Each morning and evening
The dog and I walk together
Up or down the road.
We startle a rabbit
Somewhere along the way.
The rabbit bounds away into the woods.
JJ wants to follow it.
I fumble for my camera.
The rabbit says to me:
Slow down. Stay alert.
There are treasures nearby
If only you will pay attention.
Be present right now.
Stop multitasking.
Take five deep breaths
And say a prayer of gratitude.
This moment
Every moment
Is a gift.
Let the noises fall away
The chaos and clatter in
my ears
my brain
my heart
All this hubbub in my mind
This turmoil in my spirit
Let it go
Let it flow away
Like the rushing of a river
And in its place …
May there be space
May there be quiet
May there be silence
The healing peace of solitude
How strange and wonderful that I can wake up in the hot, humid south and go to sleep in the cool mountains of Colorado.
Today is my first full day of seven here in this beautiful place.
I took two naps after lunch and then walked down by the river to see what was blooming and what I’ve missed in my two-year absence.
I stopped to visit with my favorite wildflower. The shooting star by the river was still there, yellowing and dying back so that it can bloom again next spring.
What comfort to find this place of stability in a world that is ever-changing and often feels out of control.
Now I need to unwind, to let go of the chatter, to be let myself be fully present to this time of rest.
Took walks up and down the river canyon.
Poked around and remembered.
Watched the chipmunks.
Took pictures.
Knit a prayer shawl.
Played with pine cones.
Ate pie.
Went to my happy place in gratitude.
Every year, as a Clergy member of the Rocky Mountain Conference of the United Methodist Church, I travel to Colorado for Annual Conference. This year I was delighted that the conference was held at the YMCA of the Rockies in Estes Park. Not only is it one of the most beautiful settings in the world, it is a place important to my family, a destination for a yearly pilgrimage when we came to Colorado for summer vacations.
Our family’s Colorado roots came from my dad’s two summers of working in the kitchen at the Y-Camp when he was in college. He fell in love with these mountains and, when the chance came to purchase a run-down cabin in the mountains the year I was born, he and Mom cashed out a $1500 life insurance policy and bought the place.
When I sat in Hyde Chapel the other day for our clergy session, I remembered attending church there while we were on vacation. (It seemed much smaller than when I was a child.) I remember Dad being invited to preach there one summer.
He wrote about it in our cabin’s log:
August 13, 1968
I had the privilege of preaching at Hyde Chapel at the YMCA Camp near Estes. It was an experience I have secretly entertained a hope for. It was fulfilled through Dr. Finis Crutchfield’s recommendation to the selection committee.
As I sat in the chapel I thought on all these things with gratitude. Thank you, Dad and Mom, for this gift, this legacy that has brought me such joy and happiness and meaning. I’m grateful to be a member of this conference in this place which is my spiritual home.
I sat in the kitchen in the early morning and entered the stillness that comes with this place, this little cabin in the mountains. The stillness is not silent — the river roars below me, the hummingbirds buzz outside the window. I hear the chips and squeaks of the chipmunks and ground squirrels looking for breakfast.
I thought about the episode of “On Being” I listened to yesterday. Krista Tippett interviewed Pico Iyer about “The Art of Stillness.” Iyer talked about his need to find stillness after a lifetime of travel and movement. I long for that stillness, that “not doing” … and this is one of the places that I find it.
I remember that on our family vacations here, Dad would get up before anyone else and get a fire started in the cook stove. (We didn’t have another stove to cook on and the stove also heated the water.) By the time others got up, the kitchen was open for business. We ran from our cozy beds through the freezing cabin to the warmth of the kitchen and a breakfast of pancakes or hash browns and eggs.
This morning as I sat in the same chair Dad would have sat in. It struck me that he must have longed for and found the stillness of those early mornings here in the kitchen, just as I do today. A tiny, sacred sabbath space before the day begins.
Quiet my anxious mind
And open my heart.
Let me find the quiet place
And meet you there.
Amen.
All the Wonders 