My very earliest memory, when I was about 2 years old, is of running down a hill, feeling joy and power as I pulled away from tall grasses and briars tugging at me. At the bottom of the hill was small stream. Stepping into the water at the edge, I saw a crayfish backing quickly under a rock.
The beautiful movement, the sparkling water, the smell, the feel, the sounds of the air and the plants enchanted me. All the while, I felt the presence of Someone truly with me, celebrating, rejoicing with me in the wonder of the water, the wonder of the crayfish and the wonder of me.
Soon that memory was submerged under learning how to be in the world, to behave, to work, to relate properly, to struggle with the meaning of good and evil -- to move in the world East of Eden.
It was many years later, as I walked into Carr Canyon in Arizona, that the memory came back to me. I stood near a pool in a grotto-like setting with many trees, a huge rock and yellow flowers. Butterflies, called Arizona Sisters, cruised down a trickle of water among colorful stones. That evening, over a glass of wine at Sister Cathy's, my husband and I flippantly said, "We ought to put an offer on that property." In an amazingly short time, five acres in the forest owned us.
From the very beginning, even as we moved tons of trash and turned a tumbling-down shack into a cottage, I felt connected, at-one with the canyon and the lives in it. It is a sense of home, belonging and at the same time being on a journey/quest, a sense of being rooted in the earth, grounded and yet having wings to soar beyond myself.
The home/roots feeling comes with being so aware of God's creation and knowing I am part of that intricate web of life. The endless variety, the hardness of rocks and reefs, the laciness of ferns, the thorniness of cacti, the gentle gaze of deer, the busyness of hummingbirds all resonate in me. I am surprised by bursts of thankfulness. Encounters with animals give me a feeling of belonging to a very extended family that I am late in getting to know.
We had a coati, Buffalo Bill, who visited every day for two years and then introduced us to his four girlfriends and 20 babies. Once I saw eight coatis in a Madrone tree, eating berries, chattering and playing.
One Sunday morning I watched two bear cubs walk up over our cars. Then I took the paw prints to church. One bear let me photograph her in the wild cherry tree before she ambled away. I felt a deep reverence for life the morning a mountain lion stood on the rock outside our bedroom window and let me look into her eyes for a very long time.
The gang of nine blue jays teaches me about community. Since they can't eat from the squirrel-proof feeder, one hangs over the top and scatters seed down to the others on the ground. I read that they feed each other's young. This connectedness sometimes gives wings to my thoughts, and I feel a sense of questing and talking with a presence of otherness.
Author Jay McDaniel ("With Roots and Wings") calls this awareness of God's generosity of wonders "green grace." When a gift of green grace surprises me, I find I easily pray thanksgiving and praise and sometimes a sort of poetry comes.
Experiencing life this way in the canyon makes Earth itself seem to be a sacred community, a revelation of God's green grace. I have an intense sense of place, and an awareness, respect, even a love, for the creatures here. In the woods' silence, pondering the ruggedness of the reef or tracing the pathway of the creek I feel small yet, paradoxically, strong at the same time.
But that is not the whole story. There are events in the canyon that make me face life squarely without sentimental blinders. The so-peaceful lion I admired ate some of the wild turkeys and probably killed Wild Bill. Deer get hit and shot. There are thefts, drugs, shootings. Devastating fires followed by monsoon floods create deep erosion. There are conflicts over water. Drought and illegal immigration bring fearful thoughts.
I am forced to face the violence in this world. As I do, I know the violence in me. Then I have a different questioning of God's purposes and processes and different prayers. I lean on the grace that comes from the love of family and friends even when I am unlovable, the grace that comes at the foot of the cross as we celebrate the supper and the spirit. It is there when there is shared suffering or sacrifice; when there is peace in pain. It comes in the brightening flash of forgiveness, enlightenment or healing.
Living in the canyon, I feel a sense of healing by the One who loves us more than we love ourselves. Living here, I am lured to engage more closely with God's creation, with God's grace, with God.
