The World Needs More People to Meander

As the Crow Flies

My meandering mind has been forced against its will to think in the most undesirable way. It’s been subjectively taught that the best way from point A to point B is by a straight line.  This makes any of my journeys unnavigable without placing the destination into my phone’s GPS.  I have to know the quickest route. The destination seems to be all that matters and I must get there ASAP!  It would seem meandering is no longer an option for me.

Yet meandering is exactly what I need.  To meander is now an active participant in my lifestyle.  Not because I’m doing things differently but because it’s helping me define how I was created to live. 

A Good Walk Ruined

For instance, when asked about my obsession with writer/singer/songwriter Andrew Peterson, I stated, “His words are like a gentle meandering mountain stream, where I’m led through a lush green forest, becoming acquainted with furry little animals and greeted by humble people of a quaint little mountain town.” 

In Peterson’s memoir, The God of the Garden, he speaks about his love of a good walk. When touring in England, he frequently strolls through gardens in small towns.  Actually, the gardens seem interwoven into the fabric of the town.  He argues the suburbs in America have somewhat destroyed the idea of a good walk.

I can relate to Peterson’s need for a good walk.  I currently live outside Linglestown.  It’s a short five-minute drive from my home.  Yet, there’s no safe way to walk into town.  No meandering trail through a forest that opens to a vibrant little town filled with coffee shops, local restaurants, and bustling life.

If this lack of a walk doesn’t bring me sorrow, the state of affairs at my current residence surely will. 

A Country View Lost

My Country View Drive, which is the name of my street, will no longer exist as a country view.  

Over the next few years another housing development just like mine will be built behind my current home. 

To twist the knife in my sorrow, a year ago the big beautiful tree that cascades like a waterfall over the field of tall grass has sadly died. 

That tree will be torn down this summer. My morning sips of coffee, enjoyed through my window as I took in the green grandeur of that tree, are almost gone.  The grass of the field that grows head high will never again dance in the summer breeze as my boys play by its side.  It’s an awful heart wrenching feeling that sometimes feels difficult to surmise.

I’m not saying suburban life is a wrong way to live. 

There’s just something magical about that old town feel, where people live in a tight knit community connected by more than social media.  Where identical houses aren’t stacked one on top of the other like a neighborhood from Doctor Seuss.

Distorted Love of Isolation

My housing crisis led our family to explore a rather bold but isolated option.

We toured a nine-acre property only an eight-minute car ride from our home.  I’ve loved the property for quite some time because it was once inhabited by close family friends.  Every visit while making my way up the drive the property seemed to parade its natural beauty in front of my gaze.  That couple shared a loving marriage of over 50 years that added an air of mystique.  But even then, I still couldn’t commit for various reasons, some of which were unbeknownst to me.

Selfishly, my mind raced with visions of writing from the office in the old horse barn, building the tree house my son Jameson has always dreamt of, playing catch in the yard with my oldest son Hudson as he pretends to be a major leaguer, or splashing in the pool with my youngest son Emmett as he laughs his intoxicating giggle. 

Yet, there was a desire the property couldn’t meet.

This surprised my introverted soul.  For so long my mind has whispered to my heart that isolation is actually quite divine.  However, I found the desire to live in communion with people burns too deeply in my heart.

I feared my isolation would actually impede my inspiration to write. So much of it comes from a meandering life, that’s lived with people I care for. 

Sure, I’d love to stroll alone on my isolated slice of heaven.  Sure, I’d love to walk to our little town while vigilantly inspecting a stream along the way.  I’d love to spectate while the squirrels play.  I’d love to intimately know every tree that offers me shade along the trodden footpath. 

But my lost dream of meandering doesn’t mean I can’t meander through life. 

Meander With a Purpose

I can still be meander… I want to meander… I will meander.  Meandering allows me to slow down, to hear what I’m meant to hear, to see what I’m meant to see, and to say what I’m meant to say.  I prefer to take the path less traveled rather than the road paved before me. 

Unfortunately, meandering is considered a lesser way to live.  Society seems to scoff at those who meander, accusing them of wandering without a purpose in thought and deed. 

However, meandering in its purest form is nothing of the sort.  Rather, meandering is like a gently bending mountain stream making its way to a calm pristine lake. 

I’d rather navigate life like a stream that meanders—interacting with all its rapids, turning with its abrupt bends, and diving headfirst down quick falls—not knowing when the stream ends.  I’d even rather interact with the people who trash the stream and dam it up to halt its progress.  The pause affords me the opportunity to invite them along the journey.  The hard parts become worth it because I have the assurance that the destination will one day give me rest.

From an Abrupt End to Endless Life

I love to imagine my life like that beautiful mountain stream with all of its purposeful obstacles.  But one day my stream will abruptly end.  The stream will finally arrive to that pristine, calm, and cool mountain lake.  Upon arrival I know a warm, blinding, penetrating light will project itself from across the shore.

It will take time but my eyes will adjust.  After adjusting to the blinding light I will see a man.  He won’t say a word.  He will just stand.  His arms will be open calling me in—his eyes gently inviting me ashore—his smile making me feel more alive than ever before.

With one final blink I’m transported on that shore.  The standing man will place his arm over my shoulders.  Then he’ll redirect my gaze—no longer looking back at where I came from but looking forward with thankfulness to where I’ve come to rest.

Then and only then will the memories that led me here fade like the setting of the sun over a weary horizon.  My tears from the suffering journey are transformed by that man into endless tears of joy. 

Now finally, yes finally my soul will rest on his peaceful eternal shores.