Tag: Seth

Someone to Tuggle Wiff

On By Peter WatkinsIn 2002Leave a comment

Dear Will:

We live just off of Cannon Street, about a block south of Linda Vista School.  If you have ever walked along Cannon on the Linda Vista side of the hill, you know that the wind whistles down the street at a pretty good clip, even on a relatively calm evening.  On a blustery night like this one, however, the wind comes rushing over the pass and through our backyard like it’s about to miss the last train out of town.  Whenever that happens, the wind chimes push and shove each other to try to get out of the way, the fichus gets trampled and dry leaves start to huddle together beside the shrubs like accident victims looking for moral support.  The sound can be impressive, and with very little imagination you can start to feel a little like Dorothy Gale just before she took her unscheduled trip to Oz.

Of course, usually the source of such turbulence is the Santa Anas, which warm the air and make you feel as if spring has come early.  Tonight, however, it’s a cold wind, sent with love from Canada, and I’m having trouble reconciling the sights and sounds with the temperature.  We don’t get cold winds around here, so it’s creating some mental dissonance for me that is intriguing.  (Can you tell I’m not outside writing this?  I’m sure if I were out rescuing the fichus like I’m supposed to be, dissonance is not the word that would come to mind.)

I stop typing and head upstairs to tend to a fussing two-year-old.  “I think I’m sad,” Seth tells me.  When I ask why he explains that he needs somebody to snuggle with, or as he puts it, “someone to tuggle wiff.”  I indulge him ever so briefly (he and I have already had our goodnight tuggle for the night) and suggest he cozy up with his stuffed elephant instead.  I sneak out.

While I may be a little annoyed by the interruption, I have to admit he’s pretty cute.  I also have to admit that his instincts are absolutely correct.  When the world goes strangely cold and everything about us is thrown into disarray, it’s good to have something familiar to reach for.  (You had to wonder how I was going to turn this into a “message,” didn’t you?)  In such moments, I often find myself on my knees in prayer or reaching for the scriptures.  One verse in particular is a comforting reminder of where strength can best be found when the storms of life strike hard:

And now, my sons, remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea his shafts in the whirlwind, yea when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you , it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.   (Helaman 5:12)

At last, Seth goes quiet, and with reluctance I face the task of moving the fichus to the side of the house.  As I venture out into the windstorm, I shall do my best not to get blown into the neighbor’s swimming pool.  Before I sign off, let me remind you of my sincere offer to help you if I can should the wind ever prove too strong for you.  I would welcome a phone call or an e-mail any time.

PW

Ascending Together Toward the Light

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20012 Comments

Dear Will:

Pinnacles National Monument is what now remains of an ancient volcano—a funky outcropping of jagged rocks in the middle of farm country, no doubt set in there by a mischievous Creation Committee to confound the farmers while also giving geologists something to do on weekends. From what we could tell it seemed like the perfect stop for a little adventure after a long, first day of vacation driving north on the 101.

Pinnacles’ Balconies Trail meanders through the chaparral beside a dry creek bed, skirting massive boulders on its way to the jagged outcropping that forms the Monument’s centerpiece. For those with trail maps, numbered markers identify points of particular interest along the trail. Those of us who had neglected to obtain a trail map, however, were forced to make up explanations of our own:

Luke: “No. 4: The oil from the leaves of this wild bulova bush was used by the Chumash Indians to wax the floors of their hogans.” Dana: “No. 7: This is the burial site of a Chumash warrior who slipped and fell on the over-waxed floor of his hogan.” Bryn: “No. 10: The root of this plant was once used to make chumashed potatoes.”

We snapped pictures on the bridges, dodged the poison oak, and before long found ourselves at the entrance to the Balconies Cave. About all we knew of the cave was that we were supposed to bring a flashlight. We had three, and as many cameras, plus a half-gallon of drinking water and just enough naïveté to make the endeavor seem like an outing fit for a family with a two-year-old. We headed in.

Initially, the cave seemed innocuous enough. Hill-sized boulders had tumbled in on each other to form a narrow passageway through which we passed one at a time. Sunlight peeked through all along, rendering the flashlights unnecessary. The ground was flat and firm. Eventually, however, we came to a narrow opening which led to an inner chamber. The rocks that formed the base of this passageway provided a natural staircase which one could descend quite naturally—provided, that is, that one had the torso of a dwarf and the legs of Wilt Chamberlain.

I went first while Luke and Bryn brandished the flashlights and Dana held onto Seth. Dana then handed Seth down to me, then a flashlight, and then the others followed. Thus we played a sort of leapfrog fire brigade as we traversed the cavern, pausing every few feet to get our bearings and try to figure out which way to go next. Each step took us deeper into blackness. It was cool and a little damp inside the cave, very dark and somewhat precarious.

“Where dat cave, Daddy?” “We’re in it, Seth.” “I don’t wike dis cave. Pwease can I have some water, pwease?”

More than once we were pushed well beyond our comfort zones. “Bryn, stay there with Seth and don’t let go of him.” “You’re just going to have to slide down on your bottom.” “Seth, hold on tight to Mommy. I’ve got you.” “Luke, help your sister.” At one point we even found ourselves (gulp) instructing Seth to put both hands on the side of the cave and not move until someone could get to him. When at last we saw sunlight signaling the exit from the cave, we emerged tired, a bit unnerved, and glad to be done with our “little adventure.”

We rested in the open air and drained most of our supply of water. Without the benefit of a map, we asked a fellow spelunker how far we would have to hike to get back to our car. When he informed us that it was another 2.5 miles to the east entrance of the park, our hearts sank. Alas, we were parked at the west entrance.

“Guess what, kids?” we offered with strained enthusiasm. “We get to do all that again, only backwards.” We reentered the cave, only this time we were not exploring; we were attempting an escape. As we now found ourselves climbing up through the cave, Seth had to be carried much of the way (boy in one arm, feet on jagged rock, one hand for balance, seven-year-old pointing the flashlight in the wrong direction). But even with the increased difficulty, we fell into our roles: lifting, steadying, comforting, bracing, offering light, pointing the way. Plunged though we were into darkness, we were calmly determined, ascending together toward the light.

We felt a sense of grand accomplishment when we found ourselves once again on solid, sunlit ground. As we walked out of the canyon, we paused at a special spot in which the sound of the wind-rustled leaves reverberated off of the canyon walls, creating an ethereal, directionless whisper. The resonance there took on a heavenly quality that transcended the physical space and provided the perfect punctuation for the afternoon.

It would be easy to overstate the significance of our trip through Balconies Cave. The metaphors we lived there are perhaps too obvious to be powerful to anyone but us. Still, just two weeks hence, as we watched in horror the events surrounding the September 11 attacks, we were grateful to have had our own small experience with sudden darkness, an experience which required us to link hands and help each other move cautiously but resolutely toward the light. My prayer is that as God’s Family we may continue to press forward—together—until the darkness is behind us and we can feel again the transcendent peace that can only come from loving and helping one another.

PW

From a More Exalted Sphere

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20011 Comment

Dear Will:

I think I may have mentioned that I spend a pretty good chunk of my time hanging out with a two-year-old (that would be Seth, our youngest).  Every day, it seems, he finds a new way to charm and delight us.  Partly that’s due to the fact that we are his unabashedly subjective parents.  Partly that’s due to the age, that brief period of life in which a everything a child does seems to sparkle.  But much of what delights us about him is innate—divine, even—the sort of thing we would love to take credit for but cannot possibly.

Each of us has within us a spark of divinity, and that spark seems to burn brightest when we are still but a short time removed from “that God which is our home.”  Wordsworth’s familiar verse comes immediately to mind:

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
That soul that rises with us, our life’s Star
Hath had elsewhere its setting:
And cometh from afar
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

(From: “Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood”)

That well-loved poem speaks of “Intimations of Immortality,” those ineffable, deep-down hints of our divine heritage.  Although Heaven may indeed lie “all about us in our infancy,” I believe that even as we age we retain within us clues of whence we came.  Another poet put it this way:

For a wise and glorious purpose
Thou hast placed me here on earth
And withheld the recollection
Of my former friends and birth;
Yet oft-times a secret something
Whispered, “You’re a stranger here,”
And I felt that I had wandered
From a more exalted sphere.

(From: “O My Father,” by Eliza R. Snow)

All of which brings to mind the words of my own mother, who never failed to send us out to play with a mandate that echoes in my mind to this day: “Remember who you are.”  Which I offer now as my simple message to you.

PW