Off Road Reflections

Note: Friends often ask, “How’s your book coming?” “Slowly,” I answer. This musing will likely be part of the book’s “Afterword.”  Consider it a sneak preview of the last chapter!

I am old enough to know that in this life you see what you look for, and you get what you are open to receive. And you belong to those whose company you cherish, for they will cherish you.

- Robert Fulghum, What on Earth Have I Done

It’s been nearly four years since I set out in my RV to look for God in America. Not a day goes by without some visceral memory of that 53-week, 26,000-mile odyssey. On the surface, it looked and often felt like a slice out of time. But it’s actually a journey I began long ago and will continue the rest of my life.

A friend recently pressed me over dinner. “You had such freedom! Now you have to work, keep up a house, and deal with all sorts of mundane details again. Has it been hard to adjust?”

“No,” I replied. “I’m with my family. I have a meaningful job and sense of purpose. I try to maintain a freedom of spirit—which makes every day an adventure. That’s worth more than the relative absence of obligations I enjoyed on the road. And I learned a lot—which serves me well in this political climate.”

My days look much like they did before—with a few notable exceptions. The home into which I moved is far smaller than the one I left, and I share it full-time with Susanne, to whom I’m now engaged. But I’m again leading a not-for-profit serving kids and families. And I continue to savor all the time I have with my children, grandchildren, and friends.

*

The divine is not external and separate from us. It is within and all around us. We need to trust it and let it flow; we need to be the flute through which God’s breath blows.

- David Howitt, Heed Your Call

People wonder, “Did you find God?” I’ve offered various answers. One angle—God is either everywhere or nowhere. When we die, we’ll find out. Or not.

If God is everywhere, everything is sacred. If God is nowhere, why should we have any less reverence for each other and our world?

On a plane a few months after the trip, I was chatting with an older man named Fritz. He spoke of “marrying” his grandson—prompting me to ask if he was a minister.

“Retired,” he replied. “Lutheran. But most congregations wouldn’t want me as a member now, let alone a pastor.”

“Why?” I pressed.

“Once I was off the payroll, I began looking at things differently,” he admitted. “Rather than ending sentences with the exclamation marks Luther suggested, I started asking questions. That’s not what most people want from their minister.”

As we parted, Fritz handed me his business card. On the back was this: It is better to travel expectantly than to arrive.

 I like to think I travel more expectantly these days.

*

 We all walk around within the numbness of our habits and routines so often that we take the marvels of ordinary life for granted…. Being human, we are unable to sustain the clarity necessary to apprehend the magic inherent in everything.

- Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening

We’re always moving. But we don’t stay anywhere long. Before we can fully appreciate one place, we’re off somewhere else. Which makes how we travel important.

Something I learned: When you journey with open mind, an open heart, and an open spirit, extraordinary things occur. The Divine is evident everywhere.

It’s not so much about finding God as it is about embracing the beauty and possibility everywhere. When I’m open and aware, I can’t help but experience the Divine. When I’m not, I don’t.

*

To each of us you reveal yourself differently.

- Rainer Maria Rilke, Book of Hours

People will never see eye to eye about God. While some prefer (and many insist upon) a neatly packaged version of the Almighty, I find varied revelations far more compelling. But when it comes to what really matters, there’s nearly universal accord. Religious or not, young or old, rich or poor, people come to surprisingly similar conclusions: Family. Friends. Community. Relationships. And that common ground is worth celebrating.

Like Anne Frank, I remain convinced that people are basically good. And kind. And well meaning. Notwithstanding conspicuous examples to the contrary. Yes, evil exists. Bad stuff happens. But compassion and generosity are far more common. Which is probably why they get so little attention.

Despite our differences, we all long to love and be loved. And we share a burning desire for connection—with each other and with something greater than ourselves.

God—by whatever word one refers to an immanent and transcendent reality—is a visceral experience, not an intellectual one. The connection takes place in the heart, not the head. It’s highly personal. And it can’t be ordained or mediated by another.

No philosopher or theologian can prove that God is. Or that God isn’t. Arguing over the existence and nature of something that defies irrefutable knowing is inherently futile—a form of mental gymnastics, undertaken at considerable cost to our spirits (which don’t deserve the abuse).

Ultimately, inevitably, we’ll return to the place from which we came. In the meantime, I continue to find love to be the most persuasive evidence of Divinity. For if love is not God’s essence, what else would be worth our engagement?

*

My work is loving the world… Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? Let me keep my mind on what matters…which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

- Mary Oliver, Messenger

When I asked a young man in Boston how he experiences God, he responded with his own rhetorical question: “I wonder how God experiences me?”

I recently had a dream. In it, I was back in the eighth grade—a pivotal and impressionable time. Though 13 again, I was aware of everything I’d learned in the ensuing 47 years. In other words, I “knew then what I know now.” And I was consumed by an understanding that I felt compelled to share with my classmates: All that matters is that we love the people who grace our lives.

When I woke, it dawned on me that the dream truly captured the essence of my trip. I do know now what I learned then. It’s all about love.

I’m not sure how God experiences me. But I could probably do a better job loving those whose paths cross mine. Surely, that would be a fitting tribute to my travels. And not a bad aim for the road ahead.

What's next

To journey without being changed is to be a nomad. To change without journeying is to be a chameleon. To journey and to be transformed by the journey is to be a pilgrim.  (Mark Nepo, The Book of Awareness, p 38)

For a year and a week, I felt like such a pilgrim—traveling 26,000 miles in my RV, another 1,000 on my scooter, and some 30,000 more on planes—across the country and around the world. To call the experience “eye-opening” doesn’t do it justice; “soul opening” is more apt.

My final week on the road took me through the Badlands and Black Hills, to Mt. Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Memorial, and finally to the Little Big Horn National Monument. I loved Mt. Rushmore. But the site of “Custer’s Last Stand” evoked the same melancholy sadness I felt at each of the Civil War memorials—an overwhelming sense that we still have a way to go when it comes to resolving differences. After viewing far too many graves at the scenes of America’s bloodiest battles, I wonder when we’ll start building more monuments to triumphs made in the name of Peace?

I knew the trip was over on the morning of April 27 when I walked into a Missoula, Montana bakery and couldn’t force myself to eat one more cinnamon bun. So I grabbed a coffee, hopped into the RV, and drove the remaining 580 miles back to Portland, stopping only for gas and restroom breaks. Occasional flashes of the “Check Alternator” light added a bit of an edge to my waning hours on the road. But frequent calls and text messages from my daughters and grand children urged me on and beckoned me home.

Two weeks later, I’m still catching up on family time—and beginning to get my feet on the ground. While it’s nice to have a bedroom, I do miss the RV. Despite early problems, the vehicle proved surprisingly reliable and resilient. Its eighty square foot interior held everything I needed and was always a comfortable refuge.

Besides adjusting to larger quarters, I’m also getting reacquainted with traffic. Having managed to avoid rush hour travel the entire year, I’m finding Portland a much larger city than the one I left only a year ago. Or so it seems.

“What’s next?” friends ask. “Time will tell,” I reply, surprised by both my ambiguity and lack of angst. Though fiscal realities necessitate an imminent return to work, I’m eager to begin attempting to capture the journey in a way that makes sense, both for me and for anyone else who may be interested. So most of my time in the coming months will be focused on looking for a job and writing a book. In keeping with earlier plans, I’ll spend two weeks in Minneapolis and another in Detroit. Susanne is trying to lure me to the big island of Hawaii for a couple weeks as well, promising that it’s one of the most palpable spiritual destinations in America, and suggesting that its lessons should not be omitted from whatever manuscript eventually emerges.

As I venture onward, I have a sense that my post-journey existence may appear, on the surface, remarkably similar to my pre-journey life. But looks, as they say, are deceiving. Nothing will ever feel the same. And that’s what matters.

“In reality,” my mother reflected on Facebook, “your journey is never over. Going home will be a new chapter and a new beginning.”

She’s right. Despite the fact that this adventure has ended, the spiritual journey is endless. Every day is a new chapter and each moment a new beginning.

“To make an end,” wrote T.S. Eliot in Four Quartets, “is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.”

I feel remarkably fortunate for all my experiences this past year—and look forward to weaving them into a meaningful tapestry. In doing so, I’m cognizant of Eliot’s further observation: “We shall not cease from exploration,” he concludes, “And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

I hope that’s the case.

(Portland, OR)

Homeward Bound

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,

then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,

go to the limits of your longing.

Embody me.

Flare up like flame

and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.

Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.

You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

-       Rilke’s Book of Hours, I, 59

The first pangs of homesickness hit on March 29. In retrospect, the reasons were obvious—starting with my presence in Austin, Texas, a city that bears striking resemblance to Portland. I spent my first morning there with John Springer, a friend from Portland. I also happened to be staying in a campground adjacent to a freeway, which was terribly loud—evoking a longing for the peace and quiet I associate (rightly or not) with “home.” And the wildflowers blooming everywhere were a striking reminder that this is the first Portland spring I’ve missed in 35 years.

A few days later, the fact that I passed two historical markers without an ounce of curiosity was another indication of my readiness to wrap things up. If I’m lucky, the oil change in Texarkana on April 6 will be the RV’s last one on the road, and it won’t need any further servicing until after I reach Portland on the 29th.

Since leaving Texas on the 7th, traveling north has been like going back in time. At each state border, the deciduous trees lost a full shade of green. They were dark in Texas, medium in Arkansas, light in Missouri, and just beginning to crack their buds in Illinois. By the time I reached Minneapolis, it was winter again—complete with snow on April 21.

Arkansas was an unexpected surprise—and not just because it was warm. While I had planned to stop in Little Rock, my original intent was to go from there to Memphis and Nashville, then on to a wedding in central Illinois. But I was advised to head north through the Ozarks instead—which took me into Illinois via Branson and St. Louis, Missouri.

The change enabled me to visit an old friend in St. Louis and a new one in southern Illinois. It also served up four other treats: Petit Jean State Park in Morrilton, Arkansas (where I narrowly escaped a huge thunderstorm on my return hike from Cedar Falls); Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas (the building is as impressive as the collection—and it’s free); Thorncrown Chapel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas (the loveliest church I’ve ever seen); and the Missouri Botanical Garden in St. Louis (which was just beginning to show its spring colors).

The flexibility has been nice. Another ten years would also have been nice, because that’s how long it would take to see all the equally compelling places I’ve missed! As it turns out, I never made it to seven states: West Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, Kansas, Nebraska, Oklahoma, and Iowa. And I only briefly passed through four others (Rhode Island, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, and Washington) on my way elsewhere. A year doesn’t do America justice. But for now, I’m happy to be homeward bound—because what I miss most is my family and friends.

That reality was prominently underscored during the wedding weekend in Bloomington, Illinois. It was extraordinary—not because it was elaborate, but rather because it was so simple, so authentic, so full of life and love.

The bride, Mary, is my college roommate’s younger daughter—the fourth of Joe’s five children. I had last seen her six years ago. And it had been 21 years since I’d seen Joe and Patty’s other four kids—Tom, John, Karen, and Jim—so this was my first experience of them as adults. Joe and Patty also have three grandchildren, who I met for the first time, and a fourth on the way—just like me.

It was wonderful to watch the five siblings engage so affectionately and playfully with each other and with their grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins and friends. The reception was a spirited family reunion—and the love was hardly limited to the bride and groom. The joy was most conspicuously embodied by 20 children under the age of 10—who claimed the dance floor hours before the adults were ready to join them.

“We are so busy looking for the big signs, the revelations,” writes Eric Weiner in his book, Man Seeks God, “that we miss the smaller ones, the glimpses of the divine that, collectively, might add up to something very big indeed!”

The wedding was just such a glimpse of the Divine—and a fitting reminder that, having fulfilled the limits of my longing, I’m ready to return to my own loved ones—those in whom the Divine has long been most evident.

Wherever it may be and in whatever form it takes, home is, for many, a slice of heaven on earth. And a very big one indeed.

(Rapid City, SD)

Turning

(For Kelly Ramzy, on her 22nd birthday)

Sometimes

the road takes us

where we’d rather not go.

The weather

is cloudy and cool

when we’re counting on

sunny and warm.

The friend

we wanted to see

is seeing someone else.

In other words,

life’s plans for us

flout our plans for life.

But we

still get to choose

our response.

That’s when

it’s helpful to remember

that we’re conceived

in the image

of a kindly Maker…

that we’re born

with our own unique

spark of divinity…

and that

every breath we take

is a fleeting and precious

gift.

We do well,

to humbly turn

and re-turn

to those deep awarenesses,

for,

as the old Shaker song reminds us,

When true simplicity is gained,

to bow and to bend

we will not be ashamed.

To turn, to turn,

will be our delight—

‘til by turning, turning,

we come round right.

(Hudson, IL)