The purpose of life, the meaning, has always been crystal clear to me, never has a non-mystery been more obvious and accessible:
to love is the reason and the miracle,
to be gifted hearts and souls to find others on the way home.
Who will you bring? Who will you pass over? Remember the Savior may be the homeless or aborted, the silent one in the corner, the one deemed a misfit, different, deformed.
Each created from love, each loved from above, each returned after this to the metamorphic, body-molted non-shape of love.
The purpose of life, the meaning, has always been laid out: Love thy neighbor. Love thy spouse. Love thy enemy. Love thy self.
Ninety-three million miles away, yet upon the cobwebs of a flower, Sol’s ray reaches, haloes, frames.
How powerful that gentle, golden beam is when it finds and reminds us our insignificance
is more important and personal than we think it to be, for the Creator made sure the cold and darkness would always have returning light and heat.
We are turned away each evening, in a rotation beyond our control, perhaps to make possible the continuous rebirthing of new-day gratitude and hope,
to make possible these moments that universally lift up our gazes, to freeze-frame and coat in gold these nuggets of humble beauty appreciation,
like cobwebs on a flower that still me with revelation: in the tapestry and labyrinth of life, we are woven and connected by hidden common thread, and love could always, then and now, win.
With a single spark from my wild heart, I sneakily reseed a little yellow cheer and carry on my solo way, planting the little flames to light the way back to love.
So if you see the floral light, pass it on randomly, be kind to a stranger, let’s try to string smiles, no matter how fleeting, for the winter is receding, and the birds sing of forgiveness, of burying, of remembering,
for in the decay of leaves, we can fertilize the best parts of memories, and visit the rest at the graveyard of past seasons; the reasons you cling to that poison your roots, leave by the wayside and mark the route. Visit respectfully but do not carry it with you; seeds were meant for detaching, and rebirthing where they land new blooms.
With the southern summer heat and humidity keeping me indoors most of the time now, I try to get outside every early morning and every evening when it is peak bearable. I very much enjoy having nature largely to myself in the mornings before the world awakens and the bustle begins. This morning, I enjoyed some time on the beach waiting for the storms to roll in (photos in my next post).
Upon leaving the waves, I noticed a frail-looking older man very much struggling to carry all of his (what appeared to be) fishing gear down to the water. Among the items was some sort of thick, wooden log-looking stand. He actually stood still and slowly swayed at one point. My natural instinct was to rush over and help him, offer to carry the gallon of water, at least. But with only a few footsteps between us, I had only moments to both assess and act upon the situation. I couldn’t make out his character. He looked like he may even be a bum. We exchanged friendly greetings, including his chuckling about how he needs a mule, as I continued to walk by. I turned around after I passed him for another glance. By the time I reached my car, the guilt was already heavily coated on me; it felt just as heavy as that gear.
I should have helped him.
I didn’t because although my first instinct came from my heart, my second came from my head. A woman out by herself needs to be careful, doesn’t she? I am still adjusting, post-divorce, to the new safety mentality; my noble steed (Lab mix) I since adopted was not with me. But…we were very much in a public place, far enough from the parking lot and with some other beach witnesses nearby. I made the wrong decision in my haste. Mom would say I made the right one. My deciding factor was concluding he may be a bum. But should that matter? Maybe it should, in other ways…
My soul’s composition simply makes me a kindhearted person with immense compassion who truly struggles with seeing the bad in anyone. To me, he was simply a brother. He was still, even when caution caused me to keep walking instead of being a good Samaritan. I sat in my car and wished I could turn the clock back a few minutes and do what my heart wanted to do. Random moments such as these tend to affect me long afterwards, tend to change me, tend to remain indelibly inside me. It’s just the way I am.
It reminded me of a scene from a friend’s book I had finished reading a couple of days ago. Grant van der Vijver’s reflective mentor character in his debut novel Deeper has a similar experience and explains to younger Luke why he called the homeless man his brother, that he believes in the Native-American philosophy of “Mitakuye Oyasin,” that we are all related. Luke struggles with the concept because he has witnessed so much hate toward others in the world, but his mentor explains that “all that ignorance doesn’t make it untrue.” Luke, like me, recalls the man’s pained eyes, still reflecting on it later that night.
My act of unkindness came with a good heart, good intentions, and good reasons I fell short this time. It may not seem like a big moment in the grand scheme of things, but for me it was. It came with a valuable reminder, a good reason for reflection, a universal one.
I texted my friend about it briefly in the car before heading home, mentioned how you just have to be careful in today’s world as my defense. But as I drove, I reflected even on that. Today’s world is no different, no exception. There has always been potential danger from strangers. There has always been sick, others would say “bad,” people. It makes me think of things that have changed, as well as things that remain the same. It makes me think of human nature. It makes me feel. It makes me want to write.
All because I passed a man at the beach this morning.
And don’t think I didn’t recall Jesus falling under the weight of the cross he carried, or this old song…
Link to the referenced book by Grant van der Vijver: Deeper (A Novel)
After spending way too long going through my photos and selecting some of my “prize-winning” shots, I came to this one and halted. My eyes watered, too. Although this image does not at first appear beautiful, its story is.
The idea of lines in photography is to lead one’s eyes in a certain direction. That direction always seems to be forward, ahead. In this photo, my subject is barely discernible. It is a stranger in passing. But it moved everyone in the car quite powerfully.
I took this photo this past Christmas Day, in the early evening, on the way to drop off my son at the airport. He was complaining about his data being over and therefore slow, making the travel night ahead less to look forward to. At the white road sign on the off-ramp, we detected a woman standing behind the pole, like she was hiding. It was creepy; we assumed she was crazy.
As we passed though, we saw that she was dressed in black, grasping the pole with her head bowed in mourning, above the flowers she laid there. When we realized more of the true story, my son was the first to comment how terrible and sad that was, on Christmas Day no less. My kids and I had unplanned moments of silence. It hit us all hard.
The lines in my photograph lead us in a direction we are often told not to look: behind. But sometimes, the lessons that truly matter can only come from just that.
I took the picture out my window after the misjudged moment passed. I took it to be moved again, to be reminded again. Because sometimes, that enables us to journey forward as better people, more compassionate in the understanding only retrospection can provide, when we slow down and process the past that too quickly flew by.
Do not be too easily persuaded by the “Wrong Way” signs. Sometimes the right way can only be found in rearview mirrors, captured by the reverse camera, bypassing your own self-portrait.
Sometimes the blur of a stranger can stay with you, change you, forever.