No wind in my sails as of late…just aimlessly drifting along. Hopefully…the breeze will freshen soon…and I’ll be back on course. The only real news is the arrival of two castaways who have shipped on board. I thought about calling them Flotsam & Jetsam. But settled on Flo & Eddie…
Some days in prayer Your Love
Delivers us from measure and from
Melts all the barriers that stop our
passage to eternity
And solves the hours our chains.
~ Thomas Merton
Cedars and pines glow…warm with the last caress of this day’s light. Embraced in the softness of golden clouds. And then…the silence breaks with the gentle patter of raindrops on the roof.
Most days I can hear some sounds of civilization. The mechanized whirring of autos and trucks on the highway a mile away. An occasional airplane winging its way overhead. I imagine them to be like Stephen King’s Langoliers…off in the distance…incessantly and relentlessly nibbling away at the edges of my world. I wonder…how long before the present world overtakes my fortress of solitude.
But on some days, such as today…with the wind gently blowing from the right direction…it’s the complete, muffled silence of the desert…against which plays the chorus of cicadas, crickets, and frogs…and the liquid song of a scarlet Summer Tanager singing from the treetops. The sounds of Summer…pure and unadulterated. The world outside my world…fading away. Complete bliss…
It’s been a quiet 4th of July around here.
Less than two miles from home is a cemetery at the historic Old Waxhaw Presbyterian Church. This burial ground contains the remains of many who were here at the beginning of our nation…some who actually fought and shed blood in those early days… for the freedoms that we enjoy today. They still cast long shadows…and although celebration is good…sometimes silence can speak volumes.
Bless us, Lord, this day with vision.
May this place be a sacred place,
a telling place,
where heaven and earth meet.
~ from Celtic Daily Prayer
It’s been very hot here in the Carolinas the last few days, with the temperature touching 105 degrees on Friday. But it drops about 30 or so degrees during the night…so today, Belle and I were taking advantage of the relatively cool early morning air…before the sun rose over the trees.
Two summers ago, we had some trees felled with the intent to clear a bit more space out front. The logger hauled away the trees, but left some brush piles of limbs and branches that had been shorn from the trees, so they could be neatly stacked on the truck. I managed to carefully set ablaze two smaller piles that were out in the open. But the last pile, which was huge…about six feet high by 10 or more feet long…gave me pause before attempting to torch it. There were some other trees not all that far away, and I was afraid that the next day my name would be in the local newspaper, identified as the man who started the huge conflagration of forest in upstate South Carolina.
So…this rather largish brush pile out front became my nemesis. I occasionally paced around it and fretted about it…trying to come up with a plan of attack. Someone told me to wait until it started raining…then douse the pile with kerosene…and then apply a match. After much consideration…and running through the gamut of possible outcomes…none of them endearing me with the local volunteer fire department…I took the only reasonable approach that came to mind. I did nothing…and let it be. Brush piles were, after all, supposed to be good habitat for wildlife, weren’t they? I would be doing the birds…and who knows what other kinds of animals…a favor, providing them with a haven…a refuge of sorts. I started to look upon the brush pile not as my old nemesis…my adversary…but as a fellow contributor to the well-being of my wild neighbors. Anyway…it all began to sound good in my head.
After two years have gone by, the pile is still there, but it isn’t all that visible anymore. It’s been overgrown with vines, including Japanese Honeysuckle…which is classified as an alien pest plant. I have no idea how it ever got here…but it’s everywhere in these parts…and it has the redeeming value of smelling wonderful. And, if the sweet scent weren’t enough…deer, rabbits, and hummingbirds all enjoy the plant as a significant food source.
The only part of the brush pile that is still visible from the front porch, is a single, long, arching branch. It’s a favorite perch for the diminutive Carolina Wren, as he belts out his tunes…which are surprisingly loud for such a tiny bird. This morning, a pair of Indigo Buntings took their turns on this same branch…both chipping away…alarmed at something in the vicinity. They most likely have a nest in or near the brush pile.
In ancient and aboriginal societies, people would gather together…sometimes around fires in the dark…to tell and share stories with one another. Stories that had meaning for them. Stories about creation…new beginnings…and the meaning of life. The places where they met were referred to as telling places…places for meeting…for giving and receiving one another’s stories.
I’m coming to see this place where I live as a telling place…where stories are being told on a daily basis. Whether it’s the story of the Indigo Bunting…an essentially black bird, whose feathers somehow magically diffract sunlight, so that it appears a brilliant shade of blue…or the story of the sweet smelling, long-distance voyager named Japanese Honeysuckle…far from its Asian homeland. Even my old nemesis, the brush pile, has indeed become a friend…and has joined in on the narrative that is taking place in my very back yard. A thin place where…if I take the time to stop, open my eyes…and listen carefully…heaven and earth meet.