The rain has come down almost constantly since Sunday. I woke up Saturday night and was reminded why it is always a smart idea to go ahead and pack the rain fly. A thick mist filled my tent, and made quite wet everything inside. The sunrise the next morning more than made up for the moisture of my own negligence. Not often does one see the sun rise to the west over the ocean while standing on a fifty foot cliff, with the sound of sea lions, sea birds, and crashing waves annointing the ears while the aroma of freshly christened earth fills the nostrils.
Then to home, and a time back in the forest, where the rain is not simply coming down, it is surrounding, the fog thick and active, the rain swirling about sometimes light, sometimes heavy, always present. There are reports there might be snow. Last year the snow came a week late, a week after fires ravaged the land. Now, it came early, giving us six inches and dropping the fire danger from extreme to moderate. All the neighborhood is filled with that special sort of melancholy which urges the eyes to rest, the ears to be soothed by the gentle tapping rhythm of the rain, and prompts a person to go make a thick cup of dark tea to help pass the time. The body and the mind slows, the heart becomes wistful, content and eager all at once. Time itself seems to loosen.
I let the rain fill my kayak, washing off the salt of the sea with all natural showers. I listen and stare, trying to find wisdom within the voice. I watch the bedraggled jays, their dainty crests now somewhat limp and clingy, visit for a bite to eat, and I watch the squirrels join them, looking a bit fat now, ready for winter, their tails hanging over their heads like hairy umbrellas.
I ponder the wisdom of the island and the voices of wisdom which seek for me to hear and discern.
Then I leap. Leap out once more, cutting even more ties, more chances of certain success it seems. For what? So the soul within me can find a measure of peace. I refuse the help of Egypt, and seek God’s counsel, but now feel the worry of the dependence on faith without seeing the answers of faith. I stand on the cliff, feeling the rising air blow my hair, and I leap out, arms outstretched, eager for my limbs to transform so as to ride the wind.
There are those for whom this leap out results in the transformation, and from their tales I leap out as well, trusting in that which has led me, trusting that prayers offered are prayers answered, trusting that having sought wisdom and counsel and direction my heart is telling me Truth.
Why? To follow an art. To embrace the fullness not yet seen so as to someday make it a reality. To embrace potential rather than settle for frustrating certainty.
And so I write this as a record, the worth of which will only be determined decades from now.
Having nothing, seeing nothing but for my own passion and yearnings for Christ and his Spirit, I leap out to embrace the void and take hold of that for which Christ has taken hold of me. There is nothing, there is everything, this magical time between dusk and dawn, shore and sea, where the spiritual mingles with the physical not in space but in time. That is where I am seated and I listen, I watch, I contemplate with the fullness of hope alone as my sustenance.
There are markers on this road, there are steps, there are points in which divergent paths can be chosen. Today I have chosen, because my heart told me I must. And I rest in that, I rest in embracing who God has made me.
There is only that.