The Hiddenness of Things

I can run the same loop in the woods a thousand times, the rote memorization of steps, like reciting a poem in seventh grade, the rhythms, the rhymes, but still be shaken awake by a newly scribbled stanza, or a word I need to look up, or a truth hobbling oddly across my path like an otter playing hooky out of the muddy river, finding his way home, or trying to escape. 

 

One morning, scanning the open field around me as I jogged past, a silent deer observed me, only his head visible above the tall grasses, like God watching, even when I don’t know it.  And the next day, feathers incredibly blending into the rotting base of an old tree, a barred owl not ten feet away, standing guard over his kingdom, my slowness enlarging my eyes to what is actually around me.  I hear the presence of invisible creatures rustling the leaves, no longer noises of fear but stirring my curiosity.

I know my four-year-old granddaughter Lu will not be asking, “Did you see anything on your run today?” but “What did you see?”  She expects wonders and what is precious embedded in every sunrise, around every corner, on the floor of the car, she who is reluctant to release the day for fear of missing something or letting go the lingering sweetness of what is left or what can be yet squeezed out and discovered, maybe what she was looking for hiding under the bed, or finding the missing pieces covered by the rug, or discovering one lone cookie in the bottom of a seemingly empty bag. 

What was that?  Did you hear that noise? She grabs at the thinnest ray of hope, even the most obscure, to stay awake a few moments longer, to stretch out the day.  Always more, always more. In an effort to slow down that sprint, we lay down side by side, watching the smoke detector light on the ceiling flash at intervals, and I hope that she falls asleep between those visible beeps of red, but she never does, just squirms some more, asking, asking, first of water and then of me when I was a little girl, stories I tell about the olden days, which to her would be last week, things that really happened to just another little girl, which was me before I got old like this, under another layer of paint every ten years or so, faded from my 40 days and nights on the ark.  We are two little girls. The number of my years do not matter to her, but the stories.

I am running differently now.  What will I see this day?  What will keep me awake tonight, reluctant to let go?  Live in Lu’s kind of wonder, the fullness of what is.

This is the LORD’s doing;

it is marvelous in our eyes.

This is the day

     that the LORD has made;

let us rejoice

     and be glad in it.

            Psalm 118. 23-24