Morning Symphony

This morning I am sitting at a table outside of a cabin in the foothills of the Chilean Andes Mountains. We have come here for a little rest and fun before I leave Chile to return home. From where I sit I can look out over a deep valley and up to the tall hills on the other side. I can hear the river roar far below carrying tons of water – spring run-off from the mountains. The trees around me are Eucalyptus and give off a very distinct aroma. There are crickets everywhere, birds chirping, and roosters crowing. There is a slight breeze blowing which rattles the brittle Eucalyptus leaves and brings a little relief to the already 85 degree day. I can hear people playing in the distance. There is the cackle of some kind of turkey-looking bird that I’ve never seen before. A minute ago a gecko ran across my table and was not at all interested in my attempts to befriend him (the one in the commercial is much more sociable).

Everything is alive. Everything seems to have this perfect rhythm to it. It’s all doing what it’s supposed to be doing. There is a strange kind symphonic beauty to it all lead by a conductor who cannot be seen but whose presence is clearly obvious.

But I feel out of place here. There is a disconnect for me. Everything seems to be alive and have their specific function (except for the flies. I’ve yet to figure out their function or beauty). And yet sitting here in the middle of life and beauty I feel like I am the one thing that is out of place. I’m not sure what part to play in this symphony. I feel like I’ve been given an instrument but have no idea how to play it. Life seems to come naturally to the things around me but I don’t feel that same life inside of me. It’s not that death lives in me (if it’s even possible for death to live), it’s more an awareness of the absence of life.

I would love to enter into the symphony of life that fills this valley. But until the music overwhelms me once again and magically draws me into participation with it I am left to making a willful, conscious choice to join in. Psalm 63 begins with the present, unshakable reality that the psalmist is experiencing. “My soul thirsts for you in a dry and weary land where there is no water.” That is his current reality. But he doesn’t allow himself to stay there. He reflects back on his past experience with God. “I have seen you in the sanctuary and beheld your power and your glory.” Present reality leads to past reflection which then opens the way to a conscious choice for the future. “Because you are my help, I WILL sing in the shadow of your wings.”

The present reality of the psalmist hasn’t changed. He is still in, “a dry and weary land where there is no water.” What has changed is his decision to enter into life anyway. So I guess I will try and open my mouth and sing. It’s hard to compete with crickets and birds and wind and rivers, but I will try. Maybe the conductor won’t notice my feeble attempts to blend in. But then again, maybe he is the one who is inviting me to join them.