Our sixteen year old granddaughter will be spending most of the summer at camp. Each summer she has spent a longer time at Camp Widjiwagan, and more and more of that time is canoeing in the Boundary Waters. This year she and other wilderness women will be on trail for twenty-one days.My husband and I took her out for dinner the other night before she left for camp, and we so enjoyed the company of this wonderful young woman. We talked colleges and her interest in journalism and friends and Game of Thrones (I was silent during that part of the conversation!) It occurs to me I didn't ask her what she was reading or what books she will take with her to camp. How could I have missed that key question. Obviously, the evening was not long enough!
The next day I found myself thinking about something she said. She talked about the days and weeks of canoeing when she and her companions rarely, if ever, see anyone else, and they have no idea of what may be happening in the rest of the world. No idea. They paddle and portage and pitch their tents oblivious to any outside events. They know when the sun rises, and they watch the sun to know when it is time to find a place for the night. They listen to their bodies and watch the natural signs around them.
In other words, they live in the present. That certainly doesn't mean they don’t prepare for this journey. They carefully calculate what food and equipment to bring. They follow maps of the Boundary Waters as a guide and have the benefit of an experienced counsellor. And they have as a major goal--to return safely to camp on a specific day, and that takes planning, cooperation, and collaboration.
But hour by hour with each canoe stroke they live in the present.
Richard Rohr says, "To be a contemplative is to trust deep time." I don't know if any of these young women strive to be a contemplative, but I do think each of them at least brushes shoulders with deep time on those days untouched by outside perspectives, interferences, or distractions.
I think it is possible to experience moments of deep time, even in our everyday lives. The other day I was mixing the batter for strawberry shortcake. The kitchen was hot, and I was eager to cross this task off my list, but soon the stirring and blending of butter and sugar and beaten egg and the milk infused with minced lemon balm from the garden felt contemplative. Baking this cake became an entryway to deep time.
The original recipe was my grandmother's, and I thought about her picking the strawberries from her garden and baking this cake in her kitchen much hotter than mine. I thought about my personal touch, adding herbs, lavender or lemon balm or mint, to the batter. I remembered greeting the goats and llamas, as I walked to my large herb garden at Sweetwater Farm. Now I have a few pots of herbs on our patio, but the smells are the same. The pleasures of those days remain in my heart.
I have fixed this shortcake many times, served it to many people, brought it as a dessert for many gatherings. I thought about the stories shared, the laughter lifted into the air, while eating this shortcake. Soon I would serve this to other loved ones. More connections, more memories would be made. I mixed gratitude and love into the batter before placing the pan into the oven.
A moment of deep time. A moment of being awake to the presence of Spirit. A moment of separation from the pull of cares and crisis and the need to know the latest and the bleakest.
How glorious that our granddaughter recognizes the gift of those moments. She may not know it yet as deep time, but someday she will. With every stroke of the canoe paddle, she is carving a place in her heart for moments of deep time.
An Invitation
When have you experienced deep time. I would love to know.
