The Light of God in our lives

 

                Last week was Mark’s brother David’s wedding anniversary. He created a very sweet post about how much he loved his wife and how he saw the light of God when he looked at her. After reading his post, I took a piece of toast with blackberry jam into Mark, who was trapped for hours in an online training for work. “Do you see the light of God when you look at me?’ I asked. He looked a bit startled. “When you are bringing me toast, you are my goddess,” he replied. We laughed. I made a quick sketch of the toast scene.

        

        The next day, Mark brought out a full wheelbarrow of perfectly processed organic compost for the berry plants. The big blue barrow sat in the back garden, glowing with holiness. I drew it. And then, we were off. Where do we see the light of God in our daily lives? Well, one night it was a tray of roasted cauliflower; the next, Indian Woman beans slowly cooking in our avocado green crockpot. We saw the light of God in the collard leaves as big as my head one afternoon. And then, one morning I was in the shed, bringing out my bike when Mr. Beezhold, the rabbit, darted in. His mouth was full of dried grass clippings and he was clearly looking for a quiet place to enjoy his snack. (He loves the shed, even after being locked in numerous times.) I laughed at him. He settled into a corner.

                This morning, I woke up hard.  Still tired, a little pollen-y, with a bit of a headache from not drinking enough water the day before, I checked my email—nothing—and then the news. The combination of the results of the debate the night before, along with several major Supreme Court decisions did not help my mood. Tired, grumpy, fretting, I climbed into the Ark. Mark and I had planned to hike up Mary’s Peak this morning, using the Conner’s Camp trail.  We drove west, along the winding roads, climbing the flank of our home mountain and parked. I stomped down the trail, still thinking about the news. What if the convention threw out Biden? It is, after all, in Chicago this year for the first time since 1968. And we know what happened then. With the ruling on homelessness, would the city manager feel empowered to clear the camps even more frequently? What if a fire started in the tree farm?  The trail climbed. I fretted. Mark tried to change my mood by pointing out the Phantom Orchid right before we crossed the logging road. Failed. He talked about the new greens. Failed. I climbed past the Dragon’s Maw—a rotting log filled with Riverteeth, barely pausing. I leaned into the climb, listening to my footsteps and breathing, both pounding.

      

          And then we hit the gallery forest section of the trail where mature Doug Firs surround us, with ferns and small white flowers and Salal and Oregon Grape and Vine Maple as the understory. They reach high into the sky and there is space between the trunks to catch glimpses of the Willamette Valley—and, today, the Cascade mountains. My steps and breathing fell into alignment and my mind grew quiet.  Slowly, I stopped fretting. We paused to study a downed tree, spongy and damp, covered in small rows of mushrooms the same color as the bark. Across the path, another section of the log held the same mushrooms. At the top, three tiny Doug fir seedlings, not more than three months old, sent their roots into the old body of this tree.  As we moved upward, as always, the wildflowers changed in their familiar ways and we said hello to our old friends. The rock gardens were spectacular—deep purple penstemon next to flaming red Indian Paintbrush, Blue Gillia and white phlox, deep golden Oregon Sunshine all lined to the rocks. When we turned West, we saw the Pacific ocean in the distance. East and all of the big peaks from the Cascades rose in majesty. And, for this long-lapsed catholic turned Transcendentalist, was, truly, the Light of God in my life.