Embarking

After six months of planning and six weeks of intensive preparation, I finally set out on Sunday, April 20. The week’s “seventh day”—Biblically appointed a “day of rest.” And not just any seventh day either, but Easter Sunday—the pinnacle of the Christian year.

The day was remarkably restful—though not without mishap. The closet rod crashed down twice, both times spilling all my clothes, and a rock cracked the windshield less than a hundred miles from home. But just putting the groundwork behind was a relief. The sunny drive through central Oregon was magnificent. I received a warm welcome in Bend from my friend, Jenny (who provided both flat parking and electricity). But the day’s most affirming and encouraging gift was the send-off itself (see photo at the bottom of my home page). Susanne flew from Minnesota to join me for the first thousand miles. And our dear friends, Jackie and Tinker Hatfield (along with their family) prepared a wonderful brunch—inviting my children and grandchildren as well. Their generosity embodied the hospitality extended by so many people in recent months—friends who have offered encouragement and support, and who travel with me now in spirit.

The quest now begins in earnest. At its outset, I realize that my outward adventure is merely a pretext for a more critical inward journey necessary to embracing the divine presence within and about.

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes,” observes Marcel Proust, “but in having new eyes.”

“If there were a spiritual journey,” John O’Donohue adds, “it would be only a quarter inch long, though many miles deep… You do not have to go away outside yourself to come into real conversation with your soul and with the mysteries of the spiritual world. The eternal is at home—within you… There is nothing as near as the eternal.”

Rather than a human being on a spiritual journey, I perceive myself as a spiritual being on a human journey. I believe we all share, at our core, a primal curiosity to understand where we came from, and a primal longing for both connection and transcendence. How deep that journey takes me remains to be seen.

At the end of a long Easter day, both Jenny (a Presbyterian minister) and I were a bit weary. But I couldn’t help asking her husband where I might find God. He smiled. “Everywhere, I hope!”

I hope so, too.

Jenny Warner, outside her church in Bend, Oregon.

Downsizing

It began with the books—
bags and bags
gathered, perused,
and gifted to other, unknown readers…
 
Then the boxes—
photographs and memories,
of decades past,
re-lived and re-cycled
in one way
or another…
 
Then the furniture
and furnishings
of a 3,200-square-foot home—
much of it stored (in a 128-square-foot POD),
some sold (for dimes on a dollar),
many items donated (“Free” is a very good price!),
and a few placed in the homes of others
(family members, friends, and strangers alike)—
either temporarily
or permanently…
 
Finally the selection,
sorting,
and storage
of that which I still deem essential—
and can fit
in my 80-square-foot
rolling abode.
 
With each shedding
there is, surprisingly,
not a sense of loss,
but rather, relief—
a feeling of freedom—
of getting out from under
a weight that had become
heavier than I realized,
and more than I desire
to carry forward.
 
Slowly
consequently,
space opens
in my being—
enabling a more focused presence,
and allowing
the presents of life
to be more intensely felt,
embraced,
and savored.
 
Paradoxically,
the elimination of stuff
enhances appreciation
of what’s truly important.
 
What matters?
 
That I observe.
That I feel.
That I care.
That I celebrate.
That I love.
 
In the end,
that I live in the now—
and allow myself to behold
the divinity
that is ever
and all
encompassing.
 

Leaping

I’m now officially unemployed. Soon I’ll be homeless as well.

“It’s a leap of faith,” a friend wrote, “to leave something familiar and begin the next journey in our lives.”

Leaps of faith take many forms. Believing in God is one. Embarking on a quixotic hunt for God is surely another.

“Are you nervous?” people ask; many volunteer their fears.

Why should I be afraid? “Think of the flowers growing in the fields,” Jesus suggests in the sixth chapter of Matthew’s gospel. “They never have to work or spin; yet I assure you that not even Solomon in all his regalia was robed like one of these. Now if that is how God clothes the grass in the field which is there today and thrown into the furnace tomorrow, will he not much more look after you?”

The sentiment has great appeal to my inner child. But I must admit, it stretches the adult mind—especially when juxtaposed with an old story told by Anthony De Mello in Taking Flight.

After a long journey, De Mello recounts, a disciple arrives at the tent of his Sufi master. The man dismounts from his camel, enters the tent, bows respectfully, and says, “So great is my trust in God that I have left my camel outside untied, convinced that God protects the interests of those who love him.” To which the Master counters, “Go tie your camel, you fool! God cannot be bothered doing for you what you are perfectly capable of doing for yourself.”

There’s the rub. What am I capable of doing (and discovering) myself? And what’s best left to providence? What requires action? And what demands stillness?

Those are the questions occupying my mind these days. As for concerns about how long the money will last and what I’ll do when the journey ends—I’m content to put those aside for now.

Another friend offered this advice, credited to various sources, including Barbara Winter, Edward Teller, and “anonymous”:

"When you have come to the end of all the light that you know and you're about to step off into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing one of two things will happen to you. There'll be something solid to stand on or you'll be taught how to fly."

One consolation of age is the mounting awareness of how much I don’t know—and the corresponding sense that the unknown isn’t so dark. Yes, I’m stepping off. But I’m open to more than two possibilities. Time will tell whether I find solid ground, acquire wings, or come to something else entirely.

Longing

“There is an unprecedented spiritual hunger in our times,” writes John O’Donohue in Anam Cara. I’ve yet to encounter a dissenting voice among the dozens of people with whom I’ve spoken about my trip—not even from skeptics. That includes an atheist whose description of “awe” almost identically mirrored a Franciscan nun’s experience of God.  

The closest anyone came to resistance was the friend of a friend with whom I was traveling to a football game. When informed of my quest, he immediately responded, “I don’t want to talk about God.” Then, turning from his front passenger seat to face me in the back, he proceeded to converse for half an hour.

While I won’t leave Portland until April 21, a few people who’ve discovered my website have recently begun sharing their observations—and doubts. “Yours is the kind of project I would love to do,” writes Judy Potts, "and the sense of spiritual purpose I would love to possess. But God is so far from my experience—though not for lack of effort.”

Judy’s longing—in contrast to that of most others with whom I’ve spoken—is unrequited. But I admire the integrity with which she voices her deep-seeded hunger.

“Though I was raised in a fairly observant (Jewish) family,” she continues, “religion never meant much to me. It didn't move me. I know how much comfort and strength people find in their religious beliefs, as well as in their spiritual communities. I want to be one of those people. Life would be easier, maybe I'd feel safer, less alone, less anxious...

“It's odd because I experience and am aware of miraculous things that happen every day. It blows my mind that a huge tree can grow from a seed, that hummingbirds survive in the frigid winter, that snowdrops are blooming in my yard right now.

 “Today I was out in the snow, and right in front of me, an enormous sheet of ice crashed down from a power transformer above where I was walking. If I had been two or three steps ahead, I wouldn't be writing this. I'd either be dead or in the hospital with serious injuries.

“The question now arises in my mind: Are these phenomena created by a divine power or are they the result of the forces of the universe, science, etc. playing out? Was it chance that put me in a safe spot when the ice fell? Was it because I stopped to help someone put her books in the library drop box instead of just walking on? Was I being protected by a divine presence, or do I have good karma from being a kind person? Or what?

“I guess God's existence is just as likely to be true as not, and I sincerely wish I could come down on the side of assuming it's true until proven otherwise, instead of the opposite camp in which I can't help residing.”

I imagine even the most ardent believers–if they’re honest—have felt at least some of Judy’s misgivings. But few doubters so readily and eloquently acknowledge miracles in the same breath.

What intrigues me about Judy’s dilemma is the underlying tension it surfaces between good-hearted people of different persuasions who draw disparate conclusions from the same circumstances. Why do some people readily “see” God in the enormous tree that grows from a tiny seed, or the chance avoidance of a falling sheet of ice—and others come down in an “opposite camp” where they “can’t help residing”?

Many contend that faith is a gift. I won’t argue. But I’ll confess that I appreciate questions far more than answers. I’m moved by Judy’s quandary—and I welcome its open disclosure.

Judy’s struggle would certainly seem to validate the “unprecedented spiritual hunger” to which O’Donohue refers. More importantly, however, it affirms a hope at the heart of my journey—specifically, that my questions will invite reflection, and that the ensuing dialogue will be a bridge to insight, understanding, and connection—especially among those whose perceptions of the Divine differ.

“We are all made up of yearning and light," writes Mark Nepo in The Book of Awakening. Just recognizing our shared core may be a good place to start.