Stumbling Upon One of the Lurking Places

A few hours of discretionary time opened up to us after lunch. Some would go to a movie. Some would find conversation partners. Others would claim a nap. This latter held initial appeal since conversations had continued last night into the birthing hours of today. But the glint of sunlight off the pond nearby caught both my attention and my imagination. The quacking chatter of the duck population added sound to sight, and a turtle gliding in the water just at the surface -- barely breaking the plane -- was somehow permissive. "Coast for a moment," it almost seemed to say, "descend into the quieting undulation of the moments and simply be."

Of course I felt obligated to attempt something more. Sitting on the ground beneath a canopying tree and leaning back against its trunk, I set my mind to the consideration of deep thoughts. That, after all, is what one is supposed to do on a retreat with mental and spiritual space in which to ponder. Isn't it -- think deeply and profoundly?

And I determined to do so shortly, after I picked off this ant that crawls just now along my leg; and after I see where this next one is heading, emerging from the hole beside me I probably should have noticed before sitting down in this particular spot.

And now the acrobatics of the ducks are distracting -- playfully, or maybe dutifully, dashing their heads into the water and then showering the droplets with a vigorous shake; a large one beaking a smaller one from behind, as if to say, "get along now." And now another stands on tiptoes at the tip of the small peninsula protruding into one end of the pond, wings held high and spread wide as an exhibitionist in a frozen and presumably drying pose.

And somehow, "deep thoughts" simply won't come. But something perhaps even better. The parting words at morning matins were from Henry David Thoreau: "My profession is to be always on the alert to find God in nature, to know God's lurking places, to attend all the oratorios, the operas, in nature."

God...lurking...in nature...

No grand insights, then; no soaring profundities; but beautiful music, instead -- the oratorios and operas of silent ants, quacking ducks, lapping water, shaken feathers, and the rustle of leaves still clinging to the trees.

It's chilly, and having already rolled down my sleeves, my stillness is growing uncomfortable. Reluctantly, then, I rise to height and make my way back through the monuments in the garden of the Stations of the Cross and slip into the warmth of the indoors; still humming...

...and blessed.