Loving the World

An Attempt at Letting Grace Swallow Me

First Fall, by Maggie Smith

I’m your guide here. In the evening-dark
morning streets, I point and name.
Look, the sycamores, their mottled,
paint-by-number bark. Look, the leaves
rusting and crisping at the edges.
I walk through Schiller Park with you
on my chest. Stars smolder well
into daylight. Look, the pond, the ducks,
the dogs paddling after their prized sticks.
Fall is when the only things you know
because I’ve named them
begin to end. Soon I’ll have another
season to offer you: frost soft
on the window and a porthole
sighed there, ice sleeving the bare
gray branches. The first time you see
something die, you won’t know it might
come back. I’m desperate for you
to love the world because I brought you here.

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This week I took my teens into the woods of Virginia, to spend time in the mountains hiking and breathing in the smells of autumn. There was much to distract us from being present during this time, but for brief moments there was only ribbons of sunlight pouring over waterfall streams, a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains dappled by colored trees, the sunrise calling people out to watch as the sun finally crested over the peak of the mountain.

All the while, I heard the refrain, love the world, love the world, love the world, calling me to engage in a certain stance. And yet, I can’t help but wonder, how to remember to love the world even knowing that it will break my heart?

I am imagining that as this writing arrives it may be something that many don’t see, with eyes and minds on the upcoming news of election day. What will this week look like, I wonder? What will unfold? Can we still love the world in the midst of what will feel like turmoil to some, victory to others?

I do not know, but this much I do—the fall will still be here for me to remember and to love, the sunrise and the streams of sunlight over water, the smells of fallen leaves in crisp air, the teenagers who need my eyes perhaps to see for them what they don’t yet know. It will all still be here. And so an eternal voice seems to call out to me, I’m desperate for you to love the world because I brought you here.

Knowing that there is so much already to read, to watch, to pull at attention, I want to offer simply this hope and prayer: in the anxious watching, in the divided viewing, in the deeply held desires, may there also be love for the world this week—for you, friend, and for me. May we live in the middle place, the yes and, the awareness that there can be more than one emotion, more than one awareness, at a time. May we each and all find the just right person or place or snuggly blanket to hold us this week—in our joys, in our griefs, in our anger, in our celebration.

Last week, after I wrote of Vidya, wisdom, my pastor reminded us that same day that wonder and awe are the beginning of wisdom. Indeed, as a friend wrote to me, it is healing to stand in a posture of being awe-struck—and healing brings wisdom. So then friends, find your awe this day.

As I drove the Skyline Drive yesterday, winding through the Blue Ridge Mountains, this is exactly the posture in which I was placed—awestruck by the vastness and size, the colors of trees, the light cascading over. I thought of not one other thing to come in that time. I think that perhaps might be wisdom for the moment. If you can imagine it, I didn’t even take a picture.

Perhaps your posture is under the morning or evening stars, or watching the sunrise or the sunset. Maybe your posture is around a delicious meal or sipping a good glass of wine. It could be listening to an aria or to the sound of laughter. Search out your awe, dear friends, that you may align to something great and good, to something true and wise, that you may be well. It is not the only thing, I know, but it is a very important thing.

Be well, friends. Take good care of your heart and I’ll be back next week with a practice.