I am not a hippie.

I am not a hippie. I wear makeup. And deodorant. I shave my legs and consider myself a Moderate. I am not a hippie. I tell you this because I have been hearing it a lot lately. I have also been called cute, simple, nerd, and dork in conversation with people whom I know actually love me and whom I'm pretty sure, meant those labels as compliments.

I love nature. This is no secret. I like digging in the dirt, the smell of the earth, and the sounds of creation waking up, as well as going to sleep. I regularly stand in awe of the fact that I can plant a seed and with some care and attention, not much later eat of its fruit. That amazes me. I will always rejoice over the first green bud poking through the brown soil, the first bloom of a plant, the kamakaze dive of a hummingbird overhead, and the first hint of a new season. I suggest you do the same.

My ideal home is small with land for a bigger garden and some chickens. And I wouldn't mind if that house was in a tree.  And of course, near water. None of this makes me a hippie. I'm a consumer who is trying to consume less.  I was meant to be a good steward, not an anomaly.

I recently spent a week preaching the virtues of connection--to God, man, and nature. It made me realize I still have a long way to go. But I believe we are on the right path (pardon the pun) when we seek to live a little more the way we were intended to live. Giving more than we take. I want to do more to subdue the Earth, not consume it. Maybe we wouldn't have to create "experiences" to try to connect with God, if we understood a little bit better that He is there if we will just be still and quiet and not so hard to impress. He is there. We just have to turn off the television.

Currents

The view from my kayak

A lot can happen in a matter of a day's time. On Sunday, my husband and I decided to take out the kayaks and  head for the river. We spent a few hours mostly letting ourselves be carried by the current of the rain swollen Colorado River. We didn't have to work hard to make our way down river and it was nice to just let ourselves be carried, giving us a chance to direct our gaze to nature. And boy, did she show off. The spring rains provided a lush, deep green landscape full of life. We witnessed turtle after turtle lazily slide off their logs, plopping noisily into the water below them. A pair of baby Teal paddling along the edge of the bank.   Butterfly after butterfly floating effortlessly across the water. We watched a fat Blue Cat rise to the surface, disappearing as quietly as he appeared. And there was the profusion of Morning Glories, cascading down from the very top of a tree, as if a living altar had sprung from the river bank to climb toward Heaven. All of this made me quiet, stilled my soul. I did my best to breathe it all in and exhale thankfulness, trying not to think about the following day. Thankful for an afternoon just to be carried.

Monday's view

Then Monday came. Full of insurance questions and talk of radioactive materials, decay, damage. Risk management. Waiting in admitting. Waiting for a room. Waiting for doctors. Waiting, waiting, waiting. With each step of the process, our anxiety grew. We joked with each other to cover our frustration and fear. I had only to stretch to feel the slight ache in my shoulders, reminding me of the previous day that seemed so far away.   And when I left the hospital without my husband, I sat in the parking lot for a few minutes and cried. Leaving him there to be cared for when that had been my job was harder than I thought. What if they get his diet wrong? What if he has a reaction? What if he is scared? Lonely? What if this treatment doesn't work? Yesterday's gentle current was gone and I was being caught up in the rush of uncertainty. But I stopped myself before I could be swept away by the swiftness of the unknown. Closing my eyes, I breathed in deeply and exhaled thankfulness once again, thinking about our previous day. A gift from a gracious God. Remembering the beautiful blooms of the Morning glories, I was thankful that if we choose to do so, we can carry our altars everywhere. Even when we have to drive away.

Be Still...

from Sue Monk Kidd's When the Heart Waits:

"…I sat beside her, unable to resist the feeling that we shared something, the two of us. The wounds and brokenness of life. Crumpled wings. A collision with something harsh and real. I felt like crying for her. For myself. For every broken thing in the world.

That moment taught me that while the postures of stillness within the cocoon are frequently an individual experience, we also need to share out stillness. The bird taught me anew that we're all in this together, that we need to sit in one another's stillness and take up corporate postures of prayer. How wonderful it is when we can be honest and free enough to say to one another, 'I need you to wait with me,' or 'Would you like me to wait with you?'

I studied the bird, deeply impressed that she seemed to know instinctively that in stillness is healing. I had been learning that too, learning that stillness can be the prayer that transforms us. How much more concentrated our stillness becomes, though, when its shared…."

Seashells on the Seashore

On Saturday, I got to stand at the edge of the Gulf of Mexico and feel the cool water wash over my feet. This was the first time I have stood on the sandy shore of the beach all summer and I didn't take it for granted. I hunted seashells with some people I love and whom I know without a doubt, love me just as much. I don't take them for granted either.

We hunted shells and we gave each other our very best finds without thought of keeping them for ourselves. Isn't that how love should always work?

As we hunted, I thought about those shells and how even though they weren't all perfect, most of them were cracked and showed the wear and tear of being tossled about in the deep waters, they were no less a treasure in our eyes.  And when we found them, we scooped them up, rinsed them off, and held them up to be admired. I also thought about how many times we find ourselves tossed about in the deep waters--the dark, treacherous waters. And when we finally make it to shore, instead of staying still, instead of letting ourselves be scooped up and washed off, we throw ourselves back into the deep, dangerous waters. It seems as if we would rather be tossed about than washed off. Maybe we prefer the deep waters to the safety of the shore because we can't really be seen in the turmoil of the water. Maybe we are afraid that if we stay still on the shore, that we will be passed by because we aren't good enough.

But maybe we should just be still and take a chance, let ourselves be examined. I don't know about you, but some of my favorite shells are the broken ones because I can see what they are really made of. And it only makes me treasure them more.

Maybe we should all stay still so we can be picked up.