Well, She's everywhere ,
isn't She? The Spirit, I mean.
Someone asked if I owned
anything like a sculpture of a dove, which they could use as a focus for an
evening course on the Holy Spirit. After a futile tour of my home I offered
that I might be able to find a seagull feather at the lake if she thought that would
do. The hunt was on.
Before I could chase
seagulls on that October Saturday, I had to join my husband in cleaning up the
garden and stashing summer furniture in the garage. After an hour of marital
negotiations as to which of the garage’s current contents could be given away, my
husband was pleased to be left alone to store the rest of his junk in peace.
I drove to a park at nearby
Lake Ontario, and started beachcombing for feathers. The shore at this
part of the lake is covered in egg-sized, round stones, and what washes up is
more likely to be broken plastic bottles or straws, not anything pretty.
There is a huge population
of ducks, geese and seagulls, so you’d think feathers would abound, but
I couldn't find anything
remotely feather-ish.
I eyed a pristine white
swan, imagining what one of her giant feathers would look like, but she eyed me
right back with a swan’s usual fierce, warning glare.
The fall weeds and the lake
views were beautiful on this sunny cold day and I was glad to get the exercise,
so I continued along a paved lakeside path to get to the next beach.
After a few minutes, I saw
a tiny white fluff of feather on the mowed lawn beside me, and then another and
another. A bit of hope sprouted.
But what good are tiny
fluffs for a symbolic display?
I stuffed the bits of
feather into my pocket anyway. My search continued. I had to get closer to the
water again. For the first time ever, in the years I’d been walking here, I
ventured off the paved path to push my way through waist-high purple asters and
dried goldenrod stalks, right down to the water. No one else was on this part
of the beach where rock piers jut out between pebble-covered coves.
It was glorious. Who
cares about feathers? The Creator was here.
Spirit wind blew strong at
my back. Great Lake waves rushed toward my running shoes.
As each wave ebbed, the
retreating water draining through the stones made the most beautiful hushing
sound, a Spirit song.
I started seeing lots of
dirty bedraggled feathers, black ones and white ones, the quill still rigid but
the plumes half gone. I guessed they had been dropped out in the lake and
soaked and tumbled and finally dragged through the sand and stones until they
were total wrecks.
Is there some spiritual
lesson in their appearance?
What had begun as a task
transformed into a walking meditation. Again nature’s ancient and powerful
elements were giving me glimpses of the Mystery. God, you are frighteningly
strong if you spoke this wind into being.
You are a brilliant
engineer if you created bird feathers.
The way water, sun and sand
produce driftwood art manifests your unfailing plan to redeem death’s
destruction.
What if I don’t find the
feather we want for the display?
Sometimes God stoops low
enough to give us these little kisses even while we must still wail in
confusion over abused women and new wars. Sometimes, childlike, we pray for a
parking place or a sunny wedding day and are given exactly what we asked.
Other times there are no divine hugs or kisses to be found.
I was getting tired of walking
and was reminding myself not to get obsessed. It actually wouldn’t matter one
bit if a gull’s feather never appeared. I decide to go home at the end of this
beach section.
Alone at the lake, amid
beauty and careless debris, I gave thanks for the pleasure of walking with the
Holy One in her beautiful world.
Hidden secrets, big and
small, also reflect God somehow. We can’t always find God in the ways we hope. I
was ready to accept that I didn’t find the feather I wanted.
And then, surprise. When I
saw it, I smiled knowingly at the One who was smiling at me – a feather, half
hidden under a log, camouflaged by nearby speckled stones and sticks. Yes, amid
black feathers and ruined, grubby once-white feathers, I found one whole pure white
feather.
