Active Solitude

The other night I discovered that solitude can be just as friendly shared with a dog, depending, of course, on one's mood and the type of solitude sought.  Mine was a slightly adventurous solitude; thus my canine's company was welcome.

At any rate, I went for a long walk Wednesday night in the forest preserve looking for quiet. And it was perfect, due, I think, to several reasons:

1) I came with hardly any expectations. I knew my soul needed quieting and I was hungry for beauty. But instead of looking for it, I just kept my eyes open.
2) I left technology and other distractions at home, including my phone, camera and notebook. I debated for a bit about the notebook, but was glad I didn't bring it. Sometimes there is powerful, inexplicable beauty in the small things, and sometimes, to carry a camera or notebook would cheapen it, somehow.  Plus, in looking at it afterward, it never has the same effect and can even look silly or inconsequential.

The sky, at any given moment, was about twelve shades of blue (though I didn't count).  Periodically I saw other people were biking or running on the path, but they were few and decreased over time.
Birds and crickets were making music, and the wind moved the long grasses and flowers gently while monarch butterflies danced above brightly.  The grasses were rich hues of light and dark green, and the flowers added white, yellow, gold and pink.

None of this sounds terribly exciting, I know, but each tiny part struck me with its beauty almost as deeply as if I had never seen any of it before.

I realized at one point that the moments I was enjoying would never be replicated.  The sky would never be these exact colors with the clouds in exactly these shapes and formations with the grass blowing exactly as it did and those birds flying just so across the sinking arc of the sun and the smell of green life and flowers' fragrance drifting through the air.  There will be other, similar nights. But it will never be exactly the same again.  I don't mind, of course, because that's how life works, but I never think about it in those terms.  Then I realized I was the only person there to witness this transient artwork in all its glory, and I felt a bit honored to witness and enjoy it.

I smelled the perfume of a Queen Anne's lace, a brown-eyed Susan, and a white flower whose identity I don't know.  Out of a field of hundreds upon thousands of practically identical flowers, I might be the only person to accept their humble invitation and sniff the fragrance of those particular flowers.  And maybe it sounds funny, but I was glad I did, even if my dreadfully prosaic sinuses did complain the next morning.

Finally, I wandered off the path and lay on my back in a little clearing.  I let my eyes rest for a while on the curved branches of some bare tree against the sky, admiring the architecture.  I watched a hawk swoop into the shelter of an evergreen, and watched the long grasses and wildflowers sway in the wind.  And I thought about how God had made each part: how He'd designed the elaborate curvature of that dead tree, and engineered those wildflowers with xylem and phloem as their lifeblood flowing up and down, and different cells for the different parts and chlorophyll to turn sunlight to food and keep them green while keeping our lungs rightly inflated.  Then He made them supple, to spring back against the wind's laughter as well as its fury, and hardy to spring back anew each year.

It's been several years since I've taken a science course of any sort, and I normally pass by and regard the long grass simply as grass, and the wildflowers simply as such, though I admire their beauty from time to time.  But even these green plants are remarkably complex.  And they are only plants!

I felt a little like the disciples in Matthew six.  God made the wild grass this elaborate, I thought. Why do I worry about my life and His plans for me?

I tried to think about God literally designing the earth and all that comes with it, but my mind is insufficient and what little I could fathom filled me with awe.  Why do I have such trouble trusting God?

On the walk home, I saw the beginning of the sunset.  The neighborhood was drawing nearer on my left, with the sunset before me, slightly to the right.  Suddenly I noticed on a certain house every window was orange.  That seemed odd--really, matching orange curtains throughout the entire house?  Then I realized it was just a reflection of the sunset, but that seemed odd, too, for when I turned toward the sky, the sun was a smallish, orange disc.  It didn't seem nearly big enough, when I saw mostly blue sky and only the little sun and inklings of approaching sunset, but brilliant orange was all the windows reflected.  Then when I was about parallel with the house, the reflection was gone and I saw white curtains upstairs and someone watching television in the living room.


I went for a walk in need of quiet.  Not only was my soul quieted, but I was filled with wonder and delight.  Solitude needs to happen in my life more often, I think.  And God is good :).

¡Gloria a Dios!