Standing in a patch of camphorweed, I somehow forgot about the beliefs and assumptions and concepts that usually organize my disorganized mind. It was just the experience of being in a stand of yellow flowers, nothing more. If the “I” that usually tags along was there, I missed him, at least for a minute.
I don’t have the personality or temperament to be a mystic, but I’m sometimes aware when I bump into mystery. I admire those rare people who can talk about it. Gunilla Norris is one:
Sometimes saying prayers keeps us from being prayers. Words come not in response to life but in substitution for it. We think the map is the territory and we are untouched by the smells and wonders of actual living. For me the orientation I want to embrace more and more is toward receiving my life, toward a continual intention to make room for Mystery’s way within me. I don’t think we can go deeply into ourselves — but Life seeking itself can go deeply in us. We can be infused, loved, and fathomed by it. And when we are, we cannot help but sing out our joy. We need that activity in us to be ourselves …
I went back to the Yellow River Sunday to see the stand of camphorweed again. I suppose you could say this is just a song of joy.
• Source: Gunilla Norris, Being Home; New York: Bell Tower, 1991, p. xix.
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