For as long as I can remember, nature is where I have been most in touch with the mystery I call God.
When I was 12, I had my first real babysitting job. It was late when I skipped home with a dollar bill in my hand, elated with my successful entry into the working world. The street was quiet and the sky was clear, filled with stars. As my feet touched our lawn, my nostrils were filled with the sweet scent of grass. The air seemed very still, as if the world was holding its breath. The stars had turned up their brightness. They seemed close enough to touch.
I drew in my breath with amazement, and my body began to dance: pirouettes, jetés, dips and swirls. I moved to inner music, or perhaps it was the music of the spheres. I danced for moments, or hours, lost in a kind of ecstasy - the stars, the fragrance of grass, the joy of being alive! There were no words to express what I felt, only dancing.
Throughout my teen years and continuing into adulthood, these mystical spirit moments have recurred, always stopping me in my tracks to breathe deeply.
One summer, my husband and I sailed to Haida Gwaii, taking night watches to cross Hecate Strait. I began my watch at 11 p.m., dusk at that northern latitude. There was a brisk wind with rainfall. My husband had gone below to sleep and I was alone for two hours, anticipating being at the helm in the deep dark of a moonless night. It seemed to me that the wind was picking up. My heart was racing, anticipating being cold and sleepy; a storm, rocks suddenly materializing in front of me, or freighters -
As worst-case scenarios developed in my mind's eye, I noticed that the sky was lighter ahead. A rainbow was forming, both ends visible as it arched exactly over our course. While I was taking in this sign of grace, I heard a whoosh of exhaled breath, followed by a splash, then another, and another. We had been joined by a pod of dolphins. As we sailed toward the rainbow, the dolphins leaped and dived around us, ahead of us, under us. Their dancing presence reminded me of the United Church creed: We are not alone. We live in God's world.
My anxiety melted as my heart lifted. I was content to be at the helm, steering a path toward grace among friendly, playful beings: dolphin-angels, I decided.
On a different sailing trip, the boat was at anchor and I was ashore alone in a forest of tall, graceful firs. One tree caught my eye, calling up memories from early childhood. There was an elm on our boulevard whose roots made a circle just big enough for me to curl up in. I knew that the circle was the front porch of the fairies who lived there. I used to visit them often, sitting on their porch to talk with them through the bark. This fir tree had the same inviting circle, only larger, with enough room for my adult body to curl.
As we sailed, I had been reflecting on my relationship with my mother, who had recently died. Curled in the embrace of the tree, I wept for all that could never be resolved, for things each of us of us had done and those we had left undone. When I dried my eyes, a new sense of my mother was with me. The embrace of the tree had stood in for her arms. It seems that death does not deter resolution after all.
That day, I came to appreciate some of the gifts my mother gave me and to forgive her for the ones she did not. I also began to forgive myself for my failure to be the loving daughter I wish I had been. As I retraced my steps to the boat, shafts of sunlight glinted through tree branches to kiss my face. I looked up, craning my neck to see fragments of sky between treetops. And I saw that the upper branches of these gentle giants were swaying, dancing to some inner music.
Judith Rees-Thomas lives on Saturna Island.
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