Caminante, No Hay Camino

Caminante, no hay camino.
Se hace camino al andar. --Antonio Machado

Oh, you want a translation?

Traveller, there is no path.
The path is made by walking .

There is so much going on in my world right now. I feel these monumental pieces shifting inside, some of them disintegrating to dust while others move towards alignment, preparing to click into place. Looking inside, I wonder if those pieces that are about to click are now able to do so because of the pieces that have crumbled away? I am reminded of an Anne Lamott essay, in which she talks about the need for us to be distracted, sometimes, so that something beautiful can be born--how if we aren't distracted, our selves get too much in the way of the grace and beauty that are waiting to burst into our lives.


I've been so busy lately--with work, with friends, with class, with efforts to control my life--that I'm glad for this unexpected space that I've stumbled into, space that is giving me the chance to look around and truly see the world around me and myself within that world. There's a part of me that is terrified to think that there is no path . . . and another part of me that is deeply grateful and excited that the path is made by walking, simply taking one stumbling step after another.


I don't know the last time I recognized so clearly the healing that was going on in my heart and soul. It's as though I've been granted x-ray vision that sears through every layer and lays bare the inner core, and what I see sparks hope rather than fear.


In our pragmatic culture, we are not often given to visions, but every once in a while one will break through the layers of logic and practicality with which we surround ourselves. One broke through to me last Monday morning, early, when my logic layer was still soft and muddled with sleep.

It is morning, early. The room is still dark, though the light edging the horizon seeps through my blinds, and when I raise them, just a little, I can see the stark outline of the mountain against the eastern sky. It is the edge of dawn, the edge of night. I float in the space between, watching the deep blue-green sky shifting ever, subtly, to September dawn blue. There are no clouds; all is clear this morning.

I look out the window, and I rest there, for a minute or five, just being myself. I watch the dawn creeping up behind the mountains, and the deepness of the dome of the sky; I hear the birds and see them flinging themselves towards morning, and their silhouettes are free and joyful. The valley is deep in shadow yet, and the shadows are beautiful.

I see myself, this morning. I look out the window, but I am looking inside, deep inside, seeing the shadows spread across my soul, but seeing too the dawn outlining the edges of the mountains. One long ray of sunshine slips over the curve of the earth and shoots into the interior, bathing it in gold, a pure radiant fire. It is me; this is my life, and for the first time in too long (for the first time ever?), I see the core of strength that lies inside. It is not just that others see it in me; it is that I see it in myself, illuminated by that long ray of light. It may be shadowed again tonight, tomorrow, but even in shadow it is there. It is there, and now I know where to look, even when darkness falls.

I will grieve for what was lost. I can’t expect myself not to. I will grieve, and I will move into the pain—but I will also step out on the other side of pain and grief, as though climbing over the eastern mountains at sunrise. The western slopes will be in shadow as I climb, and I will stumble, and my breath will come short and my legs will ache, but I will edge over the summit and be bathed in light.

Blessings

Rain is falling in Missoula today.


The autumn rains have come, washing away the last remnants of summer. The rain fell yesterday and all last night, soaking into my sleep and my dreams. The open window at the head of my bed let in the chilly damp air, and I layered the blankets in a warm cocoon and slept long and well.


After the brightness and sunshine of summer, this is a shock to the system. After the smoky, forest-fiery days of late summer, this is a welcome change. I am getting more ready for fall. The leaves aren't quite turning yet--there are a few light greens and yellows here or there, but deep summer green is still reigning for a few more days or hours.


I'm sitting in the warmth of one of the numerous Missoula coffee shops, surrounded by people studying or sipping their lattes or typing away at their laptops, as I am. Conversation fills the air, a warm, homey sound. I like the low lighting and the sound of the espresso machine and the dim grey daylight filtering through the windows.


School has started, and once again I've dropped a course to keep my sanity. I am taking only one course now, the Literature of Sustainability, and it will be a good class, I think, despite one or two rather pretentious peers who too much like the sound of their own voices. Insha'allah they will come down to earth relatively soon and start making comments with actual substance. The prof seems to be a kindred spirit, a judgment I'm making solely on account of the expressions that cross her face as the discussion circles round the room. She has a sense of humor, and cares about what she's teaching.


Work is also going well. I've asked for and received a raise--every little bit helps--and I'm shifting from being a clueless intern to becoming a more significant part of our small office. Office work: sigh. I admit, however, that there is something satisfying about keeping things in order and running smoothly. I find that I am also, in the course of working on various projects (updating our cruise listings database, writing up a new tour for Costa Rica, etc.), learning a little bit about other parts of the world, and a lot more about our company. Being able to answer people's questions is extremely satisfying. I also get to talk to some interesting people--a USA Today reporter going to the Galapagos, the private physician of a British lord (!), a woman in the Marines serving in Iraq--and, while talking on the phone is not as nice as interacting with people face to face, it helps me feel a little more connected.




I will admit that life has been difficult lately. I am trying to see the blessings in my life--and they are there, very much so--but so often the sad bits overwhelm the blessings. If I were to list the blessings and sadnesses in my life, the list of blessings would be so much longer, and yet the sadnesses somehow manage to seep through, infiltrating the core of every blessing, making it nearly impossible for this weak amalgamation of body and mind and heart and spirit to feel hopeful or content for more than a few moments at a time.


It is the human plight, I know. If someone as godly and wise and patient and insightful as Henri Nouwen could go through a period of time in which he could not feel the presence of God, then what hope do I have to wholly avoid such an experience? Yet God is very much present. I do not know where he is, and I do not know how he works, and I do not know how he communicates with us--but I know that he is present, and that is a comfort.


A few blessings (in no particular order):


*birthday cards in the mail
*candles . . . care packages . . . love enclosed in bubble wrap
*rain
*parents who believe in love and prayer
*good art
*a quiet, candle-lit Vespers service last week
*friends who are doing well and settling into their skins
*a possible weekend trip to Las Vegas! . . . at least it'll make a good story . . .
*hot homemade soup
*hot baths on cold and rainy days
*wonderful people to work with
*tea
*fuzzy socks
*Old Post nachos
*the fact that forgiveness and peace and reconciliation exist in this world, and that there are stories of such goodness coming out on top even in the darkest of circumstances
*Bethie coming to visit me next week!
*a certain Baltimore babe and the exciting things happening in her life . . .
*my awesome roomie
*being on Jen's family email list :)
*artistic friends who create hilarious cartoons based on real events
*good books
*Robin McKinley's uncanny and enviable ability to create fantastic and wholly believable Other Worlds
*feeling the presence of God even when I want to accuse him of not paying attention
*the fact that I'm not actually in control of my life (have you ever noticed that the more one tries to control things, the worse off things become? I think I just need to stop thinking I know what I want)
*friends who know an appalling number of things about my life and somehow still manage to love me anyway . . . I was thinking about this the other day: we don't love people so much for their generic good qualities as for their quirks, right? I love you because you are, all of you, a little wacky, a little strange, and you break the bounds of boring normalcy, refusing to fit into some predictable mold, refusing to think you have to do so . . . I love you for your rebellions!




Hmm. I'm STILL not getting homework done. MUST GET INTO HOMEWORK GROOVE. MUST. HOMEWORK GROOVE, OR DIE! Urgh. This anti-homework rebellion is going to get me in trouble if it persists for too much longer. One must choose one's rebellions, I suppose. There must be more appropriate things against which to rebel . . . any suggestions?

Pre-Birthday Jitters

Tomorrow is my birthday. My (gulp) 27th birthday. What's the consensus: Is this the official move from the Mid-Twenties to the Late Twenties, or can I still claim myself as Mid-Twenties gal?

I was looking at my hair today. I'm having a good hair day, which is nice since I'm partying tonight. My hair is brown, but has lots of golden highlights from the Montana sunshine. I like the color very much, I must say. But 27 is getting awfully close to 30, and 30 is getting awfully close to 40 (right?), and somewhere between 30 and 40 a woman can expect some gray hairs, right? When it comes down to it, I have a limited amount of time in which to enjoy non-gray hair. I don't think I'm quite ready for gray hair yet . . .

Don't worry, that's not the only thing I've been thinking about today. It's a smoky day today--lots of wildfires around the state, and the air is close and warm and hazy.


Yesterday Teresa and I wanted to take advantage of the warm weather to go for one last tubing outing of the summer. Unfortunately, the Blackfoot was FREEZING. We waded in, gasping, and by the time we got into water up to our knees we couldn't feel our feet. So instead of the two-mile trip we'd planned, we walked up about 100 yards, put our tubes in, and numbed our butts while we floated back down. BRRRR!!!! I suppose this means that summer is officially over, but what if I'm not quite ready for that?







However, there are some new beginnings right now, too. One of them is that Teresa just adopted a dog from the Humane Society! Her name is Sasha, and she's 83 pounds of sweet and mellow Keeshond-cross mutt. Today I took her down to the river, and discovered that she loves water. She waded right in, and took off after some ducks that were floating down the river on the far side. After several minutes of concentrated calling and whistling on my part, she came back. (The fact that the ducks were rapidly putting distance between may have had some small part in her return . . . ) She's quite the princess!

This past week was also the first week of school--yet another change I'm not ready for. I'm sensing that this will be a busy semester for me--two classes plus 30 hours of working. I'm more than a bit apprehensive, but I've given myself three-day weekends, so I'm hoping that will help. (However, throughout the course of this lovely FOUR-day weekend I have done only an hour's worth of homework, so obviously I'm going to have to work on things like efficiency and motivation. Plah.)


Life is good, though. I'm reading "Reaching Out" by Henri Nouwen, and finding that it has a lot of relevance at this point in my life. He talks about the distinction between 'solitude' and 'loneliness,' and I am constantly amazed by his wisdom:

To live a spiritual life we must first find the courage to enter into the desert of our loneliness and to change it by gentle and persistent efforts into a garden of solitude. This requires not only courage but also a strong faith.

Unless our questions, problems and concerns are tested and matured in solitude, it is not realistic to expect answers that are really our own . . . . A lonely person has no inner time nor inner rest to wait and listen. He wants answers and wants them here and now. But in solitude we can pay attention to our inner self. In solitude we can become present to ourselves. [In solitude] we also can become present to others by reaching out to them, not greedy for attention and affection but offering our own selves to help build a community of love. Solitude does not pull us away from our fellow human beings but instead makes real fellowship possible.

I love the paradox. I love also the challenge in Nouwen's words. Lately I have felt God showing me a vision of the kind of person I can be. I don't know exactly what kind of journey it will be; I don't know exactly what path I need to take. But the simple fact that there is a path, that God does have changes planned for me, is enough. I am girding my loins and gathering my oft-faltering courage, and am taking steps, tiny steps, and am mostly moving in the right direction. This is a good thing to do now, at the beginning of my 28th year.