Spiritual Landscapes
I’m a person who relates to, and is affected by, topography.
I have long believed that my heart beats in a rhythm synchronized with the Atlantic Ocean; a fantasy established in childhood almost pre-verbally and reinforced during summers at our house on the Jersey Shore.
I appreciate the linear rows of grains in the heartland; the rough, jagged slopes of mountains; dark murky swamps teeming dangerously with unknown creatures; lush fertile forests complete with streams and dense undergrowth and the deserts too arid to sustain any growth at all, at least when looked at superficially. Each unique geographic substrate recognized as familiar by some part of my own interior terrain.
All landscapes seem to have stories to tell and lessons to be learned if only we would listen. And maybe it’s not the land we need to pay attention to as much as our own musings as we gaze upon it.
One reason I have always loved long distance driving is that it provides the perfect opportunity to observe and reflect upon the passing scenery; to wonder about generations of previous travelers, their thoughts, experiences and hardships – Where were they headed? Why had they left? What did they hope to find? Did they ever find it? Where, and how, had their journeys ended?
Yesterday, as we drove across the Sand Hills of Nebraska - as starkly beautiful a landscape as any I can imagine - I remembered two things
.
The first memory was of my initial trip to the reservation.
I was a Senior High Leader in the mid 90’s and I was traveling in one of 3 large vans with adolescents from our parish. We had been on the road long enough that the early morning burst of glamor and excitement had worn off and kids were sleeping, reading or talking quietly to their neighbor. (Obviously, this was ‘back in the day’ before ipod, twittering and texting; in fact, no ‘personal electronic devices’- meaning cell phones or CD players- were allowed on Mission trips at all. Not because they were viewed as ‘tools of the devil’; they were just felt to be isolating and injurious to group process and something we were all better off being without - - frankly, I think we were on to something!)
Anyway, we were 600 miles into the trip, passing endless succession of softly rolling hills, covered in prairie grasses that were hypnotically bowing to the ground in rhythm with the tempo of the wind. As I was doing a quick visual check of the kids, I caught the eye of one of them (CJ Fisher) who had been watching silently out the window for many miles. CJ was (and still is) a great kid, but not exactly known for either his seriousness or his ability to sit still for long. With a smile and what can only be described as awe, he said, “For the first time, I know what undulating means”. His simple declarative allowed me to see him – and the passing view – in a new way and I’ve never been able to travel to SD without hearing his voice echo in the van.
The other thing I remembered was a scene from the TV show “Joan of Arcadia”.
Joan is railing at God, played wonderfully in this particular scene by Kathryn Joost.
She’s complaining about God “popping” in and out of her life.
God looks at her and, loving and patiently, states, “I don’t pop, I abide”.
It’s hard for me to travel to South Dakota and not be caught up in reverie about those who have gone before AND about the abiding goodness of God.
Signs, stories and the overwhelming power and presence of things unseen abound.
Grant us Lord not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly; and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to hold fast to those that shall endure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever. Amen (BCP)
I have long believed that my heart beats in a rhythm synchronized with the Atlantic Ocean; a fantasy established in childhood almost pre-verbally and reinforced during summers at our house on the Jersey Shore.
I appreciate the linear rows of grains in the heartland; the rough, jagged slopes of mountains; dark murky swamps teeming dangerously with unknown creatures; lush fertile forests complete with streams and dense undergrowth and the deserts too arid to sustain any growth at all, at least when looked at superficially. Each unique geographic substrate recognized as familiar by some part of my own interior terrain.
All landscapes seem to have stories to tell and lessons to be learned if only we would listen. And maybe it’s not the land we need to pay attention to as much as our own musings as we gaze upon it.
One reason I have always loved long distance driving is that it provides the perfect opportunity to observe and reflect upon the passing scenery; to wonder about generations of previous travelers, their thoughts, experiences and hardships – Where were they headed? Why had they left? What did they hope to find? Did they ever find it? Where, and how, had their journeys ended?
Yesterday, as we drove across the Sand Hills of Nebraska - as starkly beautiful a landscape as any I can imagine - I remembered two things
.
The first memory was of my initial trip to the reservation.
I was a Senior High Leader in the mid 90’s and I was traveling in one of 3 large vans with adolescents from our parish. We had been on the road long enough that the early morning burst of glamor and excitement had worn off and kids were sleeping, reading or talking quietly to their neighbor. (Obviously, this was ‘back in the day’ before ipod, twittering and texting; in fact, no ‘personal electronic devices’- meaning cell phones or CD players- were allowed on Mission trips at all. Not because they were viewed as ‘tools of the devil’; they were just felt to be isolating and injurious to group process and something we were all better off being without - - frankly, I think we were on to something!)
Anyway, we were 600 miles into the trip, passing endless succession of softly rolling hills, covered in prairie grasses that were hypnotically bowing to the ground in rhythm with the tempo of the wind. As I was doing a quick visual check of the kids, I caught the eye of one of them (CJ Fisher) who had been watching silently out the window for many miles. CJ was (and still is) a great kid, but not exactly known for either his seriousness or his ability to sit still for long. With a smile and what can only be described as awe, he said, “For the first time, I know what undulating means”. His simple declarative allowed me to see him – and the passing view – in a new way and I’ve never been able to travel to SD without hearing his voice echo in the van.
The other thing I remembered was a scene from the TV show “Joan of Arcadia”.
Joan is railing at God, played wonderfully in this particular scene by Kathryn Joost.
She’s complaining about God “popping” in and out of her life.
God looks at her and, loving and patiently, states, “I don’t pop, I abide”.
It’s hard for me to travel to South Dakota and not be caught up in reverie about those who have gone before AND about the abiding goodness of God.
Signs, stories and the overwhelming power and presence of things unseen abound.
Grant us Lord not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly; and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to hold fast to those that shall endure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever. Amen (BCP)
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