Peripheral Ponderings

 

We had only been away for about five days, but in the damp September air, conditions proved perfect for our backyard spider to spin an elaborate web to trap unwary late-summer insects.

Because of the woods and the moisture of the nearby lake, nature’s growth thrives here.  We keep a constant vigilance to make sure it doesn’t take over our little bit of civilization. The shoot of a young sapling can spring up to knee-size in our garden within a few weeks.   It may be an odd thought, but it seems that even hair grows faster in this setting (although admittedly, the nearby village still has its share of bald pates, so this is an untested theory).

Our humble arachnid is named after the Greek woman who so flaunted her weaving skills she was punished by the goddess Athena.  There is such near-perfection in the web’s design, it’s understandable that it provokes jealousy.

The web is beautiful, but it can be easily destroyed.   It’s like the fragile interconnectedness which links all of us, the silvery web-strands of virtual connections we now take for granted as part of our world.  It’s so amazing and powerful and beautiful that we can easily become like Arachne who, with hubris, challenges Divinity.

The Legend of the Spider and the Silken Thread Held in God’s Hand

There’s an old Danish Legend with a lesson for us all
Of an ambitious spider and his rise and fall,
Who wove his sheer web with intricate care
As it hung suspended somewhere in midair,
Then in soft, idle luxury he feasted each day
On the small foolish insects he enticed as his prey.

Growing ever more arrogant and smug all the while
He lived like a ‘king’ in self-satisfied style –
And gazing one day at the sheer strand suspended
He said “I don’t need this” so he recklessly rended
The strand that had held his web in its place
And with sudden swiftness the web crumpled in space.

And that was the end of the spider who grew
So arrogantly proud that he no longer knew
That it was the strand that reached down from above
Like the cord of God’s grace and His infinite love
That links our lives to the great unknown.
For man cannot live or exist on his own.

And this old legend with simplicity told
Is a moral as true as the Legend is old.

Anonymous, found in an old Bible circa 1940

 

 

 

“Be watchful, stand firm in your faith, be courageous, be strong.  Let all that you do be done in love.”        I Corinthians 16:13-14

Our garden statue elicited a comment from the young children of friends when their family came to visit one weekend – “That’s Mr. and Mrs. Prins reading the Bible together!”

Over the 48 years of our marriage, Scripture reading has been part of almost every day.    Recently, coming across our wedding Bible, my husband pointed out the inscription of our chosen wedding text, and we looked at it with new eyes.   The officiating minister veered off to the theme of family trees (which would have been more appropriate for my sister’s wedding the following year: they dreamed of establishing a tree nursery.)  My bemused co-workers asked whether we would be having kids right away.  But we would have done well to have really meditated on its wisdom of that text instead, taking it to heart right from the start.

The wording in the wedding vows was also a little problematic, as I was appalled by an archaic use of the word obey in the wedding vows.  We were early in the era of women’s liberation, after all.  I pictured being dragged reluctantly into situations where I had little or no input on the decision-making.

On the condition that my soon-to-be husband would never take advantage, as he promised, I did agree to obey.  And, in truth, he never has.  As time went on, I began to understand that the word obey also carries a connotation of listening closely, being alert to tone and stress and nuance.  Being watchful, having faith, being strong for each other in tough times, having courage to face what sometimes seems like insurmountable obstacles in a relationship.  There’s wisdom in the text and in the vows we made that day.

In the naivete of youth, you don’t always understand that there are many forces that have the potential to tear a marriage apart, that constant vigilance is necessary to maintain the health of a relationship, that we had to work, individually and together, to keep the claims of extended family, parenting, church and career in their rightful places.

But God is faithful.  And God is good, even though we are not.  And, thankfully, it’s that Love that’s cradled this marriage, throughout the years.

 

 

Autumn always makes me feel nostalgic although its cooler temperatures also give new energy, and inspire new beginnings.  The school bus, on its way past our house, is the signal to call back the eternal student in me.  There are new worlds to discover, to marvel at.

It wasn’t always that way.  I’d stalled for time by taking Grade 13 credits.  At the end of the year, classrooms seemed to hem me in. There was a fair bit of anxiety about leaving home for an unknown campus.  I was eager to be on my way in a career, and jobs were plentiful.

So I settled.  A position at McMaster University meant a vicarious participation in the learning vibe. I typed manuscripts on my Selectric typewriter to earn a little money on the side, to save for our first house.  Courses were either free or discounted for staff, but I did not take advantage of that perk, to my later regret.

All the more sweeter, then, to come back after an hiatus of more than 15 years to King’s College in London.  The time away was not wasted – much had been accomplished in establishing our home, and our young family.  But now, with our youngest at the age of ten, it was finally my turn again!

There was a deeper resonance in my studies now –  I had met some of life’s difficulties, and so recognized the insights that glimmered in poetry and prose. Like a sponge, I eagerly soaked up everything – it was such a relief to know that the search for answers to life’s big questions was not as solitary as I’d feared.  They’d been asked for millennia.

In class, mature students participated with an enthusiasm sometimes incomprehensible to the younger students.   I in turn marveled at the wisdom of these young adults, the windows they opened onto their world views.  It made me feel young, though I was much further along the path than they were.

And, yes, yes, it’s off to college, not “collage.”  I know.  Spelling comes more naturally for someone who reads a lot of books.  Still, there’s a truth in it, because I have vivid impressions of campus scenes:  the Italian literature class Professor Dante Lenardon taught while we sprawled under a tree on the pleasant St. Peter’s Seminary grounds, or the professor advising the “suspension of belief” long enough to at least investigate strange-sounding ideas.  There was the reverential atmosphere in the hush of the small library,  and the intersession class on the Theology of Marriage, a group small enough to be invited to lunch at the home of the professor.

We reached across genres, in social work and science and philosophy and literature, one snapshot sometimes highlighting another, sometimes tacked incongruously side by side.

And in the collage of my memories, these scenes were illuminated by others who encouraged me:  the anonymous person who left the leather schoolbag at my door, those professors who taught with joy, the family who contributed financially along with the generous benefactor at King’s who donated the student bursary.

So, to all those who are off to “collage”: may you find those precious moments, make many good memories that will last a lifetime.  And take every opportunity to make learning lifelong.

 

 

 

 

 

He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.     Psalm 91

We toured the Blue Grotto near Capri when we were in Italy in 2015, though we risked seasickness as our little boat tossed and rocked in the waves.  Passengers had to duck down so the boat could enter into the cave’s small opening.  Once inside, the light rippling and shimmering on the waves mixed a palette of  colour that was almost electric blue.  It felt other-worldly.

It’s why we vacation away from our everyday surroundings, to experience this thrill, this discovery of awesome places.

You don’t have to go that far, of course.   There’s hideaways tucked all around us,  a window framed by the thick cover of trees, or a secret tunnel under the road.

When our children were small, one of their favourite places to hang out  was the large willow tree at the end of our driveway.  Sometimes whole birthday parties of kids would perch on its branches.  The long tresses of its branches were a perfect cover from any prying adult eyes.

In Psalm 91, the psalmist writes that God is his secret place, a shelter, a place to hide from trouble.  God’s presence was a sanctuary always available to him.  As it is for us.

God’s spirit has a light and beauty that refreshes us, gives us safety, comfort, and renewal.  Sometimes when the pace of life gets to be too much, when work or relationships get snarly, we are in danger of forgetting who we really are.  Jesus tells his followers to come away with him to a quiet, secluded place, to leave our cramped attitudes, to be awakened to a holy dimension and a deeper perspective.

My parents had this Dutch proverb prominently displayed in their home:

“Werken om te leven, niet leven om te werken”

It means “work to live, not live to work.”   It was a necessary reminder because on a farm the work was never done.

When we were young, my father worked for a dairy, delivering milk by horse and buggy.  For us kids, this meant his arrival home in the early afternoon, a bonus in those days when fathers worked long hours. We, of course, usually weren’t awake when he got up for work around 4:30 in the morning.

After we moved out to the country, everything changed, because on a farm the work is endless.  Not only that, it was often urgent and time-specific. The hay had to come in when the sun shined. The livestock had to be fed.    Summertime was always busy.   There was no swimming at Holiday Park on a summer afternoon until chores were finished – usually well after the hottest part of the day.  The crops had to be harvested, and I well remember the rattling of the old corn elevator on a cold November day, the cobs dropping from its height to slowly fill up the corn cribs.

Over the years, I have had ample opportunity to observe the ways people work.  I learned that hurry is counter-productive, wastes energy and actually increases risk of accidents.  I learned to go the distance – when the strawberries were ripe, it meant not quitting until the rows were picked through, though there were straw marks indented on your knees.

I learned to do the hardest job on my list first.  Pick my essay topic long before the deadline to collect the serendipities that will help write it.  Make repairs early before they cause more problems.  Dot my i’s, cross my  t’s,  proofread my work.

Step back to look at the big picture, work smarter, not harder.    Accept help, delegate responsibilities because it’s better when others can take ownership, share the burden and the credit for success.

Do the next right thing.  Or do the next thing right.   “Anything worth doing, is worth doing well!”

Now that I have been retired for a number of years, the to-do list is nowhere as long as it used to be.   I have time to sit down and ponder which task to take up next.   Increasingly, I need the skill to learn how to do nothing, because that is also truly difficult.   My self-worth no longer depends on being productive.  There is satisfaction in just the being, the uniqueness of each relationship, the beauty I’d somehow missed in the headlong rush of busier times.

I am happy about the things I have been able to accomplish, the things made, team work and participation.  But in the long run,  they are only part of the equation.   Because we work to live, not live to work.