Wandering in the Unlevel Land of the Living

Lent Reflection #3: Psalm 27

My imagination is a dwelling place for both memories and possibilities. Creativity is a way I engage my imagination. A way to find and name meaning from past experiences of joy and sorrow, everyday and extraordinary encounters. A way to birth ideas and opportunities for this moment and the future. A way to seed the life and the world I long for.

The publisher of my book of poetry, Unraveling: Coming Out and Back Together, often shares a powerful quote by chicana, queer, feminist Gloria Anzaldúa,

“The world I create in my writing compensates for what the real world does not give me.”

These words capture one of the primary reasons I write and continually share my writing. I think these words also capture an important essence of the Psalms.

As I’ve been reconnecting with the Psalms this Lent, I am in awe of the ways these ancient poems, prayers, pleas, and petitions remain new and relevant. Still speaking so personally to communal experiences and longings. I’m always amazed at the multitude of paths just one psalm can lead us to enter.

Today I focus on Psalm 27. While some find these words comforting, my initial reaction is that there is a busy pace, almost franticness to them. My first read through left me feeling a bit overwhelmed.

Light. Salvation. Trust. Fear. Enemies. Violence. Safety. Sanctuary. Seeking. Hiding. So many images and ideas calling for attention. Some scholars believe this is actually two psalms combined into one, which partly explains the vastness of potential interpretations.

Last week, I took myself on a mini retreat. A few days away alone in the woods and near my favorite body of water, to wander, finish a few projects, and brainstorm a few more in the works. I tried to balance time for walking and for writing. Praying and creating. Listening and responding. The weather was exceptionally wonderful and warm for March in Michigan. Sunshine was in abundance and the rain mostly stayed away. One day I spent hours wandering wooded trails and the beach of a state park. The melting snow made the ground muddy and there were more shades of brown than green. Deeper in the woods, the snow had yet to melt and it was hard to tell where to walk or stand. On some sections of the beach it was harder to tell where the sand started and the snow left off. Some of the shoreline was still filled with large piles of ice. Another held only small floating fragments of winter’s presence.

As I walked and at times when I just sat on logs, always in the right place, I felt at peace. I felt calm. The sound of birds and wind and water flowing like a symphony of assurance. My heart filled with gratitude for all this place has been in my life. The lessons I’ve learned here. The people who loved me here. The faith I’ve cultivated here. The trust born in this sacred sanctuary of nature. The lack of worry. The absence of fear.

After a second reading of Psalm 27, the following stayed with me, “One thing I asked of God; this I seek: to live in the house of God all the days of my life, to behold God’s beauty, and to inquire in God’s temple.” (v.4)

Had I found the one thing that the psalmist was seeking? Can I stay here all my days? Or at least until the current political storm throwing the world further into chaos ends?

I stayed until sunset. And then went to find some dinner. And then after another short walk around town returned to my room at the hotel. I fell asleep reading as stars and a still slightly blood red moon glistened off the water not far from my window.

Two hours later I was jolted awake by the vibrating sounds of loud voices and banging on a door. Law enforcement officers were at the room across the hall responding to a “crisis” situation. The story I heard unfold is not mine to tell, but I could feel the urgency through the walls. The threat was palpable. I was afraid for my own safety and especially for the person in the room and those trying to break down the door, unsure of what waited on the other side.

Total trust and now complete fear. Two so different experiences in such a short period of time. How did they meet? My heart rate told me I wasn’t dreaming. I took a quick glimpse out the peep hole to see it was real and not a nightmare before returning to a hiding spot in the corner away from the door.

“God is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” (v.1)

These words hold new meaning when you find yourself alone in close proximity to someone else’s crisis. Yes, there was light and yes, I was fearful.

One of the questions I’ve been spending a lot of time with is about the life I’m seeking, especially, what is it that I seek for my writing? What am I writing? What am I not writing? Who am I writing for? What stories are bubbling within seeking to be told?

The fear induced by the situation at the hotel certainly impacted me and my time away. And I refused to allow the fear of that night to erase the trust I experienced earlier that day. This doesn’t mean I deny the fear or the old traumas it brought to the surface, but rather that they are part of the story and not the whole.

Before I left the next morning, I realized I needed to be intentional in making space for all that I had experienced and let some light shine on that fear so it didn’t get any bigger than it was. So, I returned to the state park. I just began to wander. Walking on sand, muddy trails, and snowy patches. Paying closer attention to the ground beneath my feet and the trees surrounding me, the birds singing and crying out. The wind was stronger and so too were the waves pushing up against the icy shore.

I found myself standing on a wobbly wooden boardwalk. Had I needed the railing for balance it would not have held me. I stood there for what seemed like forever, but probably was only minutes. To my right the lake. To my left a field of birch trees. Ahead the light house. Within me reminders that our seeking is seldom, if ever, limited to one thing. And neither is my writing.

Through my writing (and my living) I seek to make space for all the emotions of being human. Without assigning value. Without suggesting one is better than another. That one is more or less acceptable. That trust and fear are polar opposites. That our seeking is limited to one thing at a time. The Psalms remind me that scripture too makes space for being human and speaks to a full range of experiences, bringing us into connection with a God who journeys with us through them all.

On my third and last read of Psalm 27, two images stir my creativity. The level path in verse 11 and the land of the living in verse 13.

Life—this land of the living—is not often marked by level ground. And if it is, it’s not for long. There are bumps, cracks, hills, mountains, holes, sand and snow piles that impact our moving about. That wobbly wooden boardwalk was unlevel after being tossed about in one of last season’s storms. And yet it gifted me an incredible view and offered a place to pray. An altar to lay out all the things that I am seeking.

I seek more moments of peace and solitude, of creating and connecting, of deep breathing and trusting. I seek grace and wisdom in moments of anxiety, worry, and fear. I seek patience with myself and others. I seek to be part of building a society where people receive help before they reach a state of crisis and where we learn to draw beautiful pictures instead of guns and weapons.

I seek new and expanded ways to write not only as compensation for what the real world does not give me, but also to fill pages with the fullness of what it does give. To give voice to those times when trust and fear meet unexpectedly and decide to take a wandering walk together.

What emotions are you experiencing in these hard days? What stories within you are longing to be shared? What are you seeking? Where might your wandering lead?

Water-fully Wandering,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

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