And, so, here we are: the final day of our liturgical year. The end of the end of Summer and the beginning of the beginning of Winter. And I thought that, for my final post of this year, I’d share with you a wonderful essay that Richard Louv recently wrote about religion, spirituality, nature, silence, and amazement.
His emphasis on amazement, especially at this time of year when we focus on death, reminds me, of course, of Mary Oliver‘s wonderful poem, When Death Comes. I particularly love this poem for the lines:
When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
Mr. Louv recounts a conversation about fatherhood that he once had with a rabbi who said that:
to be spiritual is to be constantly amazed. To quote the words of Professor Abraham Joshua Heschel, a great teacher of our age, he said, “our goal should be to live life in radical amazement.” Heschel would encourage his students to get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted: Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed.
G/Son is turning out to be something of a rather serious fisherman. And so maybe Mr. Louv’s story of his own amazement has a special resonance for me. He writes about waking up one morning to see a spectacular sunrise, trying to wake his sons to see it, and realizing that they needed to sleep. But, he writes:
Since I was a boy, fishing has been my special window to the spirit. It is not the only window, and not for everyone. But for some of us, it is good.
As the day moved from dawn to dusk, I waded into the calm water, lifted the rod[,] and let loose of the line. I watched my boys along the shore. The younger one, who had temporarily given up on fishing, joyfully hauled his catch of the day, an old bucket, across the mud flat. The older boy had taken his rod into a thicket where there was a secluded pool. Perhaps, in that place, he was immersed in that quietest, strongest of voices.
Sometimes the rhythm of the rod is like a chant or the swinging of incense. Sometimes I can almost feel the water bulge and know that a fish is rising beneath it. Now a trout lifted itself, caught the sunset on its orange flank, and[,] above the water[,] stopped in time, as did my children and the world.
And then life went on. In a few hours, the boys and I would begin to miss their mother, and we would head home more amazed by the sunrise and sunset, by light and dark, by small muddy shoes on the stairs or the sound of my wife’s hairbrush, by the smallest of moments.
Whether our window is fishing — or gardening, or dancing, or coding, or knitting, or yoga, or poetry, or music, or rock climbing, or swimming, or painting, or breast feeding, or making love, or weaving, or organizing, or the law — I think that having a “special window into spirit,” is one of the most “radical” things than anyone, and especially we Pagans, can do. It helps us to (to borrow a phrase from Ivo Dominguez) fight off the enchantment of Patriarchy, which tries to make us believe that we are separate from each other, from the world, from nature, from “spirit.” I love the phrase that Louv quotes from his rabbi friend, quoting Rabbi Herschel: radical amazement.
I’m going to practice more of that this coming year. I won’t be gone long. You come, too.
Photo copyright protected. Please do not reproduce or transmit.