The dogwood tree shades the entrance to the prayer trail that meanders down the hillside toward the stream. This time of year the high dogwood blossoms splay like a solar panel collage, separate but connected, gathering in the warmth and the light. Beneath them, the woodchip path switches back and forth, negotiating the bluff's grade among the varied trees.
And then the water, and then the highway which has amputated the remaining acres of the Conference Center's acreage so completely that the remnant on the far side is utterly, inaccessibly lost. Visible, but remote. Near, but out of reach.
And isn't that the way it is? What and how many freeways have interposed their frenetic passage across my life, surgically divorcing the body of me from the blossomed woods on the far side of my soul? What arteries of commerce or consumption cut across my contemplation, cramping and crowding my inspiration, and aurally littering the way with honks and racing engines? Isn't that the way it is -- the world invoking its imminent domain against the spirit?
But though the view is foreshortened and pristine character abraded, could it possibly be for the better? The world, after all, is never that far away. I carry it with me in my memory; it inhabits my imagination; I wear it and sing it and eat it and wash with it. I could not escape it if I tried. Let the sound of the highway newly nearby simply remind me that if I cannot ultimately remove myself from the world, neither should my prayers. It's messier that way -- not nearly as scenic -- but perhaps in the long run, holier.
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