The trees have eyes.
Yesterday, after supper and before sunset, my husband and I wandered the grounds of a nearby college campus, one that unfortunately closed its doors for good last December. We stroll through the open green space three times a day now, taking in the phenomenal city views and surprising variety of wildlife for such an urban setting. This spring, sheltered in this place, we’ve had the privilege of watching nature’s rhythms unfold in real time. The electric white flowers of the Bradford pear trees have already bursted and fallen, the cherry blossoms have captivated us with their ephemerality, and the tulips are still surprising us with their celebratory emergence. Each day, though we’re sheltered in the same place, we marvel with awe as our setting evolves—the great drama of creation unfolding right before our eyes. It’s inspiring to see vitality subduing stasis.
In a similar way, we’ve started to welcome the sameness, exploring what “new” we might see if we practice seeing in new ways. A small cardinal sits on the same branch, in the same tree, at the same time every day but this week we gave him a name to make him a friend. The giant trees covering the area haven’t moved much in the past decade but this week we noticed how the tree trunks look at us as we look at them. Sometimes we select a color and try to spot variations of that color as we walk. It’s amazing how quickly we notice what’s been there all along—the ordinary becomes extraordinary.
I imagine children are naturally gifted in these ways of being and seeing, often helping us adults open our eyes to the miracles right under our noses. Maybe it’s just our pace or the endless ping of distraction in our pockets that stifles our perception. Or perhaps we feel silly engaging in such “childish” trifles. Maybe it’s time to get over ourselves and consider what we’re missing.
One of the questions I’m hearing a lot around the virtual water cooler these days is:
“Will things just go back to the way they’ve always been when we get to the other side of this pandemic?”
It’s not a terrible question, though I confess it makes me anxious—too big to resolutely answer, too many variables to know with much certainty. Perhaps a better question to ponder might be:
“Will you go back to the way you’ve been on the other side of the pandemic?”
Ooh, hard to say, isn’t it?! There are a few additional questions I’m reflecting on as I sit with this scary (but promising) notion each day. The answers I see emerging in my own life are telling, so I share them with the hope they guide you towards something fruitful as well:
What passion is stirring in me today that wasn’t there before?
In this current season of uncertainty, what do I know to be true right now, (even if it’s small)?
What new needs/longings am I noticing in my community? Do I have any skills/gifts that might meet those needs/longings? Could that inform my path in some way?
What new habits or rhythms am I learning that I long to carry forward?
Whose perspectives/insights matter most to me in this season?
As we wait and see what our world will be, I feel called to consider what this moment is revealing in me/around me/through me each day. Our new daily rhythms—truly considering the lilies—and pace—on foot—are helping me notice things in new ways, and I’m longing to hear what others are seeing/sensing too. Please share as you feel led.