In the Woods of Shenandoah

I Walked the Woods of Shenandoah

experienced and written July 4, 2018

Typed and edited October 17, 2018

Once I walked the woods of Shenandoah.

I found a platform in the woods, just inside the woods, and so I sat on it.

After a time of sitting, the forest became orderly in its wildness and a path appeared.
In time the mosquitoes, God's helpers, forced me out onto the path, and I
journeyed out along in the wild woods with its sweet, dank smell of life and death.

Everything in the woods dies except the path, so long as it is walked once in a while.
The path is the only thing in the forest that depends on us. And we are its only purpose.
Yet the path dies too, overtaken by the wilds, if neglected.

The mosquitoes lost interest in me. The path did not.

I walked a bit to see where it led.

It soon evaporated into dead leaves and small brush which tickled my ankles.
So quickly, the path was now my own choosing.

Along the way I saw two box turtles facing each other nestled in the leaves,
one shut up tightly and the other looking intently at the first, waiting.

“Are you in there? Are you ok?”

“Yes I’m here. I’m fine.”

I wonder if we are called to look and listen patiently with each other until we all feel safe
enough to poke our heads out. I picked up the one with its head out, looked into its ancient
eyes, set it back down.

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’m fine. I’m just...a little scared. I heard footprints, and you know I’m scared of people.”

Turtles are magnificent when you think about it. They might be more like us than anything
else. Strong, hard shell protecting soft, vulnerable interior. Capable of shutting out the world.

But shutting out the world blinds you--it is self-imposed darkness.
I’m glad this shut-up turtle has a friend to help who can sit with her and help her see, be her
companion.

“He seems nice. He smiled at me when he picked me up.”

“I don’t care. He’s big and scary and I don’t like to be picked up.”

“Well you look dead you know.”

“I’m not dead, I’m hiding.”

We need companions if we are ever going to come out of our shell. I think that’s what
Jesus does for us. Sits by us real close and says, “I’m here. It’s going to be ok.”
He sees for us until we are able to see for ourselves. The mosquitoes renewed their interest
in me so I left the turtles and ventured further on.

“What’s the difference between dead and hiding? You can’t see anyone and no one can
see you.”

“They can look at my shell.”

I found the path again, a somewhat organized trail that led to a definitely organized trail
that was passable by truck, though no truck in decades had made it through, and the
forest claimed it now.I followed this until it wrinkled back into disorganization, and finally
truly ended--no tamped down leaves, just wild, wild creation ruling over everything. Under
two giant trees that had fallen onto a third, I found a stone draped in lichen so I sat on it.

“You are not your shell. Our shells all look the same, silly. But you are a beautiful and
unique box turtle. Plus, it’s hot out here. I want to go to the creek and you’re holding
us up, slow poke!”
“You’re just being risky. What if that man had taken you away? What if we slip and fall
into the creek? You love being risky and it’s going to get you killed...You really think
I’m beautiful?”

On this leg of my journey into the somersault of the unknown, I wondered if being in the
forest was like inhabiting the soul of Christ. The forest floor is covered with death: dead
leaves, dead limbs and trees, yet what dies here feeds what lives. It is necessary. And
what lives here--trees and bugs and plants and animals--lives with what is dead but not
gone. I sensed beyond our vision a tumbling force of motion, forward always, yet

containing the past. The future a breathe away, yet present from the beginning.  
The mosquitoes were having a field day so I headed back home.

“Absolutely I think you’re beautiful. I wish everyone could know you the way I do. And I wish
you could see this world out here like I do. It’s like Disneyland for turtles!”

“I’m unique?”

“Oh Ronnie, of course you are. Well not when you’re closed off like that. But when you’re
not afraid, when we walk together, you are the most beautiful and unique turtle I have ever
known. You eyes twinkle and your shell shines.”

The path looked different on the way home. A new direction on the same path, a returning,
offered a new perspective. I walked quicker and the bugs and mosquitoes buzzed around
me, scurrying me out of the forest. The unruliness of the forest was trembling me back home,
out of the wilds and into the world of humans (God’s most unruly creation of all). I looked
forward to the cool air conditioning and order of the human world, and smiled at
my walk in the woods.

“I’m beautiful and unique.”

“Yes.”

“I’m beautiful and unique.”

“Yes you are, Ronnie.”

Ronnie slowly poked his head and feet out and stood up.

“I’m beautiful and unique,” he said, louder, and began to walk toward the creek.

And then again, almost shouting, “I’m beautiful and unique!”

“Yes!” shouted Tabitha with delight, walking beside him.

Ronnie picked up speed and began to run toward the creek, with Tabitha trying to keep up.
“I’m beautiful and unique! I’m beautiful and unique!”

He was now approaching the creek at top turtle speed, and when he got to the edge he
launched himself as high as he could and shouted “I’M BEAUTIFUL AND UNIQUE!”
before splashing down into the cool mountain stream, Tabitha splashing right next to him.

It had been too long since my frenetic soul took counsel from the stoic wilderness of the
soul of God. Approaching the edge of the woods, faint hint of clearing ahead, I was at
peace.Just before entering the clearing I stopped to say hello to the turtles but I found
only two warm empty imprints, nestled together in the leaves.

The war

The battle didn’t last long, but it proved the war

She’d suspected it, felt the pangs and fury of a fight

But never knew it was like this.

A pilgrimage of the soul isn’t a walk in the park, you know.

The fiercest fighting was hers alone.

Others pointed, but the the creeping vines and vegetation were hers to cut

The wild jungle was always growing, twisting,

Dank as a spring house,

vicious as a broken promise

From the field it raged, I am the jungle!

I am made of death! My vines of despair!

My floor of rotting corpses!

But it was silent when she entered.

She would not have gone into the jungle

But they depended on her

and they gave her a machete.

The battle was slow and terrifying at first.

But she found the vines could be cut

The bodies could gently be lifted and placed aside at rest.

She slashed and cleared until her arms gave out but a path had emerged

It called out to her as she walked home through the field, “I am the jungle of your fears! You made me! I cannot be destroyed!”

She smiled and remembered its silence during the fight, and knew.

The jungle didn’t hate her

It loved her

It was calling her back,

begging her to tend the corpses, cut the vines

And build a simple cabin among the branches

The jungle was her real home.

The war would last a lifetime

But she had a machete.

And the jungle had been silent.

The Secret We Forgot

It’s not as though we wouldn’t know

If you gave us a test on it

If you asked us, really asked us, we’d tell you right

If we hushed up the horns and set down the clangs and listened

To the real Mother

We’d tell you the secret we forgot

We’d tell you that we do believe we’re made of stardust,

science says so

But this isn’t science.

If you sat on the dirt floor with us in our rondovel

if you shared a Black Label on a moonless night, we’d tell you

what we’ve known since the stars were young

ain’t no me without you

And ain’t no you without me, sisi.

It has to be all of us.

If you really needed to know, we’d put on some music

And dance the sema together

Hearts circling heaven

And we’d show you

all spinning whirl and whisper “learned theologians do not teach love.”

If you begged us, baking on that rickety table,

we’d untie the cloth strips from your hands and feet

And carry you down the mountain trail and tell you what he said

Being chosen isn’t easy, but what do we find in the binding?

And he was rooting for us, you see.

If you were dying to know, as if you didn’t already

We’d tell you shame got the best of the men that day

But the women persisted as they do

If you hadn’t done it where would we be?

Shadows crouching in shadowy rooms

And you loved anyway

And you smiled and said

It has to be all of us

If you asked us about doctrine we’d rush to find a few textbooks

(Liturgy requires another set of books.)

And if you pointed out all those fancy things got us was

Wars and blood

you’d be right and we’d know it.

It’s all horns and clangs we’d admit if you really stared us down

We’d gulp and stammer that books get dusty but people never do

An afterthought worth thinking, we’d say

A broken compass still marked with true North

It all came from the dark rooms and dusty tables and spinning dances and dirt floors.

If we put it all away and returned the gaze

we’d tell you the secret we forgot:

We can hear each other’s heartbeats

And when we do we know

It has to be all of us.