Encountering Nature, Part 6: Entropy

Parts of our lawn are a beautiful deep green while other parts had been turning brown and dry, so we went out to run the sprinkler system through its cycle and see what we could see. I discovered that one of the sprinkler heads had become blocked by a tree branch which had grown thick in the middle of the spray, blocking the water from a section of lawn. I found other stuff, too -- weeds which had appeared from nowhere to make their home in the bark, bushes beginning to encroach on sidewalk space, grasses taking root in cement cracks.

Of course, this is the normal stuff inherent to caring for a home with the unnaturally imposed order of flower beds, little bushes, and trimmed lawns. It happens gradually, appearing in my irritation as if the plants are being sneaky, pretending not to be claiming their own turf and calling it home.

Here's the thing -- living things change; it's just what they do. Fixing the sprinkler system and setting it loose to do its work without periodically checking in is just foolish. Pulling weeds from the flower beds and assuming they'll stay tidy is unrealistic. Cleaning the house and returning from vacation to find it dusty should not surprise me.

And here's another thing -- we human beings are living things, too. We change; it's what we do. This is true individually, and the effect often is magnified interpersonally. Establishing patterns of relationship with others and continuing in those without periodically pausing together to evaluate and adjust is foolish. Addressing a conflict and assuming all will stay perpetually smooth is unrealistic. Engaging again after a time without interaction and experiencing some hiccups along the way should not surprise me.

As we continue to work toward bringing order back to the physical property of our home, I want to care better also for the landscape of my own soul and the landscape of my relationships -- attending appropriately to changes and adjusting accordingly, removing "weeds" of distraction and broken relationships, cultivating the soil of genuine love and truth.

Lines in the Tile

We toured La Casa de Oracion on Friday as Vincent, Alyson, and Sandra helped us get oriented. Sandra has been involved here for some years and knows it well. I loved hearing the story and seeing the space. Sandra told us of this congregation's history, and as she did, my attention was captured by the floor.

It doesn't match. And not only does it not match, but it is not even very close -- different design, different colors, and a dark seam between the different sections. If this were my church or home, I can't help but think we might try to hide that, going to significant expense and trouble to make sure the floor surface were the same. And, in the process, we would lose part of the story.

Those lines of the floor mark significant times in the combined life of this church -- times of struggle, decision, transformation, new direction. Each of those seams marks a threshold between what had been and what would be as God has brought about growth in so many ways. These seams help keep us from the error of forgetting that the present could not exist without the path leading to it. Together, they honor the past while pointing toward the future with hope and expectation.

Similarly in life, there are thresholds characterized by struggle, decision, transformation, new direction. It can be tempting -- perhaps fueled by fear, shame, grief, or even simply the neglect of nearsightedness -- to cover over those times, 

to redo the "ground" so that the stories of our past blend in with and match the present. But in the error of neglecting to recognize and honor the path of the past, we disrespect our own stories which hold significant line-in-the-sand moments that matter deeply.

I am reminded this week of such moments in my own life, and reminded also of what others have shared with me about their experiences, parts of the paths which have contributed to where we all find ourselves now. I am grateful for such history, and want to keep some healthy "seams" around to remind me to honor what God has already done and to and look toward the future with hope and expectation.

Encountering Nature, Part 5: Poo Patrol

One of the chores associated with having a dog is patrolling the yard for poo piles and removing them to somewhere other than underfoot. Spotting a dark lump around that size during today's patrol, I approached with scooper in hand. Unlike the others, though, this lump had eyes, and a head that swiveled toward my motion:

Lesson 1:  If I hadn't been walking around our yard with a scooper in hand, I would not have noticed this little creature. I am reminded that I miss wonderful and significant moments when I'm not paying attention.

Lesson 2:  Though not an expert in ornithology, I am certainly capable of distinguishing between a bird and a poo. I am reminded that my expectations can cause me to see and hear others in distorted ways.

Lesson 3:  It is time to mow the lawn. Most of it, anyway :)

Encountering Nature, Part 4: Mountain Sabbath

I realized one recent evening that I'd spent a stunningly high amount of time focused on things right in front of my face and stunningly little time looking at the world beyond arm's length. And so, with that realization, I decided to walk around in the mountains for a few hours.

I hesitate to call my activity "hiking," because true hiking probably doesn't involve chairlifts. But as I settled in and began the uphill ride, my vantage point lifted and I could see for miles. The human hubbub of the base camp activities faded within minutes and I began to breathe deep the mountain air, savoring the sun and the smells.

The lift was largely empty, and the mountain even more so. In fact, I did not encounter a single human being on the trails throughout the day. The hours were filled with trees above and smaller bushes shading the ground. Butterflies fluttered by here and there, ants scurried across the path, and flies engaged me in air battles. Old structures silently suggested the land's history as the intertwining trees asserted their dominance.

As I again neared the base camp, the sounds of nature were mixed gradually with distant laughter and squeals of those enjoying the attractions there. This shift back toward "civilization" was significant, too, drawing me back by reminding me of the people I love.

I'm not sure how it works, but there is something about lifting the eyes in my head to look beyond the immediate physical reality that lifts the eyes of my soul to do the same. I returned home that night with renewed perspective. This, I think, is what Sabbath is about -- setting aside a day each week as a gift from God for rest, restoration, and reorientation -- and I am grateful.

This Isn't Me

In my world, a thought really isn't a full thought until it is written down somewhere. Doesn't have to be legible, nor filed away somewhere, nor even read ever again. It just has to be written down. As a result, I periodically happen upon little nests of scratch paper, as if they have gathered for an impromptu Convention of Random Ideas in some out-of-the-way corner of our house. The notes are almost always brief and entirely without context.

Here's one I stumbled upon recently:

You write your own story as you watch the movie...

What is the spine of your FB story?

This note was scrawled in fall 2011 during a great workshop on media, and the "spine" refers to the thread of the story -- not events or other facts, but rather the message we hear in our hearts. This thought gave words to something I've been wrestling with. Like directors of our own dramas, we naturally filter what is presented and how it appears. By definition, this presents a very incomplete picture, and it always -- if unintentionally -- introduces distortion by omission. This certainly isn't limited to social media, but such means of communication seem particularly affected.

Facebook has been telling me for awhile that my account will soon be "upgraded" to Timeline, which has designated space at the top for a large cover photo. I've thought about what to put there -- perhaps a photo of me and Mark, or a nature picture, or something symbolic. I've also thought about uploading an image there of bold-fonted words that loudly proclaim:

"This isn't really me!"

My Facebook profile is mostly just an assortment of pictures, links, and comics -- the generally-surface-level stuff I'd be adequately comfortable sharing with a crowd of faces, and not just in those deeper, more personal interactions upon which strong friendships are built. Best I can tell, each part of it is true... but taken together, it does not represent the whole, because that which is close to my heart generally shows up only in generalities or similarly veiled forms.

I am reminded of a friendly acquaintance with whom I hadn't had much recent contact, and with whom those contacts were limited almost entirely to interactions around a very frustrating set of circumstances. As a result, all I'd seen in this person for months was anger, anger, anger, and I began to realize that my limited sample had gradually distorted my mental image of this complex and talented individual until the anger was just about the only aspect I could see. It seemed to be mutual, too, as if our former relationship were being replaced by two caricatures considering each other from afar.

And I wonder -- as my Facebook profile does not really reflect me, and that is really all that many of my Facebook friends see, how much do I create a caricature of myself in the minds of others?

I'm not quite ready to quit Facebook; it is currently too thoroughly integrated into our culture of how we share information with each other. Still, I can't help but think that in its mission to "make the world more open and connected," we've allowed it to become a cheap substitute, replacing deeper, more personal interactions.

I know there is something better, and I am going to go explore it.

Bringing "It" Up

When the time came to get a new vacuum cleaner, I went looking for info. One model caught my attention. It had a decent number of reviews on a decent variety of sites, many written in detail by people clearly -- and sometimes amusingly -- passionate about their vacuum cleaners. A few reviewers described it as a good machine, but with one significant drawback -- the canister is way too small. I looked awhile longer before finally picking up the one with the reportedly-too-small canister.

We got the thing assembled and went to work, and -- oh my. By the time I was halfway done with the main floor, that little canister was filled with dust, hair, little crumbs of doggie snacks left by our careless canine, even glitter. (Seriously, glitter! Where did that come from??) I had to empty the canister twice that night. Perhaps those reviewers were right, and this otherwise-quality machine has a major design flaw.

Sirius contributes much to the collection...

Then again, maybe the issue isn't with the machine. Perhaps the issue is one of mismatched expectations. After all, our house is clean, right? I should be able to vacuum all day long and still not have a a bucket of dirt, right?

Nope.

There is all sorts of stuff I don't see beneath the surface, and to blame the vacuum for bringing it up would really be missing the point.

And oh, how like life. Even when it seems that everything is humming along smoothly, a discerning "vacuum" can bring up quite a variety of stuff not apparent to my unaided eye. Though I may not always like what I see, to place blame on God or the others around me for bringing it up (whatever "it" happens to be) would really be missing the point.

"Search me, O God, and know my heart;

test me and know my anxious thoughts.

See if there is any offensive way in me,

and lead me in the way everlasting."

(Psalm 139:23-24)

Encountering Nature, Part 3: Lost

The back door was open as I sat at our dining room table. Sirius slept on the floor nearby and the house was quiet except for the tippity-tapping of my keyboard. Then there was a sudden fluttering by my hand, so impossibly silent that I thought I'd imagined it.


Glancing up, I saw that a bird had gotten off track and found its way into our home. It darted over to the windows of our little kitchen alcove. I watched, fascinated by this tiny creature. It was not just a bird, but a hummingbird, and hummingbirds are amazing.

I approached hesitantly, not wanting to frighten him, and stood watching as he glided along the glass surface, bumping it gently in his quest for the out-of-doors. He fluttered back and forth within the bounds of the window frame as I started snapping pictures -- first from a distance, then gradually closer.

He was clearly out of his element, lost and confused. I was feeling a bit similarly, wanting to help this unfamiliar guest and not knowing how. I opened the nearby window and took out the screen, placing a piece of mango peel on the sill in case that might draw his attention. Then, very carefully, I raised the blinds. Fascinated, and uncertain what else to do, I drew closer yet -- so close, in fact, that I could feel the air beneath his tiny wings as he hovered just inches away.

He settled eventually onto the top of the blinds and rested there awhile. We regarded each other, each perched steadily on two feet.

When he finally came out from that window space, he did not go through the open window nearby nor through the still-open door, but instead ascended to the ceiling and followed its sloped contours to the far wall, to yet another window.

He continued his flight awhile, nudging the glass in his ongoing search for the bigger sky, before coming to rest, his tiny body beautifully balanced on the top edge of an open booklet.

I was intrigued. Like a small child, I found myself asking Can I keep him? The answer, of course, was no. This tiny creature belonged outside, and would need to soon be on his way toward his next sustaining meal. Slowly, gently, I placed a box over his body and a temporary cardboard floor beneath his feet, then released him out on the deck. He flew quickly away, finally unhindered by the transparent confusion of glass. I was appreciative of the encounter, and glad also that he was returning to his natural home.


I've been thinking about this feathered fellow for several weeks now. He was an experienced hummingbird, probably quite competent under the usual circumstances of his life. But when he found himself in a new situation, he couldn't seem to get past his own assumptions; the directly skyward orientation which probably serves well on other days simply did not work inside the house. He needed a little help from someone with a broader view and an outside perspective, and he needed that help to be not just informationally accurate, but sensitive and gentle, respectful of his situation and of his nature.

And doesn't that describe us pretty well in humanity, too? We learn and grow, developing understanding and skills to become generally able to respond to much of what life throws our way. Sometimes, though, we find ourselves in situations where the usual responses don't work; we get stuck, and stuck further by assumptions which have become so ingrained in us that we don't even realize they're there. At such times, the engaged presence of a friend with broader view and outside perspective, offered with sensitivity and respect, can be a tremendous gift.

My Imaginary Friend

It was around fifteen years ago that I decided to test out the junk mail system by responding to one "request for information" card with five letters of our name changed. Several weeks passed and, sure enough, we started receiving quite a variety of mail addressed to this other name. Hundreds of pieces, actually, offering insurance, cable, cars, vacations, education, and all sorts of other stuff over the years, though we've never responded and have never written that fictitious name again.

We moved after two years and, within a matter of weeks, this other Mr. S. apparently moved back in with us.

Today, thirteen years later and having moved again, we were welcomed to our neighborhood by a dry cleaning company offering its services -- to this fellow who is nothing more than a figment of my imagination.