A wise person recently reminded me that most of Biblical Palestine was desert. Not vast expanses of verdant pastures bordering deep still waters, but arid wastelands. Sheep and goats would find tufts of grass to nibble, and then be led by shepherds through vast expanses of nothingness in order to find a few more tufts of grass. His message was clear - notice and value the tufts of grass when they appear, and nourish yourself when you can. It may be a bit of a walk until the next meal.
I prefer my more romantic rendering of the land of Psalm 23, but confess that this part of my journey more accurately reflects the less welcome wasteland image. Perhaps making a mental shift will take some of the sting out of the journey (it is a wasteland with occasional tufts of grass vs. why can't I find the miles of promised green pastures). Acceptance by any other name?
No! I want more than acceptance. I want to learn to love the wasteland and savor its vistas. I want to celebrate the dryness and delight in the presence of that unexpected splotch of grass in the middle of nowhere. Can I let go of the cinematic picture that plays in my brain causing me to long for something that does not exist, and instead call this sojourn into my Mojave home?
I don't know if I can, but of this much I am sure: when you find that tuft of grass, its sweetness far surpasses any illusion that the Department of Would, Could and Should might provide. It is even better than anything propaganda flick offered by the Office of What If.
Thank you, Confirmands, for soul sustenance. The retreat was an oasis. Completely unexpected. Totally delightful. Bread of heaven - with fizz.
Deep gratitude,
Kim
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