An Allegory for Easter

boots

Dear Will:

Last Saturday morning I headed out to Weir Canyon for an easy morning hike. It had rained the night before, so I knew there was the possibility (or probability?) that the trail would be closed. But I was in the mood for a hike, so I did as I pleased and hoped for the best. When I pulled up, I was delighted to see that the trail was indeed open and that there was only one other car already parked at the trailhead on Hidden Canyon Road.

I chose the clockwise route this time, which features a short incline right out of the gate. The ground was still wet, but it was firm as I had hoped, so it seemed that everything was coming together according to plan. For about 30 feet, that is. I saw a couple of muddy skid marks where someone ahead of me had slipped. And then a couple more. Before long I was making skid marks of my own as the grippy tread of my Terrex hikers filled with mud and transformed into slippy tread instead. I quickly realized the futility of what I had undertaken and turned back to the car, practically skating down the slope on shoes now rendered twice as heavy (and nearly twice as wide) by the accumulating sludge. It was then that I spied and understood the trailside rock where others had smeared great glops of earthen goo in a quest to rescue their muddy soles.

Once on flatter, firmer ground, I did a bit of that smearing myself—on rocks, on the curb beside my car. I was forced to take the shoes off and bang them together as you might have done, flinging clumps of sticky clay in all directions and sending shocks up through my arms and shoulders. Ultimately I was transformed into tantrum-throwing percussionist, slamming down one shoe and then the other on the asphalt in a jarring and mostly successful effort to clear the Vibram crags in my heavy-laden trail shoes.

It was, perhaps, the dumbest of hikes. If I’m honest, I had made this same, post-rain mistake on this same trail once before, but in spite of knowing better I had insisted on trying to make things work my way anyway. But once I came to my senses, I made my way back home, parked my car, and headed out on the familiar streets of my neighborhood. The view was less dramatic and the experience less glamorous, but the roads were clear and the sun was out and it was lovely. The rains had turned the skies into the kind of blue we rarely see in car-crazy California—a blue that was intensified by random, puffy clouds that hung like cotton balls above the glistening trees. Had I chosen this route from the get-go, I would certainly have covered more ground—while increasing my pleasure and reducing the hardship—but because of my ill-conceived foray into the muck, I appreciated the clear, unobstructed path all the more.

Perhaps you’ve done this same thing yourself—chosen an enticing path even though, down in your heart, you knew better. Perhaps in consequence you too have found yourself stumbling along, slowed by the muck that you have accumulated along the way. And perhaps you’ve felt a similar desire to be rid of the mess and to find a clearer, more established path.

Perhaps you have also thought, as I do at this time of year: Thank God for the message of hope that Easter brings. Thank God for a Savior who has made it possible for even the grimiest among us to turn ourselves around and clear our muddy souls. And thank God for the clearer path that the Gospel of Jesus Christ illuminates for all of us. It truly is the better way. Way better.

PW

Photo: John Barwood Photography

Advertisements

Seeing Again, as if for the First Time

Scan 2018-2-26 0004Dear Will:

When my kids were small, we had bedtime rituals which became both sacred and magical. Once our children had brushed and polished from toes to teeth, they got to choose a book (or more likely books) for storytime. I treasured those wind-down minutes snuggling and imagining, with a kid on my lap scanning wide-eyed the pictures on the page as I did my best to bring a story to life. My children quit snuggling with me long ago, but I can still smell the soap, still sense the warmth of those flannel PJs, still feel my heart melting as Seth flips over a just-completed book and declares: “Again.” If there’s anything better in the universe than that, I have yet to find it.

I likewise remember when Luke (our firstborn) was small and we would go for evening “explores” around our neighborhood in Westwood. Because we were surrounded by so many tall buildings, we had only narrow bands through which we could see the sky as we strollered our way down Greenfield Avenue in that densely populated section of West Los Angeles. He and I had a game we would play in which we would try to find the moon as we circled the block. Often we would simply stop and sit on the wall in front of a nearby apartment building, stare up at the stars, and see if we could catch a glimpse of the flashing lights on a jet heading to someplace distant and full of possibilities.

Dana taught me to use that same trick to guide our kids’ imaginations and engage them more fully in the stories that we read. “Where is the raccoon hiding?” “What does that elephant say?” “Can you see the train?” Those nightly sessions were a gift from a thoughtful, devoted mother who wanted our kids to love books, to treasure the words and ideas that trigger imagination, to learn to see and feel a world you cannot necessarily reach out and touch. Joni Mitchell sings: “Yesterday, a child came out to wonder.” Dana was raising wonderers.

Wonder is mostly about looking and noticing that which you might otherwise overlook—and then letting the magic of what you have noticed play upon your mindIt’s crouching—transfixed—to examine a beetle as it wobbles across your trail in Laguna Canyon. It’s scrutinizing the rock over which the beetle just clambered. It’s rising from your crouch and remembering another time in another place when beetles and rocks were actually the point of the hike to begin with.

Wonder makes it possible to see again something familiar, as if for the first time.

And so I find myself today, on a plane midway between Newark and Los Angeles, thinking about you while flipping through a grownup book one of my now-grown wonderers has insisted that I love. It’s Pilgrim at Tinker CreekAnnie Dillard’s Pulitzer Prize-winning ode to wonder itself. Beside me dozes a man with a sleeping toddler curled on his lap. I’m drawn to a passage from a couple of chapters back wherein Dillard quotes the poet Michael Goldman:

When the Muse comes She doesn’t tell you to write;
She says get up for a minute, I’ve something to show you, stand here.

Thus somewhere in the reading and the musing I find myself remembering a long-ago night, in a bedroom in a rocker, reading to a little girl from the pages of Owl Moon by Jane Yolen. The close-up image of a great horned owl is splashed across the page.

14482794._SX540_

I whisper as I read: “For one minute, three minutes, maybe even a hundred minutes, we stared at one another.”

And so I have returned to the beginning. I am seeing once again. And it’s wonderful.

PW

Poetic Justice

Open Mic

Dear Will:

When my son Luke entered the seventh grade, he chose to attend what was then called the Orange County High School of the Arts, where he remained until his graduation from high school six years later. He loved that school, in no small part because of the extraordinary friends he made there. Luke was part of the creative writing program at OCHSA (now simply OCSA), which required that he participate in 10-12 hours of after-school instruction each week. Those supplementary classes covered playwriting, short stories, essays, poetry, and other writing disciplines. It was marvelous training, both enriching and enlightening. And Luke really enjoyed it. (Well, most of it anyway. Screenwriting was awesome. Modernism? Not so much.)

Every couple of months or so, the school hosted a poetry reading for its students, events which Dana and I attended faithfully. The readings offered a mixed bag to be sure. Several of the students were exceptionally talented, and we always looked forward to hearing their latest writings. But as you might expect, much of what we heard those nights was incomprehensible gobbledygook, filled with rushed expressions of teenaged angst and mystifying allusions to who-knows-what. The first time I attended one of the readings, so much of the work was so poorly written and so poorly read that I maintained a running internal commentary, chuckling to myself, criticizing their turns of phrase, and mentally demeaning them for being so “pretentious.”

Of course, I was the pretentious one. With time and perspective (and no small amount of coaching from my wiser, more understanding son), I came to appreciate just how hard it was for each of those kids to put themselves out there in that way—to experiment with new ideas, painstakingly craft a poem, and then risk derision by sharing it openly with a room full peers and ignorant strangers. In fact, what I came to appreciate most about those readings fills me with wonder even to this day: Those OCHSA kids were unwaveringly supportive of one another—not prone to the cruelty and sarcasm you might otherwise expect of a group of high-schoolers.

Not surprisingly, the lingering consequence of that unwavering support is a web of lifelong friendships—deep, meaningful associations which continue more than a decade since those aspiring writers first started practicing their iambic pentameter on one another. I was reminded of this just a couple of weeks ago when Luke got married and his best of friends were there to support him, many of them “kids” he has known since those earliest days at OCHSA. His “best man”? Paris, a girl he met in seventh grade who remains to this day the best friend he’s ever had.

It’s remarkable to witness such a tangible byproduct of mutual love and acceptance, to see what can be achieved when people are more eager to praise than to criticize. What would happen if we all—consistently—offered one another that same level of support and allowance when we might otherwise be tempted to judge and belittle? How might it change our worship services, for example, if we maintained that attitude during a dull talk or a poorly-prepared lesson? What if we made a habit of mentally applauding those doing a bad job at something we know we could do better? What might become of us as a people if we went out of our way to give one another the benefit of the doubt, to assume that most everyone is doing the best they can? Talk about poetic justice!

I think it would be transformative—an experiment worth trying. Let’s start Sunday.

PW