along unconscious. Rare beauty was in their midst and they did not perceive it.

Perhaps I would have been one who stood transfixed and let the music wash over me, feeling it lift me out of the milling crowd and into a different sphere while the world rushed by. I would like to think so. But I half suspect that the only real difference between them and me is that their failure to gaze upon beauty was recorded. Mine is not. There are a million beautiful things around me everyday, and I so often walk right past them, failing to see or hear as the tyranny of a time schedule of my own making propels me.

But I don't really want to be that way. No, I want to be one of the those that stop for beauty, whether it is the lacey design left in my cappucino cup after the warm, mellow foam recedes, the play of lights on a polished surface, the crunch of dry leaves in the creekbed or the laughter of a passing moment. How full our days really are of rarity and wonder. It's all around us! I want to step outside of my usual time-sensitive existence, stand transfixed by the small things that surround my life, all the riches of color, sounds, smells, tastes, textures; the nuances of relationships and the wonder of people, of cats and horses and singing birds; living in deep appreciation for beauty great and small. I don't want to come to the end of my days and my "to-do" list, and say, "Were there roses? I didn't notice...."