What struck me most about this moment, however, was not the deer and their beauty, but how unnoticed they went by everyone else on the path. This was not a secluded corner of some distant prairie, you see. Rather, this was an admittedly tiny sliver of forest preserve wedged between streets in the city of Chicago, and the foot path we were one was frequented by many a jogger and walker. Despite the high traffic, and the fact that my friend and I stood in the middle of the path staring into the woods, not a single person paused or even turned their gaze to the deer. No one lifted their eyes, and we were the only two people to take in this beautiful sight; a mere ten feet off the path.

I remember, as the last few people passed by, I tried to look at the deer even more intently, waiting for someone to ask what we were looking at, or at the very least look at what we were looking at. It was to no avail. No one else saw them.

Eventually, the deer moved on and left us standing alone in the path. As we started to move along ourselves, I had the urge to catch up to the others and tell them what we had just seen -what they had missed out on- but it wouldn’t have mattered. It mattered in the moment, and now the moment had passed, and it mattered no more. To them, it would just be the tale of a fleeting moment, but to us it was a beholdence; a moment in which our partaking caused time to swell.

So now, as I share this tale with you, I tell you not of the deer we saw, but of the people that didn’t see. Learn from them, please, and find your own beholdence. Watch for deer as you walk or run along, and you will find the beauty I speak of.

Part III.​

There is a Church with peeling paint in the corner of a forgotten part of town.  The pillars at its entryway used to be a dazzling white, but now, from behind the rusty scaffolding that surrounds them, they appear to be a weathered yellow.

John McArthur grew up in this Church, and after more than a decade of geographical and spiritual distance, he has come home.

It is Easter morning, just before 7am, and John is nervous.   Standing just outside the threshold of the warped oak doors, John peers in at a Congregation of no more than 30.  A slightly out of tune piano paints the air.  No one has noticed him yet, and he briefly contemplates getting in his car and leaving, but he decides against it.  After a deep breath, John enters the Church and walks to the front pew, avoiding contact with all the eyes now noticing him.  John is this morning’s preacher.

John sits down, and the opening Hymn begins.  His hands begin to sweat as the moment for his preaching draws near.  After the Hymn comes the first reading, and John’s heart begins to race.  Then, as the Scripture reader takes his seat, John feels the eyes of the Congregation on the back of his head.  Suddenly a very gentle old hand rests on his shoulder.  He turns and sees an old woman smiling with every wrinkle in her countenance.

“You’re up now, child.”

John nods.  Standing and pivoting to face the Congregation, all eyes are on him.  He begins with a sigh, kneading his brow as he breaths out, looking down.

“I never understood how my father could do this week after week.”

“So much hope, so much faith in that man’s words…peace and preaching seemed to come naturally to him.  I could never…”

Pregnant pauses separate his thoughts, and a few people shift their weight in the pews.

“I don’t know why I’m here.  I haven’t even set foot in a church in years.”

He breathes out loudly.

“I loved my dad, and when I saw him before he died last week, that was the first time I’d seen him in over a decade.  It was so great and difficult to see him.  Even then, after all those years, and on his death bed, he still smiled so warmly and hugged me with the strength of a bear.”

Another pause.

“He asked me to preach today.” He chuckled nervously, and the Congregation followed suit.

“I tried to refuse on the grounds that I can’t preach, but he insisted that I’m already a preacher-that I do it every day in my classroom with my students.  But, if I’m honest, I refused because…because I don’t believe any of this.”

These words both surprised and pained him to say.

“I have a hard time with religion,” he rephrased.  “I see it as a bunch of dusty slogans and rusty structures that try to point to something greater, something I’m not so sure even exists.  How can you all be so sure?  There is too much unknown.”

He pauses to try and think where he is going with this.

“My dad never seemed to have trouble with the mystery.  He saw God in everything.”

“I believe in my dad.  He taught me how to see the world.  Most of what he taught me, he taught from right here, in this spot.  I sat in those pews, and he paced in the aisle right where I’m standing.  I never saw him much at home because he was so devoted to his work here, but every Sunday morning we shared our longest conversation of the week; his sermon.  It was fairly one sided, as you might imagine.  There was no talking back to dad when he had his preacher’s neck on.”

He stops suddenly; embarrassed to have said in public what he called his Father’s clerical collar as a kid.  The congregation laughs, much to his relief, and this has an immediate calming effect on John.

Smiling now, John continues, “I still remember how it felt to listen to him preach.  I remember everything.  He always spoke of this church and how it was God’s kingdom in a small package.  ‘Each and every one of you offers a new angle on the image of God,’ he’d say.  ‘Through Ms. Sara I see God’s compassion.  Through Dr. Slovinski we see God’s patience.  Through lil Johnny here, I always behold God’s wonderful sense of humor.’  You guys always loved that part.  I hated it.  Fortunately he only said it every other Sunday.”

They laugh again.

“I remember how it felt to sing the Lord’s prayer.  I never understood it-‘Thou’ is such an odd word after all- but it always felt good to sing it, with Mrs. Edward’s voice warbling in the 3rd pew.”

He turns his gaze to the old piano now, his eyes wide and reminiscent.

“The piano sounds the same too.  And the smell – moth balls and Lysol – the same.”

“I feel at home here.”

His words surprise him again, but this time, in a soothing way.

Then, amidst one of John’s frequent pauses, the old woman with the smiling countenance picks up a dusty Bible and points at it, motioning to John to come and take it.

“Don’t forget the Gospel, child.” she says with love.

Wiping a bit of moisture from his brow, John reaches for the Bible and opened it to the marked page.  It is the Gospel of John, the Easter lesson for the day.  Deciding to overlook the obvious irony of the particular Gospel for that day, John recites the words he had heard his dad say so many times, so many years ago.

“Today’s Gospel comes from John, chapter 20 verses 19 – 23.”  He says this with a lower voice than before, almost, in a way, as if trying to replicate the authority of his late father’s voice.

“Praise to you, O Christ.” the congregation responds.

On the evening of that day, the first day of the week, the doors being locked where the disciples were for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said to them, “Peace be with you.”

When he had said this, he showed them his hands and his side.  Then the disciples were glad when they saw the Lord.  Jesus said to them again,

“Peace be with you.  As the Father has sent me, even so I am sending you…”

John stops.  The words seem too heavy for him to read, and he closes the Bible leaving the last two verses unread.

“Those were my father’s last words. ‘Peace be with you.’”

Silence.

“I didn’t know how to respond when he said it. I think I was still in denial that he was dying. He was holding my hand when he said these words, and though he was looking at me, it felt as if he was looking beyond me. In my confusion, a part of me reached back to years ago, and I said the only thing that came to mind: ‘And also with you.’”

“He breathed his last later that evening.”

John pauses to breathe.

“I…I…”

As he stumbles over his words, John begins to cup his hand with his finger tips touching, and gesture toward his chest, literally reaching for what he was feeling.

“I feel peace.” he said this more exhaling than speaking.

“I don’t understand, I can’t understand all of this.  There is too much unknown – too much mystery with God- but I do feel something move me in this place, and I cannot deny that.  As I read that Gospel and remember my dad’s words, and as I hear that piano and smell the smell of this place…there is Something real happening here; something I feel my dad was always pointing to.”

He feels his shoulders lighten as this sense of peace warms his chest.  This was a new sensation for him, or at least a forgotten one, and suddenly the questions didn’t matter anymore. Then, for the first time during his sermon, he looks directly at the Congregation.

“My doors were locked, but Peace is with me,” he said quietly, “May peace be with you.”

 Then, after a moment, John sat down.

Despite ending in an admittedly abrupt manner, he returned to his pew feeling satisfied and relieved.  The service pushed on with its normal momentum, and he remained rather aloof for the remainder of their time together.

Afterward, people smiled and embraced John, shaking his hand in thanks for his message.

“It’s good to have you home,” they’d say.

As the last few people filed out, the lady with the smiling countenance approached John with that dusty Bible in her hands.  She handed it to him, and hugged him firmly.  Smiling with her eyes, she walked passed John and moved toward the door.

Opening the Bible, John was taken aback when he saw his father’s name written on the inside cover.  This was his father’s Bible.  Taped on the inside of the next page, John found an envelope with a key in it.  He called to the woman that gave him the Bible, and held up the key with a question furled in his brow.

“It’s to the closet in his office,” she said.  “I presumed you would want to gather his belongings.”

Suddenly with a lump in his throat, John walked toward the office he hadn’t set foot in since he was in High School.

The door creaked as it always had, and most of the books were dusty now. After so many years of use, Dad had probably memorized most of their content.  This thought made him smile.  His desk was orderly as usual.

The closet door had an old Lenten banner hanging from it, crooked.  John tried the key.  After a bit of jostling the door wobbled open.  Inside he found an old communion set, a single Pastoral robe and stole, and a few rolled up banners.  Between the robe and the stole, however, he noticed another hanger.  Assuming it to be empty, he pulled it out to move it aside, but it did have something on it after all.  It was a small t-shirt, salmon in color.

As he turned the shirt toward him, his heart leapt.  It wasn’t so much the sight of the giraffe that struck him, but how vibrant the colors of the African sunset had remained after all these years.  This was his favorite t-shirt as a kid, and he could not believe his dad kept it, and in such good condition.

After taking in the sight of his shirt for several moments, he draped it carefully over his shoulder and gathered a few objects into an empty box on the office floor.  Picking it up and blowing the dust off the items in the box, John headed for his car.

The sun was higher in the sky now, and bright, and the morning air was still damp and fresh with dew and wind.  Setting the box on the back of his trunk, he glanced at his father’s Bible on the top of the box.  Not able to pull his eyes from it, he put his keys back in his pocket, and took the Bible in his hands. He didn’t open it.  He just stared at it.

Then, turning and leaning back against his car, he held the Bible to his chest.

“The real thing always speaks for itself,” he thought.

The night was cold and rainy.

It did not take long for me to start to get uncomfortable.  My brother and his buddies kept darting back and forth from the different houses to the sidewalk, and I quickly lost interest; I was getting really cold.  This went on for a while, my bro and his clan leaving me on the sidewalk, and then coming back briefly only to run off again.  I began to get scared, and I got even more worried because, being Halloween and all, I couldn’t really tell which one my brother was.  They were all dressed in costumes, some of them similar, and I’d lost track of which ghost or goblin was my older brother. 

I felt alone.

Despite the confusion, however, I could not help but feel a certain sense of calm and comfort by the way one of these costumed ghouls seemed to get right beside me during their brief stints on the sidewalk.  I couldn’t be sure, but I remember looking up at his horrifying rubber mask and thinking, “Are…are you my brother?”   He would look down at me slowly, without saying a thing.  I recognize now that it was probably that delicate balance of coolness among his buddies that kept him from picking me up and consoling me at that moment, but I did feel something in his presence.  Though I couldn’t recognize a thing about him, my heart warmed and my breathing slowed- just before he ran off again. 

That was my brother, and I suddenly wasn’t as cold. 

As the boy stood there staring at them, no less still than they were, a little bird flew in through the pine trees.  She was a winter Cardinal, bright red and alive with color.  After flitting about a bit, she landed abruptly on one of the snowmen’s spindly stick arms.  She hopped her way onto his shoulder and looked intently at the side of his round head.  Cocking her head to the side, she looked at him in a very curious manner. 

The Cardinal then hopped twice more, until she was immediately in front of the Snowman’s invisible ear.  Then she leaned in and, much to the little boy’s disbelief, she lifted her little wing to cover her beak. 

The Cardinal was whispering something to the Snowman.

It was only for a moment.  As soon as she finished, she hopped back once, looked at him steadily once more and then flew off into the pines.  After the little boy lost sight of the bird in the distance, he returned his eyes to the snowman, one of many in rank.  Suddenly, the little boy became aware of the fact that he had been holding his breath for a few moments now, in anticipation, he supposed, for the snowman’s response.  This thought made him scoff, and breathe out suddenly, laughing nervously.  He looked around to make sure no one saw him being so silly.  “What’d I expect,” he thought to himself, “He’s just a snowman.”

Returning his eyes to the snowman once again, his heart skipped a beat.

The snowman was staring at his stick hands. 

The little boy was certain that he was not in that position before.  He had undeniably moved.  Before the boy could react, the snowman began to move again.  Lifting his head slowly, he looked around at the other snowmen around him with an expression that looked remarkably like disbelief-its hard to be sure with mere coal and carrot as a means of expression.  The snowman rotated 360º, staring at his fellow men of snow, and then he looked to forward again. 

“What is this strange sensation?” the snowman thought to himself.

Suddenly awake to the substance of his being, the snowman breathed in deep and felt more than he had ever felt before.  Sensing a tickle but not seeing anything near him doing the tickling, he closed his eyes to discern from where it came.  It was the snow.  Snow was falling on a hillside near by, and this man of snow could feel it’s falling.  It was a delightfully odd sensation, to feel so far away.  The tickle of it all made him smile. 

Then, a sudden chill made him open his eyes again.  “And this?” he thought to himself.  Looking up to the sky now, he saw the clouds moving.  He closed his eyes again and felt himself rushing along the contours of the frozen planes.  He was the wind now, and he felt free.  He hugged himself in an excited chill. 

“HA!” he guffawed, immediately lifting his stick hand to his mouth in surprise at the loud noise he had just made.  He just felt a sudden jolt of energy that made him laugh, but where did it come from?  Closing his eyes again, he was catching on to how to perceive the things beyond his spot in the forest.  Smiling with his eyes closed, the snowman tried to pin point what it was he had felt, when suddenly it came to him…a snowball fight! A team of children in their school yard just started hurling snowballs at each other, and this delighted snowman felt each giggle and each puff of snow.  It was a rush, and it made him chuckle and sway his shoulders. 

The little boy could not believe his eyes, and as he grew increasingly amazed (and cold), he decided he needed to get out of there.  He jumped up from his spot and ran into the forest.  Dodging branches, and leaping over snowdrifts, he thought to him self, “I just saw a snowman move, laugh and dance!” Running farther and farther, and growing more and more tired, the little boys cheeks were turning red.  Just then, the Cardinal flew in front of him and landed on a branch just above his head, up the path a little.  The boy stopped in his tracks and looked at the bird with a blank stare. 

“What’d that bird say to the snowman?” he thought to himself. 

After a full minute of just staring at the bird in wonder, the boy caught his breath and regained a little courage.  He stepped up to the bird and offered it his finger to perch on.  He didn’t know, really, what to expect, but he figured he would at least try to see what the bird had to say.  He had, after all, just seen a snowman dance. 

The bird stepped on to the boy’s finger after cocking his head to the side again, and measuring up the boy just as she did to the snowman.  Pulling the bird closer to him on his hand, the boy smiled at the bird.  Then, he whispered, “Birdie, what did you say to that snowman in the woods? I’d really like to know.”

The bird just sat there with her feathers puffed out a bit, as birds tend to do in the cold.  The boy offered her part of his scarf, when she hopped off his hand and onto his shoulder.  The boy froze and gave her his full attention.

Then, the Cardinal whispered to him, “You are not merely a man of snow.  You are a man of Winter.”

Then as if punctuating her remark, she hopped once and flew away. 

§

Unbeknownst to the snowmen in the woods, they are not made of snow.  That is what they think they are a made of, of course, and as a result, that is exactly how most of them live.  But, in reality, they are not men of snow.  They are men of Winter, made up of every facet of Winter’s majestic and blustery persona.  Thanks to a little bird in the woods, at least one Man of Winter has gotten wind of the true nature of his being, and now he rides the snowflakes in the wind.

So I did. 

This small wave of determination brought to mind a memory that I hadn’t thought about for years.  It was similar to the above story, only instead of a city backdrop during the day, I was on the beach in Namibia and it was night.  My friends and I had gone to the beach with our guitars to sing loudly.  Taking advantage of the Ocean’s white noise, the open air granted us both shelter from the noise from which we came, and accompaniment to the noise we were about to create.  We were also far enough away from town, so as not to bother anyone.  Smiling at each other, satisfied with the perfect niche we had found, we pointed our faces to the sea and sang loudly.

Our jubilation lasted for roughly an hour or three, increasing in intensity as our guards gave way to rising confidence and the urge to sing, until we were suddenly interrupted.  Approaching us in the dark was a timid and beautiful young couple, smiling as they greeted us.  The woman held on shyly, with excited eyes, to her husband, while he shared with us that they had been listening to our music from further down the beach. 

“Oops!,” I thought to myself, “I guess we didn’t move far enough down the beach…” but he quickly negated my worry.  “It was beautiful,” he said, with that simple directness that is so delightfully Namibian.  He went on to explain that they had just gotten married, and that they would love for us to play a song for them.  After a few glances of disbelief, honor, and excitement, my friends and I happily conceded.

As I started strumming, I remember watching their faces.  I expected them to sit, or get comfortable, or –I don’t know- but I remember being struck by how they just stood their holding each other, standing tall and smiling so brightly.  They were poised as if they were about to receive some sort of honor, which, in turn, made me feel honored.  I was no longer timid about singing too loudly, so with pleasure, I sang with all my might.  They were so very grateful.

And, so was I. 

That whole story came back to me this morning, Finding-Nemo-Style, as I passed by the landscapers, singing contently to myself.  Recalling that story warmed my heart and it unfurled a wonderful lesson within me, which I now share with you:

Never keep from singing;

You never know what celebration might be awaiting your voice.

I wouldn’t know any better because that’s all that I would see…

§

Picture a plane… where is it?

Picture a water fountain (the kind you drink from)… is it on?

Picture a fire place… is there fire in it?

How interesting it is that we name and identify these things for what they do, even though the vast majority of their existence is spent not doing it.  The water fountain’s water is rarely flowing, and yet a “fountain” it remains.  In the case of these objects, their function is their identity, now matter how infrequently they are caught in the act of performing them.  They are identified by what they do, and as a result, the inanimacy of the rest of their existence is inconsequential.

Now, I ask you, Picture yourself.

Where are you?

What are you doing?

What are you saying?

What expression is on your face?

What, if anything, is in your hand?

What is on your mind?

Do you have an accurate perspective of who you are, or are you just looking through windows on a train?

Is it possible that there is more to you than your perspective allows you to see?

More to your identity…more to your name?

How might God see you, how does God name you?

What are you doing?  And…is that who you are?

Who are you?

Who are you?

Christine, a high school girl, teenage in all its glory, does not care about the stars, nor what makes them shine.  That is, until the power went out at the Planetarium.

While on a field trip learning about the cosmos, she was less than intrigued.  After having grown up in the city her whole life, she really knew and cared little about the night sky.  She did have to admit to herself, however, that after only having seen a few hazy stars in her whole life, she was somewhat impressed with what she saw on the dome above her head.  The disconnect, however, was almost too much to handle.  She gazed at the projected specs of light on the ceiling much like we would a movie in the theater; it was too far-fetched, too surreal to be real.  So, her brief blip of attention and interest faded once again.

Soon enough, their evening session wrapped up, and as they were filing out into the aisles, the power went out unexpectedly.  After the initial screams and starts, the teacher led them all outside with a calm, guiding voice.  Nervous and chilly chatter accompanied the students’ exit, and as their eyes began to adjust, they all stepped safely into the parking lot and walked toward the bus.  As the rest of the class continued on toward the bus, giggling and whispering, Christine stood in her place just outside the Planetarium door.  She was silent and looking up.  By the time the Teacher noticed her sudden stop, he had lost the rest of the class to the same upward gaze.  Looking around quickly and noticing he was the only one now with his gaze fixed earth-ward, the teacher glanced skyward and beheld what had captured his students’ attention.

At the lifting of the city’s shroud of light, the real cosmos had made an appearance.

Class was in session again.

Then, the teacher heard what he would later recognize as his favorite moment in 13 years of teaching; it was Christine.  “Wooooow,” she whispered slowly between gum chews, her visible breath carrying her word of admiration upward toward the heavens.  Everyone stood silent as her solitary word floated up, and their little puffs of breath slowed with the moment.  The teacher, now landing his gaze earth-ward again, looked around at his class with pride.  They were oblivious to his admiration, of course, for the stars had stolen their gaze.  He smiled to himself, and thought, “The real thing always speaks for itself.”

He wished the power would never return.

Part III to come…

A little boy sees a Giraffe in the city Zoo.  Fascinated at his height, his design and his majesty, the boy asks Dad where Giraffe’s family is, and where do they sleep, and what do they do in the winter, and how, and why, and, and, and…  Smiling, Dad paints with his words a picture of Giraffe’s natural habitat.  It is a distant world, vast and mysterious, incomprehensible to a little boy in the city.  “The Zoo is not his real home,” says Dad, “This is just where he lives so we can learn about him, and where he comes from.  His real home is far bigger than this, far bigger than we can imagine.  It’s filled with Lions, monkeys, birds, hippo, and enormous trees.  This is just a glimpse of where he really comes from.”

The little boy didn’t really understand the vastness of what his father was talking about, but his expression spoke to the mystery that just unfurled before his tall new friend.  His eyes widened a bit wider, his jaw dropped a bit farther, and his words and questions ceased.  Still fascinated in the first place by the mere sight of the Giraffe, the boy was now filled with an even deeper sense of awe and wonder at all that he couldn’t see.  He was captivated.

On the way to the parking lot, walking past the gift shop (which was perfectly placed, as usual), something caught the boy’s eye.  It was a t-shirt.  Salmon in color, it featured a royal African sunset, complete with fiery reds and dusty oranges, Acacia tree silhouettes, and one majestically poised Giraffe standing in the midst of the whole colorful expanse.  After the father and the cashier shared a smile that said suggested they both knew the dad had no choice but to by the shirt, Dad removed the shirt from the rack and handed it to his son.  The boy donned the shirt immediately, and wore it with pride.

This is where his new friend comes from, and he wore the mystery on his chest.

There is a family of four

There is a family of four. A single Mother, and three boys. The boys had the same upbringing, and got along rather well. But, as they grew up, they started to part their ways, and become their own men. They made friends, and even set roots in different areas. As they became more set in their ways, two of the brothers in particular, the 2 youngest, started to grow apart. Their opinions became more distinct, and they started to disagree more and more. Mother watched as they spoke less and less with each other. She would talk on the phone with them, and listen to each one complain about the other.  She would notice how they started to brood over their differences; assuming and exaggerating their way into what eventually became hatred.

It all escalated, until one day the second oldest brother went and visited his youngest brother where he lived.  He walked right into his kitchen where he was cooking, and punched the youngest brother right in the face, and continued to strike him until he fell to the ground, bleeding.  He left him there, and walked away.

Though the black eye and the bruises healed, the wounds opened a schism between the two brothers.

Mother couldn’t stand it any more, and when she got wind of this fight, she decided to intervene. She planned a meal…a family meal. This promised to be an issue with the brothers, because they hadn’t all been together in over three years, let alone shared a meal together.

Worse yet, she asked the youngest brother to host the meal. She said she’d help cook, but she asked if it could be held in his home, in his kitchen.

Enraged, the youngest blew up at Mother, asking if she even cared, or was aware of the absurdity of such a request.

How could he even be in the same room with the brother that knocked him down so cold heartedly, let alone invite him into his home…this home that he violated, coming in unwelcome, and striking him down?!

Mother spoke, “I have listened to the three of you speak. I’ve heard what you say about one another, and I’ve heard what you say to your friends. Over these years, your have let your differences dig a void between you, and your arrogance has filled it with waters impassible.

Stop.

Stop hating. In your pursuit to be right, or distinct, you have ignored your upbringing; you have forgotten how I raised you. You words and actions have stopped being in defense of your beliefs a long time ago, and that should be overwhelmingly obvious to you because you know and I know that I did not raise you to fight.

So, if this is to stop, if there is to be healing, and if this family is to move on, then there is no better place to do so than in this kitchen where you were struck down. Even your family room won’t do, nor your front yard… It is to take place right here, where your blood stained the linoleum. That is the only way.”

Centuries ago, before this land was a preserve, it was farmland for those who originally settled here.  Irrigation was needed for their crops so they dug, channeled, and rerouted the land’s natural waterways into straight canal-like lines.  That way, the water ran the course they determined.  It remained that way for hundreds of years, time enough for the  trees and other plants to grow along the banks they created.  The prairie adapted.

One year ago, ground was broken to bend and twist these rivers and streams back into their natural serpentine state.  It was called the Meandering Project, and it was implemented because rivers aren’t meant to be straight.

Straight rivers run.  They gain momentum, and course through their unobstructed beds, eroding their way through a narrow strip of watered land.  The rest of the prairie, untouched by its lazy efficiency, remains dry.

A meandering river, however, bends and tangents it’s way through the earth.  In seeming chaos, it darts its way from plant to plant, tree to tree, ensuring that nothing misses out on its sustenance before moving on.  Meandering rivers are more generous, if you will, because they touch more.  They flow as nature intended.

This is not too dissimilar from the layout of our veins and arteries.  To the smallest extremity and the most vital organs, oxygen and life are pumped to every millimeter of our bodies through the bends, twists and branches of our circulatory system.  Fortunately for us, our bodies share the same logic as the rivers of the Earth.

When it comes to less tangible matters of life and sustenance, however, we are less apt to embrace the need for meandering.  In our constant pursuit of reason, explanation, and logic to our liking, we continue to straighten the paths of spirit and soul that nature would otherwise leave winding.  We simplify the naturally complex, and seek to explain the unexplainable.  In doing so, we deprive our inner-reaches of life.  Moreover, we have grown so adept at this intellectual dredging, and we’ve been doing it for so long, that new growth has taken root along the banks of our own reason.  Our minds have adapted, and in turn, much of our perception of the world has gone dry.

We are in need of a Meandering Project.  And, much like for the prairie, this will be quite the undertaking.  Though, instead of a bulldozer, and in place of steam shovels, this task will require discipline and humility; an overall disposition toward that which we cannot control.

Allow yourself to draw nutrients and life from the realms of life that lie outside the paths you’ve declared logical, acceptable, or straight.

Imagine.  Imagine what a feeling it would be for joy to course through your veins like blood, or for the spirit to run through your body with the chaotic efficiency of nature’s rivers.

To live as such is not only as nature intended, but it is also exhilarating and life giving.