Something terrible has happened to whatever powers of observation I once possessed. For instance, I see a home—a beautiful building, restored red brick, leafy green vines climbing one side, the shade of a towering tree cast upon the other. This home is settled at the nadir of a small hill. The landscaping is sparse, but the grass is green.
“Beautiful home,” my wife says.
“But that hill,” I say. “Hate to be at the bottom of that.”
And why? you may ask. My wife did. A worthy question—the mind wonders and wanders.
A sledding hill! Icy and cold, full of twinkling laughter and the expectation of a hot cup of cocoa. Collisions of frosty kids right there at the doorstep.
A fairy hill! Do the Fae come out at night—are those the flickering lights we see just over the horizon, beneath the smiling stars? What goodies must we place upon our porch to keep their friendship?
A tumbling hill! Tiny bodies bouncing, bumbling, rolling down, grass-stained knees and torn jeans and gasping grins. The Band-aids and Neosporin are just there, next to the front door.
“Think of the water run-off,” I say, shaking my graying head. “And barely any plants to catch it—they must have terrible flooding in their basement. Hope they have a sump pump.”
The mind wonders and wanders and grows weary with worries. And how do we reenchant such a mind? What’s the right combination of fairies and grass stains and hot cocoa?
And another thing:
If you’ve ever been curious about what it takes to write and sell a book of spirituality, then you should definitely check out this two-part panel discussion that I hosted over at the Jesuit Media Lab.
And while you’re on the topic of all things Jesuit, read this week’s “Now Discern This” about casting beams of love.
I totally get that! I've struggled with it, and still do. Adulthood demands that we practice a balance of prudent discernment and childlike wonder. Otherwise, we lose touch with being a Child of God.