Vacation

I've been on vacation for two weeks in the woods of New Hampshire. While taking this time to be so far away from church and work and obligation feels totally indulgent, it also feels totally right. I'm a fan of hard work, but this kind of rest feels humane on such a deep level that it borders on being a human right. Sabbath-keeping on a grand scale.

Aside from rest, we're spending time getting to know James--how he eats, what he likes, when he sleeps (or in this case, doesn't). Being a dad is still a cush job compared to being a mom, but even for Beth, having this quiet time to get to know James away from the hustle and bustle of the city is a beautiful thing.

It's also been lovely to sink into this life of parenting--of nurturing new life--in the midst of a natural setting that is constantly dying and being born. Both death and birth are so much more stark to me in the woods than in the city. A walk down the road reveals a shiny, black crow on the berm, its body stiff, neck twisted awkwardly upward. A phone message comes to me about a woman who has succumbed to cancer. The same day, just outside the back door of the cabin, I watch two parent birds tend to a nest filled with three hungry young. I watch these beautiful loons in the photographs escort their young one around the pond. I sit with James and hold him in the crook of my arm and talk to him and tell him what I promise to do for him as his dad.

I'm also aware, in these woods, how much of this extraordinary cycle--how much of the poetry of life--that I miss by living in the city. Being here makes me love wilderness conservation and Al Gore. Being here makes me want to put down the Bible and only do exegesis on Mary Oliver's poetry.

Do you suppose that rest acclimates the eye to see beauty?

I have two more weeks of vacation to test the hypothesis.