As I age in the world it will rise and spread,
and be for this place horizon
and orison, the voice of its winds.
I have made myself a dream to dream
of its rising, that has gentled my nights.
Let me desire and wish well the life
these trees may live when I
no longer rise in the mornings
to be pleased with the green of them
shining, and their shadows on the ground,
and the sound of the wind in them.
—Wendell Berry  (2012). “New Collected Poems”

All day the lake and trees have been moving . . . speaking, their voices punctuated every now and then by mellow gongs from the big wind chimes hanging from the corner of the porch. It’s sweatshirt and socks weather, a normal June day. I can hear the waves crashing on the rocky shore out here, see the whitecaps stirred up out deep, but it is the trees who take the stage today, wind murmuring noisily through their boughs, each needle a reed to be played. These old pines are so tall that the biggest and oldest appear to stand still. But if you crane your neck up to the clouds, you see their tops swaying and circling. The slender ones move their whole bodies. But it’s not the frantic, erratic movements of a big storm, rather, a steady rhythm that goes on for hours . . . as if the wind has something important to say and means to say it. The birds are quiet, tucked in, waiting, bowing to the voice of the wind in the trees.

I’ve been resting today, feeling a fragility that moves me outside myself. Wendell’s poem . . . I’m captured by his naming of the tree, these metaphors he chooses. It is horizon and orison. A point of reference, where earth seemingly touches heaven, and it is a prayer, the voice of the wind in that place. Am I, and will I be years after I am gone, horizon and orison for those who will remember me?

Seems there are always stories to tell after a big storm when the wild winds have finished their pummeling and finally subside, leaving pinecones and boughs on the ground, rocks dislodged from the wall at the shore. But what about these normal days that often come with too much cold or heat or rain, or insistent winds that keep murmuring and murmuring, each needle vibrating for our attention? Sometimes we just still and feel them, listen, subdued or fragile . . . and sometimes we’re supposed to tell their story. The one about how you live in these regular days with their uninvited changes and challenges and hardships . . . and still stay soft, receptive to the voice of the wind. Still rooted. Horizon and orison. Yielded. A faithful songster still. Sometimes we’re supposed to remind each other.

There is hardship in everything except eating pancakes.  —Charles Spurgeon 

I’m spoiled. I’m always surprised when hardship comes, even in its trivial forms. I’ve expected the charmed, comfortable life I’ve often had. But then, I’m a Plan B Girl. If it turns out that Plan A isn’t possible, I can most always find an acceptable, good Plan B . . . or C, and get excited about it. My big sister couldn’t. If she couldn’t have the particular shoes or book or pep club sweater she had her heart set on, she would rather have none. It’s a good thing I lived with her those first eighteen years because I’ve lived three times that many years with an It-has-to-be-Plan-A guy. I can be quite persuasive, but . . . it still has to be Plan A with him, or not at all. There is a right (pracitical, logical, sequential, obvious) way to do any given thing. That does fascinate me sometimes, trying to understand his mind, but more often it frustrates me. Some of my best surprises have come from Plan B or C. Some of the things that I didn’t even know I’d longed for.

My murmurings have not been prayers of thanksgiving I’m afraid. I’ve complained, sometimes just to myself, about the difficulty of caring for this rough-edged place, sleeping in a winter hat for weeks, descending the cellar steps with arms full of laundry, washer and dryer sitting askew on the dirt floor, having to stand on a kitchen ladder and move five things to get at the one new bag of tortilla chips or the box of oatmeal above the oven—the only guaranteed mouse-free storage space, adjusting to our new normal after his surgery and recovery . . . little hardships that would feel like blessings to someone else. I circle mentally in search of a good, easier, Plan B fix, but still with all the charm and beauty, of course. Try, again, to move Mr. Plan A around to my way of thinking. Yes, even after all these years. Seems I’m a slow learner. Still surprised, disappointed, sighing at the first sign of hardship. Missing the point. Learning the same lesson over and over. How can I today be that tree with the voice of the wind in its boughs . . . when it’s not easy and still doesn’t go my way?

Oh, clap your hands, all you people! Shout to God with the voice of triumph! For the Lord Most High is awesome; He is a great King over all the earth…He will choose our inheritance for us.” –Psalm 47:1, 2, 4

Charles Spurgeon—1855  
While as yet we see not all things put under him, we are glad to put ourselves and our fortunes at his disposal. We feel his reign to be so gracious that we even now ask to be in the fullest degree the subjects of it. We submit our will, our choice, our desire, wholly to him. Our heritage here and hereafter we leave to him, let him do with us as seems him good . . . As for the latter days, we ask nothing better than to stand in our appointed lot, for if we have but a portion in our Lord Jesus, it is enough for our largest desires. Our beauty, our boast, our best treasure, lies in having such a God to trust in, such a God to love us. Selah. Yes, pause, you faithful songsters. Here is abundant room for holy meditation:

Come, my soul, before him bow,
Gladdest of his subjects you;
Leave your portion to his choice,
In his sovereign will rejoice,
This your purest, deepest bliss,
He is yours and you are his.

How do you live in these regular days? With gratitude. With a change of posture. Counting them . . . gift upon gift. Breathing. Walking. Letting go. Trusting. He will choose our inheritance for us.