As spiritual beings, some days we need to wander. Some days we need a road map. And some days, perhaps more than some of us like to admit, we don’t know what we need.
Last weekend Buddy and I went camping in Provincetown. On Saturday morning, we inquired about an unmarked trail. Did it go to the Dunes we asked? The host of the campground confirmed it did, but warned there were no signs, and it was kind of confusing. Seeing that we had water and seemed eager for an adventure she grinned. Take a right at the first fork and left at the second. It’s gorgeous.
Under the filtered light of the scrub pine and scrub oak, we were awash in awe by the pink lady slippers and white wood anemone in bloom on both sides of the well-worn path. While Buddy took photos, I mostly spun around in slow circles, looking up through the pinecones and leaves. It was so quiet, except for the birds and the rustling wind. At the edge of the dunes, we paused. Did the path end, or did it go kind-of that way? Hard to tell. We decided to follow a few sets of footprints, leaving occasional planted sticks to mark our way back. We were contentedly agenda-less, which helped us be more present to everything. All of which seemed extraordinarily beautiful. It filled our hearts.
The next morning, we ventured out on a different trail we’d noticed by a few parked cars, a pile of shoes, and a small plaque. This one quickly brought us to a wide expanse in the dunes. Out from under the pines, we could see a path, albeit long, heading all the way to the ocean. At one fork, we did ask two people which way we should go, laughingly admitting we weren’t sure where “should” was. “Where have you already been?” they asked. Hearing we’d happily wandered 4 hours the day before but hadn’t made it to the sea, they pointed us to the left.
Now, we definitely had an agenda: get to the ocean. We hiked on. A weathered wooden arrow with peeling blue paint saying BEACH announced we were close. Still, the moment of coming up over the top of a crest and seeing the ocean right there was a kick of joy. Giggling, I yanked off my shoes and ran down the cliff to the water’s edge ... where I burst into tears. Apparently, my heart had really, really been yearning for the ocean. That day, I was grateful to those who’d gone ahead of us, for the advice from travelers on the road, and for the weathered arrow.
The poet Naomi Shihab Nye frequently refers to the Japanese concept of yutori. The young student who first introduced it to her described it as living with spaciousness, or arriving early enough to look around. She wrote that it reminded her of what Naomi had been referring to while teaching a poetry workshop: the intention of holding a poem—or letting a poem hold you. I’ve kept a sticky note about this taped on my laptop for several years, striving to even begin to cultivate that kind of space within me. I’m still working on it, but I’m sure it is connected to me more frequently sensing that of God.
Zoom, the main path I’ve travelled this year, doesn’t cultivate spaciousness very well. 4 hours wandering in the desert is much more effective. Which I suppose is why, standing in the waves on Sunday morning, I was overwhelmed by the experience of awe that comes from being on an empty stretch of beach, watching a frolicking seal, with no other words rising but Thank you. Thank you.
It’s the unexpected moments of prayer, grace, and wonder that take our breath away. We come around a bend in the road or return from wandering aimlessly, and suddenly there it is. And for a brief blip we are fully present to the Divine, to the Light, to the YES in the beauty, joy, love, glory or laughter right there— that’s always there—just waiting for us to stop by.