The Discipline of Delight

IN JULY, my children and I crouched at the edge of the continent along a trail spitting hikers onto Kalaloch Beach 1 in Olympic National Park. Eyes at dirt level, we marveled at a hidden-in-sight banana slug, oozing exquisite slime and swiveling its tentacles. Off Interstate 90 in Montana, we held our breath as a bald eagle swooped over a deer grazing just across the fence from our car. Throughout our epic road trip from Illinois to the Pacific Northwest, I kept saying, “Wow, but ...”

My wonder was tinged with a sense of impending loss. With fires devouring unthinkable amounts of forest just over the next mountain range and smoke clouding the skies for 1,500 miles, the beauty in front of me seemed to be slipping away. In the end, I took home more pain than joy.

Many of us live with this bone-deep grief over what we have lost in the natural world, and with anticipatory grief over what is about to be lost. It is right to feel this deeply, to lament and give voice to our pain in community. And then what? Grief, pain, and anger can move us to action, but they only carry us so far. To sustain our work, we need joy.

As I allow myself to be carried along the river of grief, feeling all the feelings, pumping my fist at the powers and principalities, sometimes, unexpectedly, I am released into quiet pools of presence. Here, the current of time isn’t flowing. The weight of what has passed and what is to come lifts. Cream-colored okra flowers unfurl in the garden, offering gratuitous loveliness whereI only sought food. The wind at night is an embrace from a living, breathing earth.

Here, I sense that the deep life force sustaining the planet—we Christians would call this God—is very much undeterred. In these suspended moments of delight, I feel only gratitude for being alive. Even in such a time as this.

These moments are gifts, and we all need them. We need permission to enjoy the things we feel so compelled to protect and restore. As much as we must keep organizing and marching and emailing, sometimes we simply need to be among other living beings. Delighting in the earth’s gifts is key to then cherishing them for future generations.

Winter can be a space to delight. The wildfires, droughts, tornadoes, and hurricanes that increasingly plague us are paused, for a season. We are starting a new church year, and soon a new calendar year. As we look backward and forward in time, taking stock, can we also follow the lead of the trees and turtles and squirrels? Can we rest and be fallow? Can we “enjoy the fat of the land” (Isaiah 55:2) and “taste and see that the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8)?

Feasting can be as much a discipline as fasting, especially in times when we find little to celebrate. For the intense work ahead, this practice is not optional, but necessary.