Caretaking

Roaming around New Mexico, I’ve felt right at home. It’s rained every day! And not just sprinkles. I’m talking full-blown thunderstorms, including hail. When I tell people I left Portland to get out of the rain, they thank me for bringing relief from the drought. While I can’t take credit, I also can’t feel sorry for myself. Besides, there’s nothing like being warm and dry under the covers in the RV when the rain is beating down a few inches above my head!

Susanne is riding along for a week. Saturday night in Santa Fe we ran into two women—sisters escaping Tucson for the long weekend. When it was mentioned that I was traveling the country “looking for God”, the more animated of the two (“Cheryl with a ‘C’”) tilted her head quizzically and said, “That’s ridiculous!” Placing her hand on my chest, she added, “God is right here.”

Earlier in the day, we visited the Taos Pueblo—where we purchased a dream-catcher and Christmas ornament from a Red Willow craftswoman named Jeri. Maybe it was the ornament, or maybe Jeri’s question about where we were from and what we were doing, but somehow the subject of God arose.

“The way I was raised,” Jeri mused, “We don’t talk about God as a ‘person.’ God is Spirit. And we see God in everything—the sun, the moon, the stars, the trees, the plants, the animals, the water. So when we pray, we pray to the Spirit in all life. And we become caretakers of all things. We only use what we need. We respect the land, the animals, and especially the water. Water is our most precious resource.”

Jeri told of rinsing herself in the creek that runs through the Pueblo—to ease her sorrow after the deaths of her husband and son. “My grandma told me,” she concluded prophetically, “that some day men would fight over water…”

Of course my quest is ridiculous. Of course God is a Spirit that animates all. And of course we should take better care of our land, our water, and each other. It’s really that simple. But I wonder: When will those truths sink in? And when will we ever stop fighting?

For now, I’ll keep traveling…

(Santa Fe, NM)

Desire

I had a lovely dinner Saturday evening at the Tucson home of Pat and Don Williams. In addition to fixing some great tamales (a “Tucson tradition”), they invited seven friends to liven the conversation. And the crowd didn’t disappoint.

Over the course of four hours, I spoke with everyone, either individually or in small groups. While they were all interested in my journey, they were equally eager to share their own.

Ethnically and demographically, the group was homogenous—all white and over 50. But theologically, there was considerable diversity. One referred to herself as a former “spiritualist” who currently participates in an Edgar Cayce study group. Another, raised Catholic, now calls himself an atheist—though he attends a Unitarian church “for community.” Sandy and Glenn, founders of “The Shyann Kindness Project” (www.Shyannkindness.org), are active in a non-denominational Christ-centered church. Sandy’s mother, visiting from New Jersey, is a devout Catholic who relies on daily mass and devotion to nourish her relationship with God.

Three of the guests disclosed visions that defied explanation; Pat described numerous “coincidences” she believes were divinely inspired rather than serendipitous.

I’m finding that such unexplainable occurrences aren’t uncommon. And while I was moved by each of the stories, I was even more intrigued by the way each guest welcomed the invitation to talk.

As much as people yearn for connection to the Divine, they likewise desire communion with other seekers. If Saturday’s gathering was any indication, people are hungry to share their spiritual journeys. Rather than resist my questions, they welcome them. And that includes increasing numbers of complete strangers.

Another take-away from the evening. The tangible consequence of faith—for each of the guests—was service. Caring for others is integral to their lives. Even the atheist was deeply concerned about “doing the right thing.” A quote on Don and Pat’s refrigerator captured a collective attitude: “Activism is the rent I pay for living on this planet.” These folks didn’t just talk about God—they lived the relationship.

“We have all come to the same place,” writes Hafiz. “We all sit in God's classroom. Now, the only thing left for us to do, my dear, is to stop throwing spitballs for awhile.”

I felt myself in God’s classroom Saturday. And while I’ve barely begun to touch upon the evening’s depth, a palpable energy emerged simply from the sharing of our stories. No spitballs here—just much to learn from each other.

(Gallup, NM)

Fairways

Five people have now told me that they find God on the golf course. “It’s so beautiful and peaceful out there,” said Joan. “It’s not the golf that gets me to the course,” agreed Stephen. One friend offered to pay for a round at any course in the country. Another suggested that I search for God exclusively on golf courses, and call the book, “I’m looking for God in the fairways but keep getting lost in the woods.”

Millie—who I met last week in the parking lot of a hiking trail in Sedona—said she finds God through Qigong (pronounced she-gong). An ancient Chinese system of energy medicine, Qigong combines breathing, movement, and meditation to promote health and vitality. Millie began practicing several years ago, when she was seriously ill and her blood platelet count reached a life-threatening level. In a short time, she no longer needed medication—a cure she deemed unexplainable. “The fact that I don’t understand it is proof to me that there is a God,” she said. “And the conscious breathing remains a path.”

Tony finds God while running around the Lake of the Isles in Minneapolis. Struggling to capture the sensation, he said, “It happens all of a sudden—a feeling of calmness; everything is all right and nothing bothers me. It only lasts about 20 seconds, though.” Laughing, he added, “I just wish I could extend it!”

Some contend that there is only one way to God. Generally, I don’t doubt such a believer’s sincerity—or the efficacy of that chosen path. But I’ve already been privy to such a wide variety of heartfelt encounters that I can’t help but conclude that God wants to be known—and places few if any limits on one’s method of discovery.

“There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground,” observes Rumi. How many more avenues must lead to God?

A month into my journey, I think it’s safe to say that there are many “fair ways” toward the Divine—both on and off the golf course. We may get lost in the woods more than we’d like. But God, as it turns out, is easier to find than most of the balls I’ve shanked into the trees!

I think most of us, like Tony, yearn not only for engagement with God, but also for ways to extend the encounter. I hope to address that desire in future reflections.

In the meantime, I invite you to weigh in. How do you connect with God? And how do you prolong the experience?

I hope you’ll share your insights on the CONTACT page.

(Tucson, AZ)

Invitation

Still early in the hunt for America’s most heavenly cinnamon bun, I wandered into a bakery and sweets shop on Route 66 in Kingman, Arizona last week. Unfortunately, my hopes were immediately dashed by a bare bakery case.

The two young girls tending the counter said the baker had walked out three weeks earlier and hadn’t been replaced. They were down to candy and ice cream—neither of which appealed at the time. Reacting to my exaggerated disappointment, they said the local buns weren’t that good anyway. A lone customer, seated nearby, volunteered that his favorite came from a bakery in Bishop, California. Ironically, I had driven by the place two weeks earlier—but didn’t stop because I had just eaten breakfast.

The girls were gregarious, as was the fellow. Buoyed by their curiosity, I shared the more significant purpose of my journey, and asked where they thought I might find God. The younger girl suggested that her grandmother probably knew—since she once had a near-death experience. The other girl shrugged. When I looked at the man, he put a hand to his heart and said, “Right here.”

His response reminded me of a conversation several months ago with my friend, Terry Amato. After enduring cancer for several years, Terry died in March. In the course of what turned out to be our final visit, Terry—fully aware that his days were numbered—pointed beside him and said, “God is right here.”

As part of a recent group activity, I was invited to hold a small candle, stand in front of a mirror, and acknowledge God’s presence within myself. Rationally, I’ve never had a problem with that concept. Nor have I had trouble seeing God in other people—a perception that has only been reinforced during my travels. Theologically, the belief is widely embraced. When asked why the kingdom of God can’t be seen, Jesus is said to have replied, “The kingdom of God is in you.” (Luke 17:20-21) Even Catholic dogma refers to the body as a “temple of the Holy Spirit.” So the recognition of God’s inner presence is—in many faiths—meant to be taken literally, not figuratively.

But it’s one thing to acknowledge the notion intellectually. As the exercise revealed, it’s entirely different to purposely envision the Divine within. Once I was able to get out of my head, I slowly began to feel a connection. I’m sure the candle helped. In the end, all I could do was bow. It was a nice feeling. But no explanation can do it justice.

What I will say is that I came away from the experience with a strong sense of its implications. If we were truly conscious of a Divine presence within ourselves—and by extension, in others and throughout creation—how quickly would that awareness transform the world? How much more attentively would we care for ourselves? How much more thoughtfully would we treat each other? How much more consciously would we steward the environment?

Is such dramatic transformation possible? I don’t know. But at this point I give it better odds than finding a decent cinnamon bun in Kingman! We certainly have enough mirrors. And candles.

I invite you to give it a try.

PS. The best cinnamon bun so far was at the Alabama Hills Bakery and Café in Lone Pine, California. The waitress added a second one for free—which made it even better! And it was just as good warmed up the next day.

(Apache Junction, AZ)