Don't Park on the Grass
Hope in things unseen
After the Christmas Blizzard, Parker and I ventured out for a walk on one of our favourites areas here in Wiarton. The snow plough had already been through, piling fresh snow on either side of the road, and everything was covered in that thick layer of renewal, that had yet to melt into muddy puddles or form the windswept icicles that defy gravity’s instructions on verticality!
Past the marina, where parked boats on their winter-boat-holder-stands wore thick comforters of snow. Past the section where the water looked suspiciously inviting, given the temperatures below zero. Past the few houses on this section of street. To the little park, where in better weather, people go fishing (or use a fishing rod as a meditation tool, divining stillness, silence and communion with Creator, as surely as prayer beads or any crucifix I’ve ever encountered).
Parkie’s usual access point to have a drink from the lake was completely obscured by a huge pile of snow, but this did not dampen his joy to be leaping in the snow and snuffling around for whatever smelled so darn good underneath! There is little in this world that can better depict sheer joy than a beagle following his nose and then returning in leaps, ears a-flopping, after a few days of being tethered to a house during a blizzard.
As we walked, we encountered this sign in the park area. In the months when the Peninsula gets inundated with tourist traffic (and even moreso since the pandemic), stern parking signs abound. Here, standing in over 2.5 feet of snow, not a blade of grass to be seen anywhere, was a sign for the times if ever I saw one.
Do not park on the grass.
The stern instruction, where there wasn’t a blade of grass in sight, was a hopeful sign though. A faithful sign. A sign of hope in things unseen. It made me look forward to coming back when the option to actually violate the sign or obey it even existed. It spoke of things that no longer were, but promise to return in due season.
Much of the pandemic has been like this sign for me, promising a return to some kind of green-pastured life in the midst of huge, unrelenting mounds of isolation. The pandemic has taught me not to take company, love, family, friendships and relationships for granted. Even as the time to walk on the grass of these riches returns in bits and pieces here and there, my soul resonates with the side-effects of isolation and all the things that happened in that isolation. All the places my squirrel-mind went looking for meaning and purpose, all the places where none of these were found.
In the pandemic-affected world, the snow mounds of isolation have melted for the most part. The grass is visible again. We can walk out on it, to the waters edge of our own souls … our own experiences, and peer into the depths, where our feet were unable to touch the bottom even when we took a deep breath and propelled ourselves down. down. down.
In the pandemic-affected world, the grass is visible again. Coming up green for some, not so much for others. But whether we are looking at the sign in a muddy, growth-hopeful lawn, or standing in two feet of snow the instruction to not park in the invisible grass is the definition of faith: the hope in things unseen. The thought of the truth that lies beneath and beyond the current reality.