The other morning I was out on a run, which is a newish thing for me these days. It was chilly and I was bundled up accordingly. Winter days here can be bright, sunny, and brimming with vitality or downright dark, dreary, and pregnant with desperation. This one was somewhere in between.
My route took me through some underwhelming neighborhood scenery, but then crossed the Spokane River and dumped me onto the Centennial Trail for a brief stretch. My feet continued their rhythmic pattern on the pavement and my breath appeared before me briefly with each exhale.
My eyes danced about. The trail ahead. A squirrel darting into the nearby bushes. The train trestle. The river and its silent flow. Three elderly gentlemen with a dog. And then up to the bluish gray sky and the clouds against its canvas.
The sky caught and held my attention in a way that it doesn’t often. The clouds, specifically. There was a distinct beauty to their formation that morning. Design and texture and interplay that seemed so… intentional. It was remarkable, really.
I glanced back to the trail in front of me for a moment before returning my gaze to the sky and getting lost in its artwork.
“Nature is absolutely stunning,” I thought to myself. How is it that such beauty is being created in this one localized patch of sky above little ole Spokane, Washington? How can clouds even do that?
It promptly brought me back to last summer. It was July and I was in Tucson (yes, I made the intentional decision to go to Arizona in the heat of summer). I was at a mixer of sorts and was struck by the number of people – many of whom weren’t native to the area – who spoke about the innately sacred and spiritual vibe to the local land. I’d gotten similar inklings myself, even in the limited time I’d spent there.
As the sun set and the light magically shifted against the backdrop of the Santa Catalina Mountains, a couple of us talked about the idea that nature is such a fantastic representation of spirituality and of God or the Divine (or whichever other term we’d like to use to refer to something unnamable). It beautifully and perfectly represents spiritual themes like life, death, rebirth, transformation, interconnectedness, and impermanence.
But here’s the thing about nature that I think religion could take some cues from.
Nature just is.
It isn’t something to be debated or argued about or insisted upon. It doesn’t need to be justified or defended. It doesn’t need to be systemized. It doesn’t need theology to define it or apologetics to prove it or certain beliefs to access it. It’s not limited to certain groups; it’s not exclusive at all. It’s universal.
It just is.
It’s there to be witnessed. Experienced. Appreciated. Tapped into. Communed with.
It’s there to speak to us. Beckon us. Refresh us. Teach us. Challenge us. Inspire us. Humble us. Move us. Remind us. Transform us. Spur us on.
It’s there because it is and it always will be.
All we need to do is open our eyes to it and allow ourselves to engage it, ideally with a curious, appreciative, and receptive posture.
It was a simple but sacred few moments, our conversation being witnessed by the shifting desert landscape as the magical night sky made its entrance.
The rhythmic pattern of my feet on the pavement brought me back to the trail and the clouds. Their design. Their interplay. Their beauty, destined to last only a short time before the inevitable shapeshifting turned it into a memory. A memory that, thankfully, is now mine.
“How can clouds even do that?” The question dissipated as quickly as my breath on the next exhale.
Of course they can do that. It’s what they do.
It’s the magic. It’s the mystery.
It’s the canvas of the Divine.