The Stolen Axe
September 29, 2008
It has been the interruptions to everyday
life which have most revealed the divine
mystery of which I am a part, all these
interruptions presented themselves as
opportunities to go beyond the normal
patterns of daily life and find deeper
connections than the previous safety of my
physical, emotional and spiritual well
being. Henri Nouwen
The true voyage of discovery
consists not
in seeking new landscapes but in having new
eyes. Marcel Proust
I keep running past things. I've
always done that, pushing past them, trying
to shove my way in, over the edge, to
increase accelerate, keep the pressure on.
I keep myself so numbed out by urgency that I
wouldn't know what to do with myself if it
were relieved. John Jerome
A man discovered his axe had been stolen.
His task? Find the culprit.. He had a
suspect in mind. His young neighbor--high
school age--seemed the the most likely
candidate.
The man began watching the boy, coming and going from the house. What he saw only confirmed his suspicions. The boy carried the air of a thief.
The young boy walked like a thief.
The young boy talked like a thief.
The young boy looked like a thief.
After two weeks of watching, the man was certain. The young boy stole the axe.
One afternoon, in the corner of his garage, the man found his axe, in a place where he had left it a few weeks earlier. The axe, had not been stolen after all.
The next morning, the man watched as the young boy left the house. And the man noticed (with new eyes, and perhaps to his chagrin), that the young boy no longer walked like a thief.
I've had another complicated week. A full week. A busy week. I have been traveling, so I miss my garden and it's sanctuary and Sabbath space.
Add to that the weather here in Baltimore (where I am doing the Gardens & Grace Conference). We've had a nor'easter. Which in translation means: Do you own a boat? Is your middle name Noah? A nor'easter is relentless rain. Double your Prozac kind of rain.
I can feel my mood sour, and my time squeezed. And I look at my circumstances in the exact same way that the man looked at the young neighbor. I (choose) to see the circumstances as interruptions, which (like thieves) are squeezing the sabbath, the sanctuary, and any sense of calm from my life. Yes, it is clear, these circumstances, are, in fact, stealing my life.
I saw in these circumstances what I wanted to see. What I needed to see. I suppose it is about some kind of control. But when I do that, I miss what is present. And I miss any opportunity to see God (or the sacred) hidden or buried there. I am, unable, to be surprised by joy. A friend and I walked a street looking for a restaurant to have lunch. Seeking refuge from the deluge, we ducked into a courtyard, beyond a black iron gate, a space crammed and swollen with potted plants. It felt like a secret garden.
We sat by the garden window and savored our food, the conversation and the gifts of the garden outside. In time, my perception of this day as my adversary gave way to an openness to receive a gift of grace from the most unlikely of circumstances. Apparently, the day and its untidy circumstances were not a thief after all.
The man began watching the boy, coming and going from the house. What he saw only confirmed his suspicions. The boy carried the air of a thief.
The young boy walked like a thief.
The young boy talked like a thief.
The young boy looked like a thief.
After two weeks of watching, the man was certain. The young boy stole the axe.
One afternoon, in the corner of his garage, the man found his axe, in a place where he had left it a few weeks earlier. The axe, had not been stolen after all.
The next morning, the man watched as the young boy left the house. And the man noticed (with new eyes, and perhaps to his chagrin), that the young boy no longer walked like a thief.
I've had another complicated week. A full week. A busy week. I have been traveling, so I miss my garden and it's sanctuary and Sabbath space.
Add to that the weather here in Baltimore (where I am doing the Gardens & Grace Conference). We've had a nor'easter. Which in translation means: Do you own a boat? Is your middle name Noah? A nor'easter is relentless rain. Double your Prozac kind of rain.
I can feel my mood sour, and my time squeezed. And I look at my circumstances in the exact same way that the man looked at the young neighbor. I (choose) to see the circumstances as interruptions, which (like thieves) are squeezing the sabbath, the sanctuary, and any sense of calm from my life. Yes, it is clear, these circumstances, are, in fact, stealing my life.
I saw in these circumstances what I wanted to see. What I needed to see. I suppose it is about some kind of control. But when I do that, I miss what is present. And I miss any opportunity to see God (or the sacred) hidden or buried there. I am, unable, to be surprised by joy. A friend and I walked a street looking for a restaurant to have lunch. Seeking refuge from the deluge, we ducked into a courtyard, beyond a black iron gate, a space crammed and swollen with potted plants. It felt like a secret garden.
We sat by the garden window and savored our food, the conversation and the gifts of the garden outside. In time, my perception of this day as my adversary gave way to an openness to receive a gift of grace from the most unlikely of circumstances. Apparently, the day and its untidy circumstances were not a thief after all.
Poems / Prayers
Etty Hillesum was a young Jewish woman who died in Auschwitz. She called her diaries "An Interrupted Life". Addressing this question of our security, she writes - "there is really a deep well inside me, and in it, dwells God. Sometimes I am there too. But more often stones and grit block the well and God is buried beneath, then he must be dug out again."
A Meeting
She steps into the dark swamp
where the long wait ends.
The secret slippery package
drops to the weeds.
She leans her long neck and tongues it
between breaths slack with exhaustion
and after a while it rises and becomes a creature
like her, but much smaller.
So now there are two. And they walk together
like a dream under the trees.
In early June, at the edge of a field
thick with pink and yellow flowers
I meet them.
I can only stare.
She is the most beautiful woman
I have ever seen.
Her child leaps among the flowers,
the blue of the sky falls over me
like silk, the flowers burn, and I want
to live my life all over again, to begin again,
to be utterly
wild.
Mary Oliver
Peace,
Terry Hershey
