"...more God than the God I greet."

Last month I got to spend a few days on The Mojave Road with some friends: an established favorite and a few brand-new ones. One morning I woke up an hour or so before dawn and, since sleep had packed his things and left, I decided to take a walk. The birds and insects were in their post-night-pre-dawn silent mode and the air was perfectly still. My ears rang with the silence, straining for any discernible molecular vibration. A half mile or so away, up on a hill, I saw one of our company setting up his camera for what looked to be a pretty epic desert-sunrise-over-hills shot. I was surprised I couldn't hear him, as quiet as it all was. I watched him move soundlessly through the setup, listening for the delayed click of a tripod leg on rock or of his lens shutter catching an image, but he was too far away. I turned my back to the occupied hill and walked away down a wash. Tracks zig-zagged across the wash, revealing travelers' identities from the night before: beetles, snakes, rabbits, coyotes. I felt guilty for leaving my synthetically soled sneaker prints in the sand. But they are my tracks. These are the shoes I wear. I really did walk here. Synthetic, yes. Inauthentic, no. Besides, going barefoot through cholla would just be stupid. 

As I walked, Padraig ÓTuama's words popped into my head,  

“Neither I nor the poets I love found the keys to the kingdom of prayer and we cannot force God to stumble over us where we sit. But I know that it’s a good idea to sit anyway. So every morning I sit, I kneel, waiting, making friends with the habit of listening, hoping that I’m being listened to. There, I greet God in my own disorder. I say hello to my chaos, my unmade decisions, my unmade bed, my desire and my trouble. I say hello to distraction and privilege... I recognise and greet my burdens, my luck, my controlled and uncontrollable story. I greet my untold stories, my unfolding story, my unloved body, my own love, my own body. I greet the things I think will happen and I say hello to everything I do not know about the day...I greet God, and I greet the God who is more God than the God I greet. / Hello to you all, I say, as the sun rises above the chimneys of North Belfast. / Hello.”

I sat down in the sand, careful to avoid wildflowers, cactus spines, and ant hills. I thought about listening and being listened to. The shadows and light across the valley began to move as if the rotation of the earth had suddenly quickened. The birds woke up and insects buzzed around some newly-opened desert mallow. I distractedly watched the birds and bugs flit and jump. The shadow cast by my new friend's hill retreated faster than my distraction could track, and I suddenly found myself sitting in full sun, sweat beading up at the base of my neck then trickling down my back. The new morning light snagged on puffy snowball creosote seed pods, making them look like oddly illuminated desert Christmas trees. It wasn't exactly "the chimneys of North Belfast," but I still felt to say, "Hello!" and then to wonder about this "God who is more God than the God I greet." After some time, I got up, dusted myself off, and walked back to where the other campers were beginning the day. We rolled up our sleeping bags and tents, we ate bacon and eggs, we hit the road.

I keep thinking about that morning, and about Padraig's God. God didn't talk to me that morning in the desert. He didn't answer any questions or offer any encouragement. He didn't even really say hello-- unless that's what the desert mallow were for-- and I think I'm finally OK with that. Perhaps Teacher Suzuki and Padraig are right after all, and the goal of the practice isn't to attain anything, the goal of the practice is to sit on my cushion (or sand), to listen, to greet.

No. I cannot force God to stumble over me where I sit, but it is good for me to sit anyway.