North Carolina’s highway beautification project started in 1985. So, fast forward 30 years, the results are blooms of blooms eloquently displayed through the fairways down 95, 40, and more. Each petal, stigma, and style eventually producing shaded hues, life.
They flow in the ripples of water, sun, moon, rain, dirt. The peduncle seeking and stretching in upward mobility toward the fulfillment of their original purpose, growth.
Upward direction is not always the honey to my busy bee life. The seeking of profitable, healthy trajectories sometimes comes into focus and yet so does the sticky, distracting concerns of murmuring. I like to call this the stewing section.
Mornings of a great stew start with the ever-lengthy process of preparing the ingredients. One carrot, one onion, one garlic clove at a time; cleaned, cut, shaved and set aside. The broth begins to boil with the specific seasoning. Then comes the signature part of the stew, its own, self-timed “stewing” through the hours and hours.
Oh, the stewing. No stew has been thought to obtain the proper amount of stewing in an hour. It has to build, form flavor. In other words, gather understanding of the stews character, its specific oddities. Sizzle. Pop. Melk, my personal rendition of the goop noises when a mixture of heat, liquid, and substance are gathered together, the melking effect. In the giant pot of stewing, all ingredients are held captive by the mammoth mouth of the stew pot.
Ah, yes, let’s add the stew pot. The stew pot itself is quite mysterious in this process of stewing. The pot never seems to get any smaller. You add and add and add the additions of your stew sensation only to find that, yet, there is still room for an additional add-on. How possibly presumptuous of me to believe that a stewing session can hold boundaries. Stew pots are not entities of massive size. Thus the conundrum when I have yet to start a stew that outgrew its stewing space. Not once!
The question must at least be considered, the actual effectiveness of a stew session itself? Not the eatable stews, but those emotional stews you feel in your world of work, play, media, and people. Oh…those type of stews. Yes, dear, in the midst of your (and my) elongated sigh that could fill half a day, that is the stew of focus this time.
Don’t worry, perhaps Martha, Rachel, or Guy will be up at bat next and have a heartier, truly stomach-filling account of the other stew-sations.
But for now, amidst all the emotions, downward trajectories seem pointless. A vast pit of decaying thoughts that meandered among spider-web-y membranes that are quite burdensome. Not depleting, thus adding to the ingredients of a thoughtful stew that does not actually lead to an edible product (i.e. upward trajectory).
But I digress and allow a moment of simmer.
Recently, a massive hawk decided to birth a new cast of eyass over yonder by the knoll among the tree house and poop infested patch of grass called our yard. The hawk babies squabbled like a bunch of bingo-playing lakeside weekenders. Their nest, a measly yet stalwart concoction of debris and foliage.
The nest, the one way up that I wish to reach, that upward trajectory that is snug and safe, it has certain tenets that breeds rest. The solitude and silence that I, the little eyas, need so desperately.
Let’s start with just a few hearty concepts full of starch: sovereignty, wisdom and goodness. Yes, I can see them, all hunkered above in the crag of the branch where the nest rests. These concepts in their truest forms are meant to be incubators that coo us back into existence. They push, mold, and do the good-holding needed for a safe and nurturing place of placidity.
Sovereign father. Wise Counselor. Good, good host; a host that holds my time here on earth so sweetly intentional with every desire to equip and love.
The highway sways among the tulips again. Meandering through the colors on a bright, April drive. Tulips and their growth, shade, purposeful mobility all swing with the gentle presents of the wind. They don’t dive down into the dew to be caught in a slew of spider webs and other arachnid’s debris that can only add further decay.
So here is my proclamation, no more stews of the stew-y kind. And if a stew-y kind arises, which it most definitely will present itself, dispense of the vast pot of stew-y thoughts and fly toward the eyass’ nest. Seek the calming presence of the wind as you ascend. Rise with the sun and rain and nutrients of a peaceful life among the eyass of the nest.
“A passion for the supremacy of God is a passion to murmur no more.” – J. Piper