Leaves Turning

“There’s a storm coming,” said the wrangler as we rode past a grove of aspen trees.

“How do you know,” I asked, not sure if he was kidding me. The sky was blue, the breeze light.

“When the leaves twist like that, there’s always a change in the weather coming.”

I still didn’t know if I should believe him, but as I watched the rain that afternoon, I knew he was right.

Days later, when I was sitting in a room full of recovering alcoholics, I realized the same wisdom is true with other kinds of storms. Long before it rains, there are signs . . . if we have eyes to see. For the assembled people, they know that a drink happens long before a bottle is pulled from the cupboard. For others, divorces begin long before papers are signed. Jobs are lost before one is called into the boss’s office, and small pains arrive before the doctor delivers the news.

The question is, can we notice the signs? Can we see the leaves turning as we ride past?

For people seeking to live spiritual lives, the goal is to live in God’s will and not our own. That’s easier said than done, but we know when we are in one and not the other. Sometimes we don’t realize it until it rains, but the wrangler helped me remember there are signs calling out to us to let us know when we’re not completely in God’s will. When we begin judging everything and everyone, the leaves are turning. When we look at someone with envy, when we can only see the mistakes of our past, when we no longer care about the plight of others, or there’s a sarcasm or an edge to something we say, the leaves are turning and a storm is on its way.

We cannot tell the breeze not to blow, but we can notice the leaves. It takes practice and a good dose of humility, but, in time, we don’t need to wait for the storm. We can notice the leaves.

Playing On

This is a week when I know I need to be “all prayed up,” as they say in AA. Fathers’ Day kicked it off, then conducting the funeral of a dear friend before heading to Vermont to officiate at the wedding of a childhood friend’s son. All three are reasons to celebrate, but all three carried the potential to shroud the joy if I let them. My relationships with my children are not as good as I would like them to be. I’ve hurt many who will be assembled for the funeral, and each time I speak about marriage I’m reminded how far from it’s wonders I’ve strayed. After a brunch with two of my children, I was given the day to watch the US Open golf tournament and that gave me all I needed to carry on.

For those of you who do not follow golf, the US Open is a particularly challenging tournament. They choose the hardest courses and make the conditions almost unbearable. This year was no exception and the best golfers in the world struggled to survive. One golfer stood above the rest, but with each shot over four days the crowd booed and harassed him because of something he did a year ago. I don’t know how he did it, but the golfer kept playing on. In the end, he was victorious, but as I watched him hoist the trophy I couldn’t help but think his victory was over more than a difficult golf course.

Making our way through life is never easy, and some seem to have a steeper climb than others. The crowd, however, awaits us all to lpoint out our imperfections, remind us of all our mistakes. We are faced with the same choice the golfer had: to crumble or play on. While it sounds simple, it’s grueling to play on when the crowds (the ones surrounding us and the ones inside our heads) are so loud.

Even if we don’t hoist a trophy at the end, at least we’ll have chosen the more difficult, more excellent, way and that’s a trophy in its own way.

Dust

It’s hadn’t been that long. In fact, it had only been a few days, or at least that’s what I thought, but when I entered my studio dust rested on every flat surface. Because all the doors and windows had been shut, I expected everything to be as I left it. “I guess I’ve been gone longer than I thought,” I said to myself as I got out the Endust. With each swipe of the dust rag, I realized there was a lesson to be had, one that speaks to many areas of my life.

Being a human, at least being the kind of human I long to be, takes work. It requires constant care and effort, and yet so often I fall asleep or think I’ve been more attentive than I have been. Whether in my marriage, friendships, physical or spiritual intentions, I create intentions that fill me with as much excitement as creating physical spaces like my studio. I devote much of my time getting things “just so” before heading off to other interests. I shut the doors and windows and think things will remain as I left them, but dust somehow finds its way onto every flat surface in less time than I can believe, and I’m left with no choice but to get the rag out and get dusting.

I have a friend I love dearly. The last time we were together was magical and yet it has been months since we were in touch and the phone gets dustier every day.

My wife and I had a moment when we were completely in sync. “This is what marriage is supposed to feel like,” I thought before a challenge swept across the surface revealing a layer of dust.

Before COVID, I bought an exercise bike I used every other day. Now it sits in the corner of the room gathering dust.

I have a spiritual practice of reading two devotionals and writing 30 minutes each morning. I’m successful most days, but recently things have come up and, looking at my journal, I saw it’s been over a week since I last wrote. I was certain it had only been a day or two, but the dust facing me this morning revealed it had been longer than that. The pen was heavier than I remember, and the 30 minutes seemed longer than ever, but that’s the price of letting dust settle.

As we enter the summer months, my hope is that we will all get out our rags and get dusting and not find ourselves in September with the most important parts of our lives covered in dust.