TONGUES OF STONE

Our home is just a block from the great Mississippi—“Father of Waters.” I love to take a path that hugs the steep 100-foot bank down into the gorge and to the river. Along the way, the limestone strata lie exposed, sliced by the water over eons as if the river herself were curious to see the secrets they hold.

The golden rock face weeps with a number of small springs, some of which paint the stone bright green with moss. One of these springs caught my eye the other day. The delicate curtain of water below this one shimmered like none of the others.

      

As I leaned closer, I noticed the surface of the limestone was textured in an elegant scalloped pattern, like hundreds of little half-inch tongues lapping at the water trickling down. And each of the tongues itself was etched in a still-finer texture. Some had raised lips around the edge—as if evolving to better catch and hold the water.

     I’d always thought of such formations 
     as something primordial, something you’d 
     see only in the deepest, darkest cave.

At first, I thought it was some kind of fungus, but it was as hard as the rock itself. I realized what I’d found was an array of tiny calcifications, like stalactites or stalagmites, deposited by the acidic, calcium-infused water, molecule by molecule, over months—perhaps years—of constant dripping.

I’d always thought of such formations as something primordial, something you’d see only in the deepest, darkest cave. And yet here was an exquisite example of the earth’s constant, timeless transmutation, likely passed by unnoticed every day by dozens of people, within the reach of my arm.

In what ways will wonder find you today? Are you leaving the 
door open?

FACE IN THE ROCK – Hard Truths

The Old Man of the Dalles

In the Dalles, the scenic gorge of Minnesota's St. Croix River at Taylor's Falls, the inscrutable Old Man of the Dalles contemplates that stretch of the river as he has for 10,000 years. I wonder who first recognized him peering out of the gray basalt. Was it the Ojibwe or Dakota, for whom the distinction between man and Nature was a fine one? Was it European settlers, who may have craved any sign of humanity in such unfamiliar, unforgiving surroundings? Or might it have been just an enterprising tour boat operator, at the turn of the 20th century, looking for one more highlight to capture tourists' imaginations?

We have searched for our own reflections in Nature since we were little more than just another wild animal (one much lower on the food chain). Perhaps it was among the first indications of our impatience with that position that we could imagine seeing ourselves in rocks, trees and clouds. As human cultures advanced, so did the reach of our imagination—we were then seeing ourselves and our fates traced in the stars, those most unconvincing of connect-the-dots renderings.

Does imagining ourselves or our God reflected in Nature 
somehow bestow immortality on us as the notion of heaven does?

Native Americans and other animist peoples may have gotten it closer to right, believing not just their likenesses, but their spirits, are entwined with Nature (in both living and inanimate things). I find much to be desired in this theology. What could be more reassuring—not to mention convenient—than finding your God reflected in everything you see, all the time? I don't know about you, but to me that beats waiting till Sunday and praying to a book, a statue or a string of beads. I find both comfort and hope in my belief that we, our fellow organisms and everything else—rocks, clouds, fire and water—are all connected, all part of the same magnificent plan.

While this view of what's holy feels right for me, it still raises many questions. Have we always understood how tenuous our hold is on life? Does imagining ourselves or our God reflected in Nature somehow bestow immortality on us as the notion of heaven does? Does how we picture God influence the way we treat our fellow seekers and our natural environment?

Only by God's being unimaginable can I begin 
to understand His power.

All I know is that seeing faces or forms in the clouds is not a profound experience for me. While I respect the importance of these images to my ancient ancestors, I think my spiritual reach is actually limited by such amusements. I guess I find holiness in things that don't look like me. It's precisely because they don't look like me that they so fill me with wonder. And only by God's being unimaginable can I begin to understand His power.