Northern Illinois had been experiencing strong winds for days. When I arrived at the retreat, I was struck by the empty spaces where trees had formerly been. There were so many tree stumps and large tree branches on the ground.

Sr. Julia explained that, while the recent heavy winds had caused some damage to the trees, there was another reason why I was seeing so many stumps and so many large branches on the ground. There had recently been a harvesting of the trees, done as part of the five- and ten-year plans to care for the land. To exercise stewardship of the forest selected trees needed to be taken down.

It was a large-scale pruning. To take care of the whole, excess is removed. In spiritual terms, pruning is crucial, and it can be very painful. I am going through a period of pruning now. Maybe you are, too.

It was painful to see the spaces where so many trees had stood tall. It gave me a sense of my mortality.

Like the trees, my life on this earth had a beginning and will have an end. Because I was not aware that the tree harvesting was scheduled, I was shocked when I saw so many trees gone. So, too, the death of others sometimes comes as a sudden shock.

Several months ago, my younger brother unexpectedly died. It seemed I was going through what the forest was going through: an undeniable manifestation of the fragility of life.

What I experienced was this: when deep feelings of sorrow to the point of anguish came over me, I did not become overwhelmed or panicky. I knew that Sr. Julia is a spiritual director, and I could speak to her.

I knew I could take in the beauty of the landscape. I could roam the grounds without fear. I could let my guard down. I began to feel steadier, taking comfort in the many trees up on the hills and lining the paths on the property.

I saw what was there, no longer focusing on what was missing.

Near the chapel, there is a tree planted in my brother’s memory. I stood by the young tree and took comfort, then spent time alone in the simple and beautiful chapel.

I walked the trails, went up and down the hills. I stopped by the gazebo. The granary was temporarily not accessible because a very large branch had fallen down on it, blocking the door. Within a few hours, Chase had cleared the branch away. He said that although the branch was very heavy, the granary walls held strong. If I wanted to rest indoors, I could go to my hermitage. Or, I could go to the Main House, greet Sr. Julia, and sit in the small library reading.

I always discover a book on prayer, faith, wisdom, or nature that speaks to my heart.

On that retreat I experienced great reassurance that, like the granary walls, I would hold up. When it was time for me to return home, I took that calm and steadiness with me. I realized, too, how much I’ve taken Christ in the Wilderness for granted. I decided not to keep assuming it will somehow always be there. CitW needs my help, too.

Everything at Christ in the Wilderness is faithfully and lovingly cared for by Sr. Julia and the staff and volunteers. They commit to skillful regular service of the grounds as well as each of the buildings and everything they hold.

Nature and human care come together. Retreatants, friends, admirers  are invited to be a part of this relationship of care. Please, let’s all join in as we are able.

 

Full Moon at Eighty

BY JIM MOORE

When I look up, there it is.
I can see that it does not need us,
but does not mind that we need it.
I think I am supposed to stop trying to be someone.
Be everyone instead, it says. I shine
on everyone, it says: can you do the same
in your waning? If I am to live at all,
it will have to be in this way: knowing
I am going away and shining, even so,
guided by the light of knowing that.

 

The Adroit Journal