By Flowing Waters

There’s just something about running water.

It’s one of the most familiar images the world—a symbol of bounty and peace. It’s Biblical, yes, but it’s also ingrained in human nature—this sense of being bound to the streams for our very lives. Whenever you turn on one of those programs of calming music, it’s inevitably paired with images of pristine streams flowing over rocks beside emerald-green meadows strung with white and purple flowers.

Generally speaking, we don’t have that kind of stream in Missouri. Millions of years ago, the glaciers melted here, stranding boulders and rocks amid gnarled clay hills. Aside from Ozark springs, we don’t have nice, placid clear creeks and streams. We have drainage ditches. Vast networks of drainage ditches, twisting and dropping and chewing through the valleys.

And when it rains a lot, as it has the twelve months, the creeks fill with roiling, roaring masses that look more like chocolate milk than water, uprooting trees and hurling them downstream like javelins, gobbling up the banks and reorganizing their curves with every downpour. I’m always amazed that we have any topsoil left at all.

No, we don’t have crystal-clear streams. But we do have rivers. Oh, do we ever. Rivers channeled into narrow, twisting strands by the Corps. Rivers flowing silent and deep, so deceptively calm that you almost don’t notice the speed with which the flotsam slides out of sight.

In Minneapolis, the Mississippi glides through a gorge, with pleasure boats drifting on its gentle surface. In Iowa City, the Iowa River flows good naturedly between grassy banks, and unless my eyes deceived me, it’s all flat. Flat to the edge of the river, flat on the other side. (Which of course means it floods, but I’m talking about ordinary days here.)

Here, the waterways are murky, and pulse with a restless energy, gnawing endlessly at their banks. Hardly the picture of calm, flowing waters.

Yet there is a different kind of rest to be found by my Missouri streams. A rest found in meditating on the dense undergrowth hanging over the stream, the trees clinging to the banks with only a few roots.

In staring at the rapid passage of bubbles on the surface, marching downstream, flirting with and twirling toward and spinning away from each other. In the gentle constancy of the picture, despite the perpetual motion. In the laughter of its passage over rocks, and the play of shadows as the sun peeks from behind lazy clouds and then hides again.

This is where I go to cover the sound of traffic, to lull my busy brain, to reconnect with God.

There’s just something about running water.

holy experience

Published in: on May 31, 2010 at 7:34 am  Comments (5)  
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Nature Boy

Lately, Alex been wanting to watch all the coverage of the oil…whatever you call it. Spill, blowout. I call it a disaster. But it’s got me thinking about my son.

This week at preschool “graduation,” he told his teachers he wanted to be “a worker at Disney World” when he grew up. We all laughed, but this morning I realized he meant something different than what we thought he meant. “When I grow up, I’m gonna make a ride that’s way up high, with a bunch of airplanes, and it’s gonna have Woody and Jessie jump, and swing off the airplane.” (Recognize this scene he’s recreating?) “And it’s gonna have a roof, and there’s gonna be a sign outside and it’s gonna say Toy Story 2.”

So evidently, he wants to be a design engineer.

But in the meantime, he’s Nature Boy. He has a heart for living things…

Watching an earthworm wiggle at the sandy edge of the creek--the worm he uncovered while picking up rocks to throw

…and he loves to be down in the woods, exploring the creek bank and throwing rocks.

looking down over the “magic goldfish pond,” which to his grown-up five year old mind no longer means magic or gold, but the minnows are still an object of fascination

He doesn’t understand the frightening implications of BP’s Gulf fiasco. And I don’t think I would want him to, frankly. Not at the age of five. Imagine the anxiety a small child would feel, carrying a weight that heavy.

Still, I like that he’s paying attention. I like that he’s astute enough to recognize that this is a big deal, even if he doesn’t connect it to the creeks and woods he loves.  

Because someday he will connect it, and it will change the way he approaches life.

May all our children be so blessed.

Published in: on May 28, 2010 at 5:18 am  Comments (1)  
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Miraculous

 

It is spring, and I return to the woods. To the stillness of nature and the silence of my heart. To the quiet of a creek, placid in the wake of the weekend’s storms, but nonetheless bearing the marks of the power contained in them.

 

I sit on a fallen tree above the sandy creek bank, losing myself in the mesmerising flow of water through the narrows.

And then a breath of wind sends hundreds of maple helicopters spiraling through the air, a rain of twirling, twinkling seed pods that dance like butterflies to the surface of the rapids, there to ride the swells to a new home. And I marvel at this renewed proof that God exists, however far away he may sometimes seem. I embrace God who created such a complex world, uniquely suited to its environs, and capable of adapting over generations, centuries, millenia. By what mechanism does one generation of maple seed suddenly begin to develop the long wispy tail that carries it away from its parent? What force acts upon a colony of animals trapped underground, allowing them to develop luminescence? It’s miraculous, I tell you. Miraculous. And if you can sit before the vastness of creation and deny the existence of God, then all I can say is: Sit a while, here in the quiet, away from the world, and prepare to find your soul awakened.

youcapture 4-1 

Published in: on April 29, 2010 at 5:20 am  Comments (6)  
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Bicycle Day

It’s a sad fact of life that it’s easier to set goals for yourself and your family than it is to live them.

Case in point: Christian and I want our family to be a family that enjoys being physically active. That doesn’t mean we want the kids involved in every sport imaginable. It means that we want to take walks, ride bikes, do things together outdoors.

But with multiple little ones, you have to have the equipment to haul them, and we all know that Christian and I are fundamentally cheap. So it’s taken us over a year to collect the bare minimum to go bicycling as a family–the last piece being the rack to go on the van so we can actually take the bikes to the trail.

And so on Saturday, we went out to Rocheport and rented the necessities:
The trailalong wouldn’t fit on my bike, so Christian got Alex…

And I got the cart with the little ones. I think the look on their faces is saying, “Ummm…Mommy, this may be a wee bit too much closeness for a three year old and a one year old!” We shall see.

It was a gorgeous day to be outside, and it seemed as if the entire world agreed. The rental depot at Rocheport was a zoo when we arrived. But we chose to head upriver, sacrificing the river view but also the I-70 noise, and found ourselves almost the only people on the trail.

The sweetness in the air was that fresh, natural kind that comes not from the heavy perfume of flowering trees but from the air itself, the smell of newborn leaves and the drifting odor of wild onions. (Mmmmm…) We rode out about 3 1/2 miles and stopped for lunch on a levee beside a Boy Scout camp. And as I watched my family explore, the sweetness of the moment made my heart hurt for joy.

I think this may be a better thing to do with dandelions. At least, as long as you’re thirty miles from my yard.

After lunch, we started back. Yes, we’re wimps. But we don’t want to push it too far and turn the kids off to the idea.

There’s just something about riding along those sheer bluff faces, covered by curtains of vines.

By now, the little ones were tired, and tired of each other. There was a lot of whining, shrieking, and sippy-cup thievery going on in my caboose. We passed back through the old railroad tunnel about 1:30 p.m.

This is one of my favorite parts of the Katy Trail, with the north end of it stone block and brick arch, the south end hewn straight out of the rock.

We arrived back at the depot just in time to avoid a complete meltdown of the younger troops. To make sure the day ended on a sweet note, we went for…what else?

Sweet, indeed.

Seven Clown Circus

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Published in: on April 21, 2010 at 5:41 am  Comments (10)  
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Awakening

Child on A Fallen Tree

Image via Wikipedia

I live inside a filter. The first touch of my baby’s cheek against my lips makes my heart catch. The first taste of birthday cake after five weeks without sweets is like a slice of Heaven. But within seconds, my brain filters it out, in search of the next new stimulus. Is this simply the reality of human neurological processing, or is it a symptom of a hurry-up culture? I don’t know. But in the noise and chaos of daily life, the pressure outside my head is the same as that within it.

This morning, I walk rough, muddy trails punctuated by knobbly tree roots, seeking a place to rest. I used to want company on these treks, but now I find that I prefer the solitude. I choose a place that feeds all my senses. Today it is a creek channeled between a long, straight bank of small rocks and a sculpted retaining wall. On it rests a sycamore tree, topped off and uprooted by the ferocity of a flood, and then jammed into the bank, its root system broken and tangled and taller than I am.

Such a place beckons because it calls me to awe at the power of creation. I imagine the raging torrent, with that fifty-foot monstrosity tearing through the place where I sit.

When I first sit down in the quiet, my brain is a jumble—the pressure of a million thoughts racing each other, trading first and second place and in so doing, creating a tangled knot of trivialities.

I trace the cross on my forehead as if I am cutting a pressure valve into my brain. I try not to pick and choose from thoughts, but simply to ignore them all until they lose energy and go away. And as they do, I grow sleepy. I lie back, cover my eyes, and doze, absorbing the world through my ears.

At first, all I hear is the distant whirr of traffic and the trickle of water in the shallows. But slowly, everything I have been filtering out begins to register again. Peep frogs. Bird calls nearby. Bird calls distant. The breeze whispering in the bare treetops. And as I become aware of the world, the inner fury calms. If I stay along enough, it halts altogether, and instead of an inner wilderness, I exist in a soft, cool darkness where God’s voice can be heard. And I feel awake.

When I begin my trek back to trail and asphalt and combustion engine and parenthood, I place a hand on the stripped trunk of that fallen monolith. It is warm and smooth. I clamber up and walk the length of it, to the first split, and the second split, until I stand looking down at the saplings along the creek, wound with the same hibernating ivy that probably killed the sycamore I’m standing on.

As I leave the woods, a tingling clarity in my head makes the whole world look different—artistic and starkly beautiful. That sensation will fade quickly once I return to the noise and chaos of three children, a messy house, and writing assignments. But the sense of calm will remain for a while, fading as the jungle slowly retakes my brain. And then, I will go out again, because here, I awake to myself. I awake to the best that is in me.

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Published in: on March 23, 2010 at 5:14 am  Comments (12)  
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Sprung

On Wednesday, spring arrived.

I heard it in the darkness before dawn, when the tree frogs began croaking in chorus, and two different bird species took up an obbligato—too impatient to wait for the sunrise.

I felt it in the change of the air I breathed in, warmer, wetter, charged with energy prepared to burst.

I saw it when the sun burst upon the world and revealed grass suddenly green and buds crowding the early trees.

I touched it in the soft give of the earth beneath the garden fork, as I turned over the thatch to make room for new plants.

I smelled it in the pungent odor of the dirt mere inches from my nose as I flattened myself on the berm beside the trail and dozed in the speckled sunlight.

For the beauty of the earth,
For the glory of the skies,
For the love which from my birth
Over and around us lies,
Lord of all, to thee I raise
This my hymn of grateful praise.

Published in: on March 11, 2010 at 8:29 am  Leave a Comment  
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Hope

 

In stillness.

 

In silence.

In the stark cut of light against shadow.

 

I see hope in a world poised in watchful readiness. Hovering, gathering its energy for an explosion soon to come.

you-capture-4

Published in: on March 4, 2010 at 3:56 pm  Comments (5)  
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Snowy Days

Well, I finally got my wish: we got enough snow to play in. And as usual, something you whine and gripe about, only to get, presents more facets than you were prepared for. For instance: the snow came on the day that Julianna was supposed to have her “play-based assessment” for Early Childhood Special Ed. The whole school district closed, and we spent two days holed up in our house due to blowing snow and extreme cold.

But on Saturday, we decided that 8 degrees was worth braving–with Alex, at least–and we embarked on three days of fun in the snow. Every day at 1p.m., the little ones go to bed, and we go outside:


(That would be my husband…)


We also discovered that our neighbor’s side yard is approximately as steep as a “blue” ski run. And a whole lot shorter. Ending in a creek. Fun stuff. ;)

Yesterday afternoon, Alex and I hosted some friends from down the street for more sledding, and some snowman-building with the kit his uncle & aunt gave us last Christmas (which, I might add, lay UNUSED for TWELVE MONTHS because we had NO SNOW ALL LAST WINTER…not that I’m bitter):

And finally…On Saturday, Alex and I trekked down to the creek. He didn’t last long (he had snow down his boots), so I got to have a few precious moments to myself for stillness, for drinking in beauty–the graceful swells created by the mounds of meadow grass sleeping beneath the snow…

…the indomitable gurgle of water forcing its way downstream…

…gazing upon that which only the wild animals had yet trod…

…admiring the slow artistry of growing vines…

…and the still sentries that guard the path and the creek…

…and finally, upon returning to the house, this reminder–a moment of wonder–my baby lilac, preparing itself, gathering itself during the coldest days of the year, for the explosion to come in a few short weeks:

Praise the Lord, my soul.

***

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Published in: on January 12, 2010 at 6:07 am  Comments (18)  
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Florida Impressions 3, and final

I realized something just now. Call me dense for not realizing it before, but I know now why Disney was so crowded. Our entire state went to Florida after Christmas.

Obviously there’s something about this state that draws people. As a child, my grandparents took me on long, wandering vacations all over the West, and once to the northeast—but southeast, Old Dixie, is a place I’d never been until we started traveling down there with his family, who adore the place. But Christian detests Florida. Always has.

Well, anyway, we spent a week in Sarasota and its outlying islands. And in some ways, I couldn’t help being bewitched by the place. It’s not the gorgeous houses (squashed together into ungainly crowding). It’s not the soaring bridges, wall to wall with cars, or the glassy canals in place of back yards, or swimming pools (that are too expensive to heat) or sailboats (or yachts).

No, for me, it’s the palm trees and bromeliads, mild, cool temperatures and lush foliage in December, the sunsets and the subsonic pounding of the surf. Especially the surf, with its wild, mesmerizing beauty.

And yet, I can’t help feeling that the presence of scores of people—and everything they demand of luxury—ruins the very thing that drew them there in the first place. For instance: one cool morning, I’m standing on white sand beside the vast untamed Gulf of Mexico, watching the birds skim the water gleaming in the light of dawn…

…when a hiss becomes a growl, then a roar, and with an earsplitting wail, a jetliner rips the sky open directly overhead.

Florida: multi-million dollar homes that are only lived in for four to five months a year.—and which are deliberately and spectacularly built directly in the path of hurricanes. Florida: a country club membership costs as much as a starter home, and that only buys you the privilege of paying $100+ per round of golf. Florida: high-rise condos crammed together, while a few scattered people cling stubbornly to their ordinary, average, 1970s-era ranch homes on a strip of sand worth a million dollars, and everyone around them gnashes their teeth at the “eyesore.” And the traffic…well, the traffic’s bad.

None of which denies the beauty of the place. But for me, Florida will never be high on my priority list to visit (except for Kennedy Space Center. That one I want to see.). I long to find a deserted key with a little log cabin on it—I’d even pitch a tent for the privilege of retreating from all the chaos of everyday life—of communing with the sheer power and might of Creation for a day or two. For the chance to take a breather from bustle, and street lights, and cars, and TVs and radios, and noise, and to breathe in the silent roar of the surf until my soul, fine-tuned by the touch of the Spirit, answers back: There you are, God. At last, I’ve found you! And then, and only then, to return to the world, to return to my life, and be Mom and Wife and Advocate and Teacher and Author and Political Activist. To return whole.

I think that longing is what draws people here. But I wonder how many find what they’re longing for.

Published in: on January 5, 2010 at 1:48 pm  Comments (2)  
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Seven Quick Takes Friday

…hosted by

[7_quick_takes_sm.jpg]

#1. A first word. Well…let’s call it a proto-word. For a chromosomally-gifted 2 3/4-year-old, that is a big deal! We were reading Jeanne Cotter’s Child of the Moon. For weeks, I’ve been trying to get her say “mmm” while pointing to the moon. She’s a very stubborn little lady; she knows exactly what I want, but she likes to stare at me and see how long she can play it out before I give up. But that night, she was feeling lovey, and when I pointed to the moon and touched her lips, she said, “Mmm.” And on the next page. “Julianna, what is that? Is that moon? Say ‘mmm.’” And she said: “Mmm!”

#2. It’s a whole lot harder than I thought. My book with Liguori, which is now going by the title Joy to the World: Advent Activities for Your Family, will offer Jesse Tree scriptures simplified for preschoolers and elementary schoolers. I’ve spent two weeks trying to accomplish this seemingly simple task, which has turned out to be ridiculously frustrating! Being a mother, I want them to be short and accessible enough for kids to follow. Being a liturgist, I would like to avoid dumbing them down. For some strange reason, those two don’t mix well. Can you imagine? ;)

#3. Mr. Bug Loves Bugs. When Alex was a baby, we named him “Mr. Bug.” (Long story.) These days, he’s growing into his abandoned nickname quite nicely. Blissfully ignorant of time and distance, every Asiatic ladybug he sees is the same one he befriended three weeks ago. “Look, there’s my friend again! I told you she was hiding in Julianna’s room!” He lets them crawl on him; he talks to them; he coos at them. Christian and I try to hide our revulsion and encourage him to be a little boy. And this week, we’ve added a russet-and-black caterpillar to the menagerie. It eats lettuce. Christian and I are trying, without success, to convince him to release it into the wild. I don’t want to think about his reaction when the poor thing’s life span runs its course!

#4. Monday harvest. It’s a late harvest this year, hampered by rain, rain, and more rain. With the return of the sun this week, my parents are tearing through corn and bean fields as fast as equipment will allow. On Monday, the kids and I went to the farm. I told Mom and Dad not to do anything to accommodate us; we would work around them. So we went straight out to the field without stopping by home; we brought our own lunch and ate on a blanket beside the road; and Alex rode with Grandpa while I sat in the car with napping kids, watching my mom ferry the grain cart from the field to the truck parked near the highway. That still wasn’t fast enough for my dad. Before Mom even got the tractor back the field, much less across it to where Dad was working, he had the auger extended on the combine—a not-so-subtle hint to Mom to come over and let him unload on the move. I can say from experience that this is much harder than it looks. My hat is off to all those who manage it.

#5. On Tuesday, we went to the world’s largest Burger King Play Place. Last winter I took the kids every week or two, but we quit going shortly before Nicholas was born. Naturally, I didn’t go up while I was pregnant, so when I took Julianna up in the matrix this week, it was my first time, too. All I can say is, I understand now why the boys came down drenched in sweat!

#6. Wednesday was a solo bike ride on the Katy Trail. Two weeks ago, when the colors were peaking, I had neither child care nor good weather. But in this silence, devoid of rustling and falling leaves, there is an altogether different kind of peace. Now the cedars come into their own; now the half dozen crickets that remain in the swamp of Diana Bend play a lullaby instead of a grand chorus. Now I hear the purity of the wind, unobstructed by leaves and grasses. Now the old telegraph poles reappear from the mounds of twiggy ivy that overtake sapling and monolith and towering limestone bluff. And from the shelter of my cave thirty feet above the trail, I can rest, and that is what is most important.

#7. And this, our fall craft project. I just couldn’t stand the thought of letting all that beauty fade, so we saved the leaves and put them on display:

Yes, honey, I finally got them off the kitchen counter!

Published in: on November 6, 2009 at 6:33 am  Comments (8)  
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