But he was also very lonely.

So, one day, he stood in the middle of his fields to welcome the animals. He stayed there from dawn until dusk, with his arms outstretched, calling to them. But, not a single animal came.

Not a single creature appeared.

They were terrified, you see, of the farmer's new Scarecrow.

Last week I re-watched The Doctor, a movie about surgeon Jack McKee (William Hurt); the story of an aloof, self-centered heart surgeon who treats his patients like numbers on a list. Then he gets sick himself--cancer--and is not prepared for the paradigm shift. And his sickness (and vulnerability) gives him the opportunity to change his life. The story of the farmer is from the movie, and is about that paradigm shift.

I admit it. I like my fields orderly. I like my world tidy. Free from commotion and disruption and creatures. Life feels understandable or manageable that way. And there is an artifice of control.

See (I somehow assure myself), my world is in place.

My script is in place.

And yet, like the farmer, I feel threatened.  Although that's not quite the right word; more like undefended or vulnerable. Meaning that if I do expand my world, open my fields, invite them (or another) into this world, I (and my heart) am exposed to touch. To connection. To kindness. To empathy. To wounds. To love. To untidiness. To generosity. To loss. To bounty. To the unknown.

Because these creatures--whatever or whoever they represent--may not handle me or my world with care.

Here's the deal: Deep down, maybe I don't really want intimacy. I just want security.

The 1988 film Gorillas in the Mist tells the story of Dian Fossey, courageous field biologist, as she managed to befriend a tribe of gorillas. Dian had gone to Africa in footsteps of mentor, George Schaller, a renowned primate biologist who had returned from the wilds with more intimate and compelling information about gorilla life than any scientist before.

When his colleagues asked how he was able to learn such remarkable detail about the tribal structure, family life, and habits of gorillas, he attributed it to one simple thing: he never carried a gun.

You see, all previous generations of explorers and scientists entered that territory with one assumption: the gorillas were dangerous. So the scientists came with an aggressive spirit, large rifles in hand.

The gorillas could sense the danger, and kept distance. What a surprise.

And yes, I do enter many (okay, most) of my relationships well armed. (Just in case.) And I wonder why guardedness takes root in my spirit.

I like that Fossey always moved slowly, gently, and above all, respectfully toward these creatures. Sometimes sitting still, hour after hour.

Anything will give up its secrets if you love it enough.  

George Washington Carver

It's as if we want them both. You know, I want my field free of creatures (who knows what they will do). And I want the creatures to be my friend (but why are they so suspicious of me?). It's a tug of war between the unknown (the mystery) and the need to be held very tight and told, "You are okay now."

In The Doctor, McKee is telling his friend June--fellow cancer patient--about his difficulty connecting with his wife; living a life full of misunderstanding, apprehension and wariness. And how it constricts his heart.

How he no longer wants "an empty field."  

He wants company.

"I've kept her out here for years," he says with his hand and arm raised and outstretched. "And I don't want that anymore. But I don't know how to get my arm down."

June writes a letter to Jack (delivered after her death), with the story of the scarecrow. And closes with this invitation: just let down your arms, and we'll all come to you.

Tell me again...

Just let your arms down. 

Waiting to see if someone comes. 

Tell me again...

Just let your arms down.

I spent yesterday with a lively group in Cincinnati--gathered at the Sisters of Charity Spirituality Center--and we laughed and colored and told stories and asked about what would happen if we gave ourselves permission to pause, and live from the heart.

Yesterday afternoon a drive from southern Ohio to Huntington, Indiana, through the Midwestern landscape of my childhood, past corn fields, acres still not harvested. Now a parchment brown and their work done, the corn stalks acquiesce, tasseled heads deferentially bowed. The melancholy of harvest time (winter is close by) is contrasted by the rainbow of colors in the leaves beyond the field; ruby, orange, ginger and butternut squash yellow. Beyond the horizon, the sun sets behind a bank of clouds, a ragged rectangle, as if an abandoned or war torn wall with holes, where shafts of light peek and spill, where the shadows and light dance and play.