I love books. Like an old friend or your favorite flannel-lined slippers, there is a comfort, a knowing. I return to my bookshelves frequently to pause, and pull a trusted friend from the stacks, revisiting the pages that transformed me once, and looking again for an afternoon of renewal. Tucked under the comfy warmth of a throw blanket, my coffee mug ever present, the big deep couch cradles me as I settle in for a good read. How wonderfully luxurious to take this time for my well-being, a respite from the longing.  Lingering unemployment has a way of providing just such opportunities. One such book slid from the shelf today and reminds me that I’m on a spiritual journey, a journey to wholeness.  Revisiting the well-worn pages, the sentences marked like a coloring book of neon yellow highlighter and turned down page corners, I ease into a familiarity.  The words speak new truth today, as all great writing tends to do, and my spirit is now ready to receive the wisdom that was hiding openly on the page.

I am journeying toward wholeness, embracing both my limits and my potential.  The familiar pages reveal a newness that startles me.  This journey is like spending a warm spring afternoon in a rowboat crossing a beautiful Tennessee lake.  The paradox of rowboats, and by extension our lives, is that in order to make forward progress you can’t see where you’re going.  The bow of the rowboat is moving toward your eventual destination, but you are seated facing backwards, looking inevitably behind you. Your vision is on the distant shoreline you’re heading away from, but the boat is moving toward a new port. That’s my life right now. When I was a youngster, many weekends were spent fishing out of an old rowboat. The anchor was an old cement cinder block with a rope tied perilously around it. When you threw it over the side hoping for a strong tether to safety, you never knew if it would hold. I was taught to look ahead (over my shoulder) to where I intended to go, then turn around and find a fixed point on the shoreline from which I had just shoved off.  By focusing on that point I could keep the rowboat headed in the right direction even though I couldn’t see where I was going exactly.  That’s how my life feels now, in this season of no answers and only mounting questions about my direction. I am rowing and making progress toward the distant shoreline and a new port, but I can’t see where I’m going, or how long it will take to arrive at my destination.  This season, this day on the beautiful Tennessee Lake started out with the tranquility and rhythm of a sunny Sunday afternoon.  But as the sky darkened and the wind grew fierce, I was pelted with rain, and my forward progress slowed to a crawl.  The muscles straining in my arms and back caused a weariness and fatigue as the oars churned out a cadence unable to combat the wind and waves. I’m rowing as fast and hard as I can, with my eyes fixed on the point keeping me from veering off course. The paradox of my spiritual journey is like my fruitless efforts to propel the bow of the boat in one direction as I look backwards, straining against the elements of life that seek to impede my forward progress. Looking backward is like a door closing.  I have to stop rowing so hard, and stop pounding on the door that has closed. Wisdom would say to turn around, put that closed door behind me, and look at what lies before me on the new shore. There is a smallness to banging on closed doors, and I need to be present to the life before me, the life waiting for me to turn around.

I have stared so intently on the fixed point, trying to “stay the course”.  No more staring behind me, time to turn around and embrace all that is before me.  Just now as the clouds begin to break open, revealing the bluest of blue skies, the sun’s warmth bathes me in new light, refreshing the journey.  I am still rowing, and there are many ports available to drop anchor.  I have sought a new port, and dropped anchor in a community of people, and together we have found safe harbor on the journey to wholeness.

Like an old friend, or your flannel-lined slippers, I returned to my bookshelves for an afternoon to pause, and revisit the transformative pages of a favorite book once again. The new lessons learned from the old familiar pages remind me that life is a lot like rowing a boat.  I love books, and I love rowboats.