Blessed be the wide-open field spread out before me. Lilies dance in the sunshine. Wind blows life throughout the vast expanse, even as the hours slow and the days pass without counting.

I didn’t know my path would hold this open field. I was as surprised as any, but we know that life comes with no map. The Guide only whispers a steady stream of reassurances: “Behold. This day is one you’ve never seen before.”

The journey has held twists and turns, long paths that stretch for as long as the eye can see, and switch-backs that left me nauseous and confused. The canopy of trees has provided shade and contained mysteries, the horizon hidden from view.

For now, the horizon is infinite. The dirt trail dissipated as I walked it.  I know that trail holds steady behind us, always there when I need to remember how I got here.  All I can see are tall grasses, wildflowers of yellow, blue, lilac. The Guide gets quiet right as we emerge. No more “Keep going.” 

Instead, she pulls up two chairs, and we sit down, a few paces into the expanse. Adjacent, we look out and take it all in.  We consider the lilies, how they grow. There is no toil nor spin. We are as astonished as Solomon would be.

From here, I can see what is beyond the field – new canopies of branches interwoven together. It entices my curiosity, but I am in no hurry. To run ahead would be to abandon the Guide. If I have learned anything along the way, it is this: I have no interest in traveling without her. The Guide’s eyes see what mine fail to notice; her ears tuned to the wild; her compass points to places I yearn for but cannot articulate. She knows The Way while I live on the cusp of even imagining it all.

Blessed be the Guide who sits with me. She is kind and gentle, and her fierce sense of adventure is as ethereal as corporeal. “Here is where we shall dwell for a time. Now we catch our breath,” she says, with birdsong accompanying this season’s instructions. She might be the wise one who heard there is treasure here, selling all that she has to buy the field that holds it.

Knowing that resting after a long season of travel can be as discomforting as relieving, she assures me as the hours pass. “Fear not the stillness, even as other travelers call out from their path in the woods. Begrudge not the time and its passing. When the sun goes down on the field, we’ll tune our senses so that our ears can pick up what our eyes cannot.  Here is where some tomorrow will begin. The beauty we witness here will transform into the very muscle and heartbeat which will carry us on when the time comes, for the field is the birthplace of our next adventure.  But for now, bless the chair which holds you. Bless the beautiful field which is ours to behold. Bless the beholding as your new job, for which you were ordained all those years ago.”

Dear friend, know that I am spending my days lost in wonder. The field is neither mine nor the chair in which I rest, but I dwell with the Guide as she dwells with me. It might take a lifetime before we begin again – blessed, rested, and ready to rise.  Until then, you’re welcome to come to visit. Pull up a chair and join us as we pause and give thanks for the dirt trail behind us, the field before us, and the horizon beyond us. Blessed be the friends who sit with me and declare, with grins on our faces: It’s beautiful.

There is so much uncertainty, overwhelming fear, and disconnection during this global pandemic, that I am resolving to remain more curious than certain.  I hope to spend these weeks considering all the big questions, but I also have to live with contentment so that I don’t lose my mind in the process.

Inspired by Kelly Corrigan’s brilliant, Tell Me More: Stories About the 12 Hardest Things I’m Learning to Say, here’s what I’m learning that I can say to keep me grounded and free. Continue reading