Recently I attended a writer’s workshop. In one class I was instructed to take a pen and paper and record what I observed as I was sent into the woods. The following came of my time in the redwoods.
The water rushes down the embankment, swift as it dives, dances, splashes and crashes against the rocks and tree stumps which form something like a beaver damn.
I don’t see water trying to rush up – it goes only in one direction: clean, fluid, rhythmic music – soft, yet the sound fills the blank canvas space of the air. I’m silenced
The green fern below stretches out from the ground. Its leaves spread, creating a romantic umbrella for the earth below. I want the soft covering of the fern. It’s simple, elegant, understated and dances gently as the breeze catches its branches as if to ask if its dance card were full.
The moss clings to the trees and rocks with ease. It creeps up the side of the trees where it avoids the sun. It lives only on that which is still. Moss does not grow where there is movement. The blanket of green is inviting. It’s not restless trying to hop from here to there. It’s home. It knows it’s home and by its color it seems very happy to be there. Moss thrives at home.
Ivy, ground cover, clover and poison oak cover the bed of the hills. They too know their place. They too know their purpose. They too are vibrant and filled with life. I do not see them stretching to become a tree, nor do I see them taking leaps, hoping they too can tumble and splash like the water. They are alive ant they know their purpose.
An ant walks by. I hate ants. They never travel alone and they have very little respect for my personal space. This one walks across this page as though it is its owner. “I beg your pardon?” I ask the ant as he intrudes upon the pages of my journal.
The ant knows where it is headed. He works hard. I know there are many things from which I can learn as it pertains to ants. But they creep me out and I’d prefer to learn work ethic, responsibility, labor, friendship, community, co-laboring and the like from other sources. He now walks off the edge of my page, (thank you!) and heads down the redwood plank. I know there will be more to come. Ants are not renegades. they know there is more power in numbers and they stick to their created order.
The sun hits my page. My shadow is cast and I see my hand feverishly writing – seeking to capture the entire essence of this experience. I am at a loss.
The sun shines. It is warm, it blankets me with a subtle invitation to comfort. I know the invitation and welcome it. The sun shines. She is light. The sun does not pretend to be dark nor does it shield its light. The sun in brilliant. She is bold. That is her purpose. If the sun were to cower from her brilliance we would all die. Brilliance, shine, light, standing out, blinding, bold, courageous, unrelenting – these words describe the sun. She knows her place and is unafraid to shine. her rays give life and her light reveals the shadows of our story with grace, even beauty. Its a soft quiet invitation to sight. yes, the sun is bright, but it does not shine to shame. it shines to reveal, heal, warm and display. It is a conduit for life, beauty, grace and restoration. The sun knows her place and it is beautiful.
The redwoods tower. they grow like spires on a castle displaying royalty. They are to be revered! A redwood would never hide its height or stunt its growth to make its neighboring cherry tree feel more comfortable. No! the redwood knows its purpose and its created way. And he grows! He is majestic. He is strength. He is bold. I look up to see how far he and his friends stretch to the sky and can not see their end. The redwood knows its plance. He knows his role and it is good. It shelters all that grow beneath and it acts as a covering. A covering to all he watches over. He shelters what is below as he reaches towards what is above. He is unmoved. He knows.
The rocks, trees, fern, bugs, sun and all that grows lives its purpose – has a role and does not fight it. They exist in their created way and it is good. It is beauty. It is grace.
We are each made with a purpose. We each have a unique role. We have giftings and ideas that are expressed uniquely. Yet, many of us fight our role. We fight our created way. We wish we could be bigger, smaller, more seen, more hidden. We wish we could sing or speak, play a sport or paint beautiful masterpieces. We fight to be something other.
A bird does not seek to become a horse so it can run. Nor does a deer amputate it’s legs hoping to develop wings to fly. Everything has a purpose. And it is good.
What is your purpose? What is your gift? What is your unique talent, personality quirk or habit? What about your height or weight gives you a unique view or understanding? You were made on purpose, for purpose. Lean into who you are and there you will find what you were meant to be.
