Connections

While driving up the California coast, I spent two nights at a campground in Marina, just north of Monterey.  Upon arrival, I was greeted by a Dutch couple in the adjacent site; their RV bore a large colorful mural that marked it as a rental. After exchanging pleasantries, the man sheepishly asked if I could use some toilet paper.

“Sure,” I laughed, expecting a few rolls. But out he came out with an unopened pack of 18. They had been traveling for two weeks, he explained, and had to return the vehicle to San Francisco the next morning—so they wouldn’t need the extra stock.

I suggested that he keep a couple rolls, just in case, then accepted the rest. Before I had even found a place to store the bounty, he was back with food. “We ordered pizza,” he shrugged, “and we would just have to throw this out.”

This time I said yes to a pair of chicken breasts, four hamburgers, and 24 eggs. I had the chicken for dinner and went to bed early.

I saw them again the next morning as they were preparing to leave. “How was your pizza?” I asked.

“It never came,” he said. “We waited two hours. Every time we called, they said it would be 10 minutes. But the guy never showed up.”

“Oh, no!” I moaned. “What did you eat?”

He shrugged. “We had some pop tarts in the freezer...”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I blurted. “I could have given your food back!”

He shrugged. “We didn’t think it would be right. Besides, it’ll make a good story when we get home.”

Intrigued by their equanimity, I told them about my journey. Without hesitancy or defensiveness, they said they didn’t believe in God. She made reference to karma, and spoke of her work as a nurse in a psychiatric institution—describing scenes in which patients of different faiths argued nearly to blows over the merits of their respective religions. His moral code was shaped by an innate sense of right and wrong; basically, his choices were governed by the feelings associated with his actions.

I was struck by their sincerity, kindness, and integrity. In that sense, they’re highly representative of the people I’ve encountered these past 11 weeks. No matter what they believe, most folks are inherently goodhearted.

“My husband and I recently toured the southwest,” wrote Pamela Williams-Gifford in response to a previous blog. “Naturally I expected to be, and was, inspired by the landscape. (But) what surprised me were the overwhelmingly consistent HUMAN connections we made. Across the board, at gas pumps, in diners, at motel registration desks, and scenic lookouts, we made connections at the heart level. I was shattered by the landscape, but I was humbled by human souls.”

Pamela eloquently captures the great gift of my travels thus far. I, too, have been impressed by the “heart level” connections—and am likewise humbled by the intrinsic goodness of the “human souls” making their way through this world we share. When we get away from what the media presents as “news” and tune into the higher aspirations of our hearts, the connections can be pretty amazing. Clearly, I’m not the only one noticing.

(Coburg, OR)

Sidesteps

Day 65. It’s now been more than a week since the “Check Engine” light last appeared—the longest mechanical smooth stretch I’ve experienced thus far. Being in one place for three days probably helped. But just because the engine’s running properly doesn’t mean everything else is. Both the toilet and shower now leak whenever I connect to city water (a nuisance remedied by not hooking up—though it’s also been suggested that I consider a pressure regulator, which is on my list for this week).

Just before the three-day breather—while traveling I-15 on days 58 and 59—I was treated to the sight of ten-foot-long, inch-wide strips of molding flapping wildly outside my front windows (driver’s side the first day, passenger side the next)—blown out of their respective channels by 30-mile-per-hour winds. That was an easy enough fix, despite the traffic whizzing by at 75-miles-per-hour. Now, instead of the original white rubber, I have matching grey Duct-tape stripes on both sides of the rig.

The wind has not been my friend. Before I set out in April, a colleague wished me some degree of misfortune—nothing life threatening, but enough to inspire creative adaptation. That wish was granted in just 26 hours. While navigating 40-50 mile-per-hour gusts on a remote two-lane road in southern Oregon, I suddenly heard loud smacking sounds. Upon stopping, I discovered that the arms of my awning had been torn from their sockets; the 12-foot canvas shade (which was making the noise) had come unfurled and was ripped beyond repair. Necessity being the mother of invention, I calmly pulled into a nearby drive, turned the damaged side of the vehicle away from the wind, unpacked my tool box, and removed the entire assembly—a process that took about 40 minutes. Then off I drove, minus the awning—and also minus regret, since I never used the thing anyway.

Any sense that the trip would be smooth sailing took a hit—both figuratively and literally—in just the first hour, when (a) the closet rod broke, and (b) a rock cracked my front windshield. While I’ve subsequently repaired the closet rod three times, I’ve done nothing about the windshield; the crack has a star quality that I rather like.

Some repairs—like the closet—have been time consuming, but not expensive. There was no charge for the flat tire on day 37 in Santa Fe (covered by insurance), or for the battery jumps on day three in Alturas, California (AAA) and day 23 in Sedona (another camper). A friend and I fixed the rear back-up camera when it stopped working on day 24—by simply unplugging and re-plugging the proper fuse (finding the fuse was the real test). And when a set of four drawers buckled on day 32, I was able to repair the support structure myself; the challenge was constructing a makeshift jack to brace the assembly so it could be re-drilled. After measuring several different items that were narrow enough to fit in the rather small space, I piled, from top to bottom: (1) the removable rack of my toolbox (set vertically), (2) a small game called “Table Topics” (which has a hard plexiglass case), and (3) a medium-sized steel flashlight, which, when crammed into place, restored the structure to its proper height. That episode only cost me an hour of sleep—small price to pay for the resulting satisfaction.

Other adjustments have come at a steeper cost—of both time and money. I now have two new batteries—one for the engine ($200 at a Chevy dealer in Mesa, Arizona on day 24), another for the cabin (a bargain at $100 because I installed it myself in the parking lot at Batteries Plus in Albuquerque on day 39). Additional repairs in Mesa (the windshield wiper fluid system, which wasn’t working from the start, and several burned out engine wires, which is what initially activated the Check Engine light and also caused the temperature gauge to malfunction) cost me another $580. Refrigerator repairs in Indian Wells, California on day 16 only set me back $114, but the stolen hubcap I replaced in Salt Lake City on day 51 was $150.

The best deal came on day 53 at a Napa Auto Center in Loa, Utah (try finding that on a map), after the Check Engine light appeared for the third time—and the RV stalled three miles from town. Fortunately, (a) the RV restarted, (b) I had reservations at a nearby campground, (c) the Auto Center actually had GM diagnostic equipment, and (d) they could squeeze me in two days later. Turns out I needed a new oxygen sensor—for which I was delighted to part with $387.

Ants have been another annoyance—but only, as I discovered in New Mexico, when Susanne is on board. Hopefully, the 18 traps now occupying every potential point of entry will have taken care of that before she rejoins me in San Francisco on July 2.

It’s a wonder I’ve been able to see anything, given all the pit stops! I could go on. But I won’t, for sake of my own sanity. Suffice it to say, after more than two months on the road, I’m still trying to work out the bugs!

I’m also wondering about any potential lessons. I suppose one could infer that, whether traversing America in a 10-year-old RV or trying to find God, the path isn’t entirely straightforward. Sometimes we get sidetracked. We may not know why—and we may never understand. That’s the nature of the journey.

“Let go of what has passed,” advises the Indian master, Tilopa. “Let go of what may come. Let go of what is happening now. Don’t try to figure anything out. Don’t try to make anything happen. Relax, right now, and rest.”

In addition to the rest, perhaps there’s a prayer. I like this—the final entry in Rilke’s Book of Hours:

“I thank you, deep power
that works me ever more lightly
in ways I can’t make out.”

(Monterey, CA)

PS. There’s a new leader on the cinnamon bun board! The favorites to date:

1. Jeannine’s Bakery and Restaurant (Santa Barbara, CA)

2. Alabama Hills Bakery and Café (Lone Pine, CA)

3. (Tie) Duffy Rolls (Denver, CO) and Old West Cinnamon Rolls (Pismo Beach, CA)

Nature

It’s been less than eight weeks since I left Portland—and already I’ve observed some of the most stunning scenery in America. The breathtaking beauty began immediately in central and southern Oregon—and continued down the east side of the Sierra Nevadas, in Joshua Tree National Park, the Grand Canyon, Sedona, Santa Fe and Taos. I rested for two days in the shadow of Pike’s Peak—the “purple mountain’s majesty” that inspired America the Beautiful.

Last week I drove from Denver to Salt Lake City with my college roommate, Joe. From the 12,000-foot summit of Rocky Mountain National Park to Hanging Lake near Glenwood Springs, and from the Colorado River and Arches National Park in Moab through Utah’s brick red and forest green mountain ranges, we enjoyed dramatic—and different—visual feasts each day.

To date, “nature” has been the most common response to my question, “How do you experience God?” Traversing the American west, it’s easy to see why.

Many people—such as the woman I met while walking along the Provo River on Sunday—are quite precise, directing me to specific places that are near and dear to them (Idaho’s Lava Hot Springs in her case). A man at the counter of Keedy’s Café in Palm Springs spoke wistfully of riding horses and herding cattle at his ranch in the Colorado mountains, describing the “peaceful solitude” and “deeper connection” he relishes there. A friend in Salt Lake City says that she feels more “expansive” in nature; another drew a distinction between the natural and constructed environments, noting how much easier it was for her to feel God in the former.

Non-believers are similarly moved. “I don’t find God,” said a friend over coffee in Portland back in February. “Where I find awe is Mt. Hood—in the mountains, at the ocean—in the beauty of nature.”

John O’Donohue captures the effect quite eloquently. “Nature, he writes in Anam Cara, “is the direct expression of the divine imagination.”

The 5,000 miles I’ve traveled thus far make it easy to understand why people find the divine imagination so conspicuous in nature. But I wonder—is that because God’s presence is intrinsically more visible and powerful in secluded natural settings—or because the barriers separating us from God are less formidable there?

“It is the clamor of the self that needs to be brought to quiet,” observes Joan Chittister, “so that the quiet of God can be brought to consciousness.”

Perhaps that’s nature’s gift—it helps quiet our own internal clamor, so that the quiet of God becomes more apparent and accessible.

Yet as much as I savor the peaceful solitude I’m experiencing, and as easy as it is for me to recognize the Creator’s hand here in the west, I find myself even more captivated by people.

My daughter, Kate, sent a note last month, which I received while staying with friends in Arizona. “We miss you,” it began. Then, “Roy and Gail (her in-laws) said if you’re looking for God all you need to do is look in my eyes.”

Of course, they’re right. I do see the Divine in Kate’s eyes—and in the faces of everyone I encounter. To me, that’s more awesome than anything.

(Torrey, UT)

Intersections II

I have three friends—each of whom I’ve known for years and love dearly. One friend would like people to be more confident when they refer to God. Another finds the name so loaded that it’s actually a barrier. And the third points out the importance of “mystery” in our attempt to understand what most theologians confess is beyond knowing.

“I think it would be refreshing,” friend one muses, “having people speak about God with no doubt that there is such a being, or spirit—something that made you and me and our complete surroundings.”

“To me,” says friend two, “’God’ is a ‘bad' word—meaning omnipotent, judgmental, exclusionary, some impossible over-lording intelligence, some guy who created the earth in 6 days or whatever. ‘Spirit' is a much, much better word. Too bad so many people are brainwashed.”

“It seems to me,” says friend three, “that it will be hard to find God in much of America… because people (here) have lost their sense of mystery… If we really had a true sense of mystery as a people, would we treat our land and water and air the way we do?”

In my travels to date, I've found that some people seek certainty, while others prefer mystery, and still others desire both language and imagery that more effectively foster connection.

Is there a way of respecting what seem to be such different views? Could I possibly honor one friend without offending the other two?

I hope we could at least appreciate the innumerable ways we relate to God—and better still, welcome what we can learn from each other. Rather than arguing over what we ultimately don’t know, we’re better off exploring how we might honor our convictions through lives of compassion. In that spirit, how we treat our land, water, air, and each other can only improve.

"To each of us,” wrote Rilke in a love letter to God more than a century ago, “you reveal yourself differently." That suggestion captures the ground upon which I can stand with all three of my friends.

“Listen to yourself,” encouraged Maya Angelou in what turned out to be her final public reflection just two weeks ago, “and in the quietude you might hear the voice of God.”

What’s becoming increasingly obvious as I travel is that God speaks in many languages, voices, and styles. It’s OK that we hear differently. The important thing is that we simply pay attention.

What are you hearing?

(Steamboat Springs, CO)

PS. Cinnamon bun update: Over the week-end, I had an unprecedented triple tasting with my friends, Tia and Bob Rebholz and their 16-year-old son, Ryder. Sampled buns from Duffy Rolls and Racine’s in Denver and Mountain Shadows in Colorado Springs. The lesson: Cinnamon buns, like religious practices, are a matter of taste—and we all have definite preferences! The day’s winners: A split decision between Duffy Rolls and Racine’s (I preferred the Duffy Roll, but Racine’s was the best value: $3.23 for an eight-inch wide monster big enough for two—or three!). But Alabama Hills Bakery & Café in Lone Pine, California remains the most heavenly to date.