Rendezvous with Friends
The little circle of folding chairs, unrolled mats, one ice chest . . . strategically position in the shade of a big old black walnut tree. The silence began.
The setting, Rooks Park, part of the Mill Creek water shed flood control and water source for Walla Walla, WA, is just far enough out of the urban area so that the ambient noise of humans is minimized. The first meeting of the Society of Friends for this new academic year.
Silence. Even the birds participated in the silence, until something provoked a gaggle of Canada geese into a session of raucous honking.
Most of the time my eyes were closed, head bowed down. I did have to shift my position, my left shin so very sore and painful from that fall. Yet that skin, with its incessant itching, and no way to relieve it.
My mind did wander. But I tried to focus. Focus on the people who have and do mean so much to me. Focus on one who I have forgiven and wonder if he will ever be healed. Focus on the ones where something might have been.
I tried to focus on perspective. A stand-back look at the history of the religion of my formidable years.. Looking back at a time about 2400 years ago when a traumatized people were documenting their reconstructed history and status as a nearly destroyed people. The story of their god . . . the god who had chosen them as "his people." And their sordid history of "doing evil in his sight" over and over and over again . . . until they were totally humiliated by a Babylonian king.
Looking at the desperation of descending purists, the conservatives, the traditionalists, the hard-core right in the Maccabean attempt to cleanse and re-establish their law-based, salvation by works theocracy.
Looking again at the horrific political divisiveness between the Jewish liberals and conservatives in the era of the Great King Herod. The ultra-conservative Essenes, the Zealots of the Law, the theocracy in exile in Qumran.
Looking again at the conflict between extreme xenophobia, extreme separation, extreme hard-core religious control by those who claimed to be the heirs of their leader's brother, Jesus. And those who followed Paul, who only knew of a visionary experience of the Christ . . . and who turned every zealot's confining, restricting, shackling law of orthodoxy on its head.
I tried to focus on why politics in the United States today is so fraught with fractiousness between the zealots adherent for the imposition of an ancient law and those who would transcend to live by the spirit of that law.
Trying to focusing on what this all has to do with me.
And then the slap, slap, slap.
I opened my eyes. Looked up toward the noise. A couple of young kids on long-boards. Barreling along a nearby paved pathway. The rhythm of the slap of their right foot on the pavement. Two dogs. The little one just running, trying its best to stay in front of its wagging tail. The other, a big, black lab, taught on his leash, pulling one of the kids on his long-board. The hill made them stop, and walk. And at the turn at the crest, start off again. The wagging tails shaking the dogs with their freedom and joy.
I tried to focus again. On the parts of a little flower I have been trying to identify in my plant key. Since it is a "weed" in our yard, it might not be a wild flower at all, but rather a domestic gone wild. How I like that term. A domestic gone wild. Liberation. No constraint imposed by a gardener's trowel. Just anchored in the soil of the wild. Exposing its showy flowers to any who will look. The beauty and freedom and liberation of a domestic gone wild.
Then, the sound of a crash.
We all looked up.
A bicyclist, coming the opposite direction from the dog-pulling boys, failed to negotiate the curve and the hill. Bike, body, limbs . . . skidding on unforgiving man-made pavement.
The cyclist did get up. Did get back onto his bike. Did slowly ride on.
The period of silence was now over.
We stood. Held hands. Raised them high to our individual and personal realization of the infinite.
And for a fleeting moment, experience the domestic gone wild.
The Refectory Manager
The setting, Rooks Park, part of the Mill Creek water shed flood control and water source for Walla Walla, WA, is just far enough out of the urban area so that the ambient noise of humans is minimized. The first meeting of the Society of Friends for this new academic year.
Silence. Even the birds participated in the silence, until something provoked a gaggle of Canada geese into a session of raucous honking.
Most of the time my eyes were closed, head bowed down. I did have to shift my position, my left shin so very sore and painful from that fall. Yet that skin, with its incessant itching, and no way to relieve it.
My mind did wander. But I tried to focus. Focus on the people who have and do mean so much to me. Focus on one who I have forgiven and wonder if he will ever be healed. Focus on the ones where something might have been.
I tried to focus on perspective. A stand-back look at the history of the religion of my formidable years.. Looking back at a time about 2400 years ago when a traumatized people were documenting their reconstructed history and status as a nearly destroyed people. The story of their god . . . the god who had chosen them as "his people." And their sordid history of "doing evil in his sight" over and over and over again . . . until they were totally humiliated by a Babylonian king.
Looking at the desperation of descending purists, the conservatives, the traditionalists, the hard-core right in the Maccabean attempt to cleanse and re-establish their law-based, salvation by works theocracy.
Looking again at the horrific political divisiveness between the Jewish liberals and conservatives in the era of the Great King Herod. The ultra-conservative Essenes, the Zealots of the Law, the theocracy in exile in Qumran.
Looking again at the conflict between extreme xenophobia, extreme separation, extreme hard-core religious control by those who claimed to be the heirs of their leader's brother, Jesus. And those who followed Paul, who only knew of a visionary experience of the Christ . . . and who turned every zealot's confining, restricting, shackling law of orthodoxy on its head.
I tried to focus on why politics in the United States today is so fraught with fractiousness between the zealots adherent for the imposition of an ancient law and those who would transcend to live by the spirit of that law.
Trying to focusing on what this all has to do with me.
And then the slap, slap, slap.
I opened my eyes. Looked up toward the noise. A couple of young kids on long-boards. Barreling along a nearby paved pathway. The rhythm of the slap of their right foot on the pavement. Two dogs. The little one just running, trying its best to stay in front of its wagging tail. The other, a big, black lab, taught on his leash, pulling one of the kids on his long-board. The hill made them stop, and walk. And at the turn at the crest, start off again. The wagging tails shaking the dogs with their freedom and joy.
I tried to focus again. On the parts of a little flower I have been trying to identify in my plant key. Since it is a "weed" in our yard, it might not be a wild flower at all, but rather a domestic gone wild. How I like that term. A domestic gone wild. Liberation. No constraint imposed by a gardener's trowel. Just anchored in the soil of the wild. Exposing its showy flowers to any who will look. The beauty and freedom and liberation of a domestic gone wild.
Then, the sound of a crash.
We all looked up.
A bicyclist, coming the opposite direction from the dog-pulling boys, failed to negotiate the curve and the hill. Bike, body, limbs . . . skidding on unforgiving man-made pavement.
The cyclist did get up. Did get back onto his bike. Did slowly ride on.
The period of silence was now over.
We stood. Held hands. Raised them high to our individual and personal realization of the infinite.
And for a fleeting moment, experience the domestic gone wild.
The Refectory Manager
posted by The Refectory Manager | 7:36 PM
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