FALL 2002George A. Crispin
Woodbury Monthly Meeting
hen I retired one overwhelming fear haunted me. Would I find enough to do? Could I keep my mind and body occupied, be creative, contribute to life, and go on grow ing? For the past thirty-eight years my life had been full with my profession. I had lived a daily routine, with much to do daily, a schedule to keep, people to whom I had to answer to keep me on track. Without this might not life flounder? Might I not sink into a malaise of staying up late, getting up late, and trying to invent things to do? I could take a course, perhaps substitute teach, volunteer for some worthy cause.
“Nature abhors a vacuum” is no idle phrase; it is a truism. It did not take long for my life to fill. Fill it did, and with all good things. I now teach part-time at a university, serve on the board of trustees of four worthy institutions, run a small farm, mow grass several places, help rear a small child, help plan family activities, be an activist on public issues, and more. The irony is that I am busier now than when I was employed, which is what all my friends who had retired told me. Now tying my shoe strings puts me behind schedule.
Running a farm is fun and has many healthy benefits, especially when one has a small child following behind asking questions. There is an exact routine that must not be interrupted. Every morning the animals must be fed and watered, lest they start bawling for attention. The stalls need mucking out, the garden needs weeding, the fences need mending, the electric fence needs checking; it is an unbroken routine that sometimes gets in the way of other important matters. All of these chores can be speeded up, corners may be cut, even some aspects skipped occasionally. All except one. The animals must be watered. The buckets need filling.
The hose only runs so fast. No faster. Nothing can speed it up, encourage it to flow faster. It has its own pace, no more. One has to wait. Invariably there is a direct relationship between the pace of the hose and the number of things one has to do that day. The busier you are, the slower, seemingly, the hose flows.
This had led in the past to drumming one’s fingers on the post, rolling the eyes skyward, tapping one’s toes on the ground, and, when exceptionally booked for the day, saying unrepeatable things under one’s breath. It can be frustrating and mar the beginning of a day. Why not walk away and let the bucket fill it self? Because without exception one’s attention turns to other pressing matters and the bucket overflows, wasting water and making a mud hole where the animals come to drink. So one is stuck, wasting time, eroding patience, drumming on the fencepost, rolling one’s eyes heavenward.
Rolling one’s eyes heavenward may be a metaphor for the unconscious seeking of divine help. It is one of the characteristics of divine help that it often comes when we are not conscious of asking for it. On one occasion the casting of my eyes upward caused the fixation on a beautiful cloud, not just a cumulous combustion of white fluff, but a majestic ship with course after course of sail plowing the turbulent ocean waves. Behind that came a cougar in full stride. Then a form, that of a giant striding across the heavens. This fixation was broken by the song of a bird, not a warble, but one pure, sounding note over and over. My thoughts turned to my father, a farmer who farmed not more than four miles from where I now stood. How many times in his life did he not fill the water buckets? I wonder if he every wondered as I now do, about the passage of time, or see clouds that look like animals, or hear the pure song of a bird. Somehow as the moments ticked by my thoughts rose higher. How am I doing in life? I thought. Approaching the last third of life, what ought I be doing with this time? Being a teacher, I am apt to think in terms of grades, and often I grade myself on the tasks at hand. But how am I doing in life? I had not thought of it that way before.
Then I heard the water, overflowing onto the ground. Suddenly I was conscious of the irony of that moment. Caught up as I was in taking in this time that I had been given, it was now sudden over, too soon. The bucket was filled.
We are all caught in those moments when we are filling our buckets. They may not be buckets with water. They may be other buckets. Spiritual buckets. Time spent waiting for a light to change, standing in a checkout line. Waiting in a doctor’s office. Precious moments given to us that slow down our busy lives. It is then we can roll our eyes heavenward and see ships plowing the seas, racing animals, and much more.
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Wednesday, February 18, 2004 at 08:19 AM
