The Call To Bloom...

In the old miners park, where they would pan for gold, there is a cave called Priest's Cave. The miners had no house of worship, living along the creek bed in makeshift tents. I sat in the brown silent hollowed-out stone. It is a small cave, barely enough room for three people. But, it does provide shade from heat, and shelter from rain, and perhaps just as importantly, a sense of privacy. I imagined the miners' need for spiritual nourishment. It must have been an overwhelming need indeed to inspire them to seek out a holy man in a tiny cave.

It is summer here in the wilderness. Triple digit heat. Oppressive heat. In hot desert places, water is life. And, the thirst for water becomes all consuming. In this park, there are many signs that read, "Beware of mountain lions." On the long walk home through the woods, I feared lions on the prowl. I suppose it takes great courage to have the single-minded devotion to seek out our heart's desire, no matter the obstacle.

I saw my sixty-something family doctor walking bare-chested, in boxer shorts and Birkenstock sandals, his long-haired greyhound on a leash leading the way. My doctor's wife, a strong looking Viking woman, walked by their side. I passed their house in the historic district. It is difficult not to feel familial affection for all the residents of the town. It is such an intimate setting. We bump into each other at market, on Main Street, in medical offices. News travels quickly in small communities. We know who is ill at any given moment. We know who to pray for. We know who to celebrate. Neighbor to neighbor, the word is spread.

When someone dies here, the loss is keenly felt because we know one another, or of one another. Such and such just became a grandfather. The lady in the bonnet won first prize for her jam. "Oh, that one, he is destined for greatness!" On corners, in tea shops, at fruit and vegetable stands, people talk. Men and women stop to greet each other. People actually smile, and bow their heads, as they say, "Good day to you." Men tip hats. Women walk with confidence. There is a sense of comfort and safety.

Long, long ago, Charlie Rosenthal was the first Rabbi I ever met. He had a red Afro, and a thick red beard. He was kind, and quick to joke. I remember he invited me to join his youth group to attend a lecture being given by Elie Wiesel. The auditorium was packed with people of all races, and cultures. Mr. Wiesel spoke of healing, forgiveness, redemption, peace, and hope. We in the audience were deeply moved by the wise soft-spoken man. Years earlier, as a child of thirteen, I heard Pope John Paul ll speak at Madison Square Garden in New York. It was that same feeling. Immediately, in the moment after hearing both these men speak, I dared believe in a land where peace, and hope prevailed. But, throughout my life in the boogie-down ghettos, I never found that mystical land. That is to say, not until now.

Though I remain a sojourner, God has led me, however briefly, however long, to a desert respite. When we choose the road less traveled, we never know where that road will lead us. When I met my doctor on the road, he stopped to speak to me in earnest. He suggested that God may be preparing me for movement. "It is not about staying, or going. It is about growing!" A loving nurse once told me as she took a blood sample. So, the movement that my doctor was alluding to may be a physical move, or simply spiritual growth. But, for however long I remain planted here, I bloom.

How can one help but bloom, among the flowers of the wild?