Seasons of Yearning

This is the season of yearning. Here in the north, the bitter chill has settled upon the land. It creeps in through chimneys and through the cracks in the windows. Frigid drafts discourage us from getting out of bed in the morning and drive us beneath the covers early in the evening. It is a season of whiteness, when the world becomes and indistinguishable pallet of bleak tundra. The novelty of winter has long ago worn off and there is yet no promise of spring. It is the netherworld known as March.

“March sucks,” was the oft-repeated refrain of my father who used such expletives to decry the lack of outdoor activities available. In March it is too warm for ice fishing and yet too early for fly-fishing. Turkey season has not yet come and deer season is a distant memory persevering only in bitter refrains or in the bottom of freezers.

Even I, who share few of my father’s predatory tendencies, find myself aligned against the moth. Hiking is difficult amid the ankle-scraping drifts. Pants always return home with their cuffs soaked. Few animals brave the winter woods and the chance of an encounter is rare. A lack of flora yields unimpressive views. On top of all this, the blustery winds make it far more attractive to lament the season on the dry side of a pane of glass.

Yet there is value in longing. Our daily lives are an exercise in instant gratification. We expect (and sometimes get) things to come to us immediately. Technology is largely to blame but we must accept responsibility for our attributes. We have lost, it would seem, the satisfaction that comes from patient expectation. We might instruct our children in the virtue of patience but we buck against it when it rears its head in our own lives. There are some pleasures that only come by trial; some flavors only come through the ripening. When we rush through the process or (as is more often the case) bitterly complain our way through the waiting, we spoil the victory that we have gained.

The seasons are the perfect remedy for our demands for instantaneous action; the perfect teacher for our impatience. Regardless of our wishes, we are bound to the rhythm of the earth. Autumn paints the leaves at a constant rate every year. Summer remains a tantalizing prize in the heart of winter. The seasons--- their opportunities and their complications ebb and flow as the tides and if we are to not waste away our days on this earth, we must learn to find the beauty in the hours before the dawn, the joy in the pain. We must train our eyes to see the crocus emerging from the snow drifts, to find solace in the shade of a tree in the heat of the day, and to find beauty even on the greyest of days. We must slow and discern if we to find value in all things.

Oceans, Sacred and Wild

All sound is drowned out by the constant crash of the surf against the rocky shore. Looking out upon the waters one sees a vast canvas of the sea, set about with whitecaps. It is perpetual motion; an undulating expanse as wave after wave driven by wind and tide press ever onward. An island, lush with trees lit with the fires of autumn sits like a sentinel on the horizon, nameless, uninhabited, a touchstone against the backdrop of the ever-shifting waters. As I watch, the sun, unseen on the land, paints the water with an even more vibrant shade of aquamarine. There is a chill in the air but the rays upon the water gives the impression of a hot, shimmering summer’s day. This is Lake Huron.

I will admit that from my land-locked home, I often forget the grandeur and vastness of the four great seas that surround me (other states lay claim to Ontario). I see them rarely, most often catching a passing glance at southern Erie as we drive through downtown Cleveland. How little I regard these majestic giants. Looking out upon the face of any of the Great Lakes one would be hard-pressed to differentiate them from an ocean save the lack of the briny tang in the air. One can only imagine the thoughts of those courageous explorers as they stood on their yet undiscovered shores, or set sail on their unplumbed depths. I’m sure that many, upon hearing the great clash of waters from a distance, became convinced that they had reached the farthest extreme of this new world.

We struggle to appreciate our mighty neighbors these days. How can they compare to the length and breadth of the seven seas upon which the world’s commerce is borne and under which the lightless depths hold incalculable mysteries? We know so much these days (too much perhaps). We can see on a map or from a satellite the farthest extremes of the world. We can compare the lakes surrounding us with the great seas of Northern Europe or the gulfs of the southern hemisphere. We learn the mileage and volume and surface area. But do we comprehend? With our vast stores of information can we come to a place of understanding the size and scope? We lose sight of the enormity of life inhabiting a single cove in the grand scheme of an entire sea. This affects all areas of our lives but is particularly insulting to our unique borders that bear the stigma of familiarity.

Let us look again, with eyes anew, on our lakes and try to see them not as geographical objects but as vast communities of life; of beauty; crafted by Divine hand to reflect unseen glory.

Michigan: the Hollywood starlet, boasting a metropolis and the golden coast of the elite, whose northern extremes boast nationally recognized wonders. The crystal blue waters and sandy beaches lure millions to its shores every year. Michigan you may be our vacation home but we know you so little. What do we know of the plovers who nest on your shores? Have we witnessed the petulant winds sculpting your dunes? Forgive us if we have taken you as a trinket without truly seeking to grasp your grandeur; without seeking your soul.

Erie: maligned and forgotten. You became to us a commodity to be traded and in so doing we tarnished your gown. We no longer looked at you as a thing of beauty but as a means of transport, a battleground for our wars. You bore the ore that fed our pride. You bore the very means by which we forgot you. Let us see you again as you were; as you can be again, without our reckless stain upon you.

Huron: I confess ignorance of you. You existed in my mind as an emerald enigma and I sought you not. Teach me, if you would, even as I sit upon your rocky shores. Show me how to appreciate your power.

Oh mystery deep and foreboding are you Superior, most ruthless of your siblings. You are to us a foreign world, misty and cold. Your bones run deep and your ancient shores speak of secrets long withheld. We sought to tame you yet you would not be broken. It was we who broke upon your shores and sank beneath your waves. Bitter and alien you seem to us. Let us ponder but a little further if you will allow, that we might see the deep things of the world as you do, fully grasping the profound solemnity.

Ontario you seem to me a far-flung cousin rather than a sibling. Your shores belong to another land; another time. Speak, if you will. We will listen. We will hear your story.

As the sun sets upon the sunrise coast and I shiver in my sleep, let us together pledge to gaze with renewed vigor and openness upon our long forgotten inland seas.

The Northern Lake

At dusk the deer venture down to drink and browse on the shrubbery that grows along the shore: a wary doe, a yearling fawn, and overlooking it all, a vigilant, spike buck. His eyes and ears ever watchful as the pair in his charge happily gorge themselves on young shoots. In the placid water, the trio is inverted reaching down rather than up. The doppelgänger buck’s nose twitches, testing the air, its ears turning this way and that.

Somewhere off in the gathering darkness of the forest an owl begins its evening reveries, a mournful cry echoing across the expanse. The spike turns his head in the direction of its origin then returns to browsing.

Though the gloom has already returned to the forest floor, the lake still shimmers with the sun’s fading rays, hovering just above the tree-line. The uttermost branches of the towering pines and golden aspens that ring the lake are aglow in brilliant autumn’s fury even as their roots descend into shadow. The wind bends their tops bringing the tannic aroma of pine.

Branches crack somewhere in the distance; some forest denizen abroad; perhaps a marten or a fisher surveying a night’s meal. A scuttle issues from a tree, a raccoon descends for a night of childlike revelry.

The deer are gone.

Such is the drama of the northern lake, a uniquely idyllic scene known by those who venture forth into the wilds of the north extremes. They retain some of the mystery lost by their southern cousins to development and the encroachment of man. Still here, if one is willing to heave brave the extremes both meteorological and entomological, one may find the remnants of our boreal past. Few pleasures of modern life can rival the pristine wonders here. The television cannot equal the dramas played out in the wilderness. Radio cannot match the pervasive shush of the wind confronting the leaves in perpetual assault. The internet does not hold mastery over the sense of all-encompassing awe when we are able to quiet ourselves for five minutes in the shadowy domain of the forest floor. Perhaps one day these mysteries too will be lost, a relic of some former unenlightened age. We would do well to weep at the possibility of a time when development or attention span will place there outside our grasp. Pity it will be if children grow up without wondering with baited breathe what creature was stirring outside their tent.

Today though, these mysteries are still possible and can be ours if we can quiet ourselves long enough to comprehend them. A balm and elixir they still can be to our harried, frantic souls. If only we were to set aside so-called comfort for solitude. We live our lives destitute of wonder; starving for the natural world, which has become all too detached from us. Too often have we sacrificed peace for convenience. It may yet be remedied, if this insidious disease has not too far advanced, by returning, if even for a day, an hour, a moment to the beauty of creation.

The sun has departed. Shadows fall upon the cool, silent water from whose depths springs bubble up from the aether. Mayflies dance above the surface, daring ever closer in their bold pursuit. Perhaps tomorrow a loon will glide in gentle repose over the water, confident in its solitude. Perhaps its haunting cry will echo through the wilderness. Let us stay awhile and see…

First Impressions

I’ll be honest; I didn’t have the best reaction when I found out that my wife and I were going to have a baby. She broke the news to me while on vacation in a hotel outside of Cincinnati. When she told me, I spent an hour shut up alone in the hotel bathroom listening to a Reds-Nationals game through the flimsy door while dealing with my conflicted emotions. Not the greatest start to fatherhood. I’d like to think that I’ve grown a bit since then. I hope. Once I’d gathered myself and wrestled my emotions, there was one thing that came to my mind; a vision really: I imagined myself hiking with my child; pointing out the animals and natural features to their wild-eyed wonder. It was that image that helped me push past the fear and doubt that plagued our pregnancy.

My daughter, now nearly two, surprised me last Friday night. I had just persevered through another work week, and pushed past a disappointing set of circumstances. The summer had faded into autumn a day before as the temperature had dropped and the scent of fall was in the air. I needed to hike. I needed to get out; to get lost; to be surrounded by a world larger than myself. So I packed up my things and as I was walking out the door my daughter came up to me.

“Hiking,” she said in her sweet, musical voice, “I hiking.” I told her that she needed to stay and eat dinner and that daddy was going to be back real soon. She didn’t take well to that notion. She began whining, saying “I want go hiking.” My wife and I just gave each other bemused glances. My daughter went downstairs and began tugging at my backpacking equipment. In the end I managed to convince her that she needed to stay and eat. I promised that we would go hiking tomorrow and with that I was off.

True to my word, I waited anxiously for her to wake from her nap the next day. Once awake, I packed some goldfish, a sippy cup, and tossed her backpack into my truck.

I wish I could see things anew through my daughter’s eyes. I wish I could understand the wonder with which she experiences things that I have known for nearly thirty years. I listened as she mimicked the cry of the Blue Jay perched high atop the skeleton of an ancient oak. She laughed uproariously as I franticly tried to shake myself free of a spider that had climbed up my arm. I saw the joy in her eyes as she tried to count the ducks resting on the surface of the impounded stream. “One, two, five…” I heard her protests when I tried to walk away before she had finished counting (which is kind of funny since she can only count to ten). I wish desperately that I could find within myself the joy that seems to be brimming in her. So much of the anxiety and frustration I experience on a daily basis is born from a deficiency of joy. My daughter schools me. I need to hold my life with open hands; to view the world with the eyes of wisdom but also to view the world with the freshness of a child. Let me have the veil of cynicism removed to see the mystery of the world anew.

The Campfire

What is it about the campfire that transfixes the eyes and hearts of men? What power lies locked in those smoldering embers that draws and opens the soul? We sit in the day’s waning hours bound to it by a force more powerful than a desire for heat. We are bound to a sort of community of flame. In a world of illumination what power does this conflagration still hold on us?

The only comparison is the pull that television and other visual media have on us. How many of us have watched with perverse interest at the way the eyes of a child are drawn to the flashing images on the screen? How many of us, if we were honest, would confess to feeling that same pull ourselves? How many conversations have been derailed; how many conflicts begun because our attention leaned into its siren song? Visual media often draws us into isolation because our minds cannot forebear to alight on anything else. The flames however speak to us in a different language. Like the tongues of fire in the book of Acts they speak in a way that we can understand and comprehend translating themselves into the deepest questions of our heart. In the light of the campfire deep recesses are unlocked and the secret murmurs of the heart are heard. Far from the frame-a-second barrage from television and movies, the fire works not to suspend but to engage the mind.

So what of the campfire? Why does this chemical reaction of spark and wood and oxygen have such a similar pull; a similar allure? Perhaps we hearken back to an earlier age when the fire brought forth certainty; the assurance of food and safety and warmth. We hear the stirrings of the forest around us. We hear the creatures prowling about on the fringes, yet within the circle there is peace. Within the circle there is comfort. Perhaps the circle of light into which we are drawn echoes the security we desire for our souls. Perhaps we long for the divine intervention as on Sinai. In those flickering flames we draw near to hear, as Moses did, the voice of God.

Far from isolation, however, the fire draws us instead together into a community bound by flame. How many conversations have begun between the crackle and snap of combustion? As the permutation of wood into ash, the tongue itself is loosed. Even the staunchest isolationist has found himself saying things and feeling less alone. The awkwardness that plagues many of us is consumed in that circle; perhaps consumed as the very trees we burn, transformed into a climate of tolerance. Even the walls we have erected within our hearts and minds seem melted by the heat of that fire; dissolved by the slow, unpredictable dance of the flames in the night.

I cannot help but wonder whether we would not be better served by setting more sparks to flame; by sitting down beside the fire at dusk. The answer rings clear in my heart. The answer contains less screen time and more time spent within the circle. There are lessons to be learned, it would seem, as we are drawn closer to the simmering embers. Irrational as these musing seem, there is a mysterious truth to the mingling of tongues of flame and branches; life from death; form to formless; ashes to ashes. We have much to learn if we only would clear the space; to light the fire.