What do I taste? The chocolate I ate just before sitting down outside still lingers on my tongue. I feel the warmth of the sun on my right side. What do I feel? I feel the wind as it tickles my shoulders, and tousles the hair at the nape of my neck. Somewhere nearby, someone is grilling something. What do I smell ? Fresh cut grass and newly laid mulch. I hear the wind rustling the tree limbs, and the creak of the patio umbrella pole as it sways. The neighbor’s children calling to each other in play-not unlike the birds. What do I hear? The thrumming of the neighbor’s lawn-mower, the steady hum of the A/C unit, a variety of birdsong-Robins, Chickadees, Red-wings and the unmistakable piercing shriek of the resident Killdeer. The fading red of the patio umbrella, the moon, a near-translucent white shadow in the blue sky. Trees swaying, the small yellow star-shaped blossom of my young tomato plant. Clouds, full and bright white, drifting on the breeze. What do I see? Brilliant green trees against a cobalt sky. The other afternoon, my answers looked like this: My effort is simple, it consists of answering these following questions: Sometimes I take a pen and a notebook with me, sometimes I bring my phone for taking photos. My own back yard, a psalm is unfurling in real time, before my eyes.Īs part of my ritual for being outdoors, I am making special effort to notice everything that I can with my senses. I see the glory of God in each of these things. Invitations to worship flit to-and-fro in the freshly shorn summer grass, in the shape of a robin’s orange belly dancing above spindly, sturdy legs, or the lavender tendrils quietly creeping up from the center of my hostas. While I wouldn’t call myself a naturalist, I rarely have to look too hard in order to “see” God outside. As the weather turns here from the steady rains of spring, to the drier, warmer days of summer, I am making a regular habit of spending whatever time I can beneath the umbrella on the back patio. It seems that being present has little to do with what one is doing, and entirely with how one is being.Īs I am re-discovering during these post-quarantine days, practicing God’s presence is about living each day in a particular posture-a posture of paying attention. That in this continual conversation we are likewise unceasingly engaged in praising, adoring and loving God for His goodness and perfection.” “That we needed only to know God intimately present in us, to address ourselves to Him at every moment, to ask His aid, to discern His will in doubtful things, and to do well those things we see clearly He is demanding of us, offering them to Him before doing them and giving Him thanks for having done them for Him after we have done them. In Brother Lawrence’s book, The Practice Of The Presence Of God, he talks about how being aware of God in every moment of the day, particularly in those otherwise unspectacular moments of doing daily chores, such as the laundry or the dishes, leads to adoration and worship. It feels like it ought to be simply the way in which we navigate life, but I know that just because a thing seems like it should be a certain way, doesn’t mean that it is so. It feels strange to me that practicing presence takes so much effort. If fragmentation occurs when our minds and hearts are splintered by too much information, too much to do, wounding, processing trauma, and all manner of distraction, then it seemed that it was going to take a change in the ways I was showing up to each day in order to root myself in each moment, as it unfolds. Unhappy with the shape of my own heart, I felt the pull to make some tangible changes, to see if I couldn’t re-orient myself, namely, I wanted to make a concerted effort to be more present to the given moment. I confessed that in a season where I’ve felt such an intense call to pray, I have struggled to navigate my conversations with God with the regularity and intention that I know I’ve needed. I told a friend the other day that I have never felt more fractured in my mind and spirit, than I have in recent months.
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