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In her book When the Heart Waits, Sue Monk Kidd tells a story about her Grandfather. "My grandfather was a lawyer, a judge, and a farmer. He was frequently busy and conquesting, but I remember also that he sometimes entered the golden moments of wu wei. He and I used to go fishing at one of the little ponds on his farm. He would sit and hold his cane pole over the water, becoming as still as the stumps that jutted up from the water. I usually tired of fishing fairly soon and went on to other things, like dandelions. One day having given up on the fishing, I was playing in his old black truck when I noticed that his fishing bait was still on the seat. I remember being surprised that my grandfather had been out fishing an hour or more without bait.
I grabbed the bait basket and raced over to him, "Grandaddy, how can you fish without bait?"
He tilted back his hat and smiled as if he had been caught in some delicious secret. "Well, sometimes it's not the fish I'm after," he said, "it's the fishing."
That's not easy to come by in a world where we are reminded to live life faster, bigger and newer. . .in order to claim the "life we deserve." In the meantime, of course, life is full, difficult, complicated, messy, frustrating and demanding. We are tired, exhausted, overwhelmed, beleaguered, stressed, frazzled, plum tuckered, drained, sapped, running on empty, fatigued, done in, overbooked, gummed up, stuck, trapped. . .and at times, we are without a clue.
Well, here's the deal. This Sabbath Moment was not on my "radar." I am supposed to be in Antigua, Guatemala.
Today.
But schedules do change.
My trip in now slated for late May and early June. Which means that back home--here on Vashon Island--on my desk, another kind of list awaits. Expectations, emails to answer, bills to be paid and decisions to be made. The list has been there for some time (here's my secret--as long as I travel, I convince myself that I can steer clear of that list).
So. I surely benefited from a weekend of efficiency and catching up and productivity?
Not really.
I'm afraid I didn't get to anything on that list.
I decided to spend the weekend in my garden. Two stretched-out-days of pruning, puttering, futzing, pruning, wandering, weeding and assessing the damage from our wetter than normal winter--raining 28 out of 31 days in March alone. (Although I'm wondering, how many times can the depiction "wetter than normal" be used in Seattle?)
Standing by our pond, I remember the list waiting on my desk. And decide I am quite skilled at avoidance. Or at least that's what I tell myself. But isn't it curious--by our cultural standards, and the way we measure and weigh--that we deem any withdrawal or retreat into a garden (or any place for replenishment) as an indictment. You know, we are obviously "biding time until the real work can begin." As if we need to justify--or explain or shed light on--this kind of expenditure of time.
"Really," we assure anyone who wonders or questions, "there's a very good reason for all of this."
Standing by my pond, what comes to me is that I don't have a very good reason. Except this one, from Hanna Rion,
"The greatest gift of the garden is the restoration of the five senses."
Sometimes, without even knowing it. . .
We need times and places to decompress.
We need times and places just for fishing.
We need times and places to live quietly.
Last week I read Dominique Browning's, Slow Love. She lost her high-profile job as the editor of House and Garden magazine, her beloved house in Westchester, her sense of purpose, her sense of proportion and her sense of self. "I am long past due for a personal renovation," she writes, "but my toolbox feels empty." What she discovered is that when the toolbox feels empty, that's the best time for fishing.
Truth is, even in Guatemala I would have had an agenda. I guess I'm glad my plans were derailed. Our flowering red currant shrub is ready to unfurl its cheerful, copious and generous blooms of carnation red. I'm giddy, and I have temporarily forgotten what is next on the list.
Someone said that when we lose awe, we replace it with religion.
Tonight, out on our pond, the Pacific tree frog chorus has begun. From what I can tell, they are doing something from Credence Clearwater Revival--a concert that is boisterous, energetic and filled with jubilation. But given our winter, can you blame them? Their song is a welcome indication that spring is around the corner. You don't need to step outside to hear them, but when you do, the night air is filled with something akin to hope. I'm not sure whom they are singing to, or why. But that doesn't seem to stop them. And for that, I'm very glad.
A new dervish sat in a Sufi khaniqah when the Master--walking through the room--said in passing to one of the older dervishes, "Go clean your room. I'll look at it later." The older dervish moved to a quiet corner to meditate, while the new dervish went out to work. Much later, the new dervish returned to the room where he found the older man still sitting in the corner. With a very concerned expression he asked, "What are you doing? Aren't you going to clean your room?" The older dervish looked up at him and smiled. "The Master meant my heart."
(1) The fishing story from When the Hear Waits, Sue Monk Kidd
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