Hike: Stough Canyon

As I mentioned, the weather was remarkably warm and clear in the days following Christmas. For those who are interested, here are some more details about a wonderful place to go on a day hike in Burbank....

The trail begins at Stough Canyon Park Nature Center, where there is a parking lot and restrooms. The parking lot gate closes at 5:00pm, so if you plan on being on the trails later than that, park along the street below the parking lot gate.

Parking below the gate would, in fact, be recommended in the summer, as evening hikes allow you to avoid the hot midday sun. However, it was a pleasantly warm winter morning when I began my hike.  Actually, I hiked this trail two days in a row; the first day, my companions were my family, my brother-in-law, and my two nieces.  Some of them weren't in a hiking mood, however, so I returned the following morning with my dog Saydee, who is always in the mood for a good walk.

I was worried about it being chilly.  It was December, after all.  I contemplated wearing a long sleeve shirt over my t-shirt, but upon stepping out of the car I decided it wasn't needed. In fact, after Saydee and I began running up the wide trails in the morning sun, my t-shirt soon came off as well.  In the summer, when  the sun's rays are harsh, I tend to avoid sunlight, or at least slather on a thick layer of sunblock.  But the gentler winter rays of sunlight felt good as Saydee and I made our way to the top.  And as you can tell, a little sunlight might be a good thing in my case...

The trails continue along the ridge, giving views of both sides of the Verdugo Mountains.  (As a kid growing up in Burbank, they were known as the Verdugo Hills, but I guess they have since been promoted to Mountain status.)  It is here on the backside that the trail Saydee and I followed nestled itself briefly into a few ravines where the sun's rays didn't reach, and there was a bit of a chill there, but the shade didn't last long.  We were soon back out in the glorious southern California sunshine.

On previous hikes in these mountains, I followed a side trail to the ruins of an old youth camp.  A building foundation and chimney are all that remain.  Saydee and I did not go to the youth camp on this trip, although from a few spots on the main trail I could see the chimney rising above the sage scrub.  

One option for hikers here is to continue along the ridge of the Verdugo Mountains and descend through Wildwood Canyon, and then cut through the golf course to return to Stough Park.  Because we (well, actually, I) had plans to see a matinee in Hollywood later that day, Saydee and I did not make the whole loop, but returned back the way we came.  As we came down the trail, views of Bob Hope Airport (as a kid growing up, it was Burbank Airport) and the San Fernando Valley stretched out before us.

What's Your Goal?

Tomorrow I will be hiking Mt. Whitney, the tallest mountain in California, and the tallest mountain in the United States outside of Alaska.  It's almost 22 miles roundtrip, with 6,000 feet of elevation gain from the trailhead to the summit, which is at 14,500 feet.

As the date for this hike drew nearer, I became increasingly anxious.  This didn't make much sense, since I am an avid hiker.  Finally, a few weeks ago, I pondered the source of this anxiety, and realized that what I was most worried about was a hike that wasn't consistent with the reason I hike.

The reason I hike, I've described on this blog before.  Mostly, it's a form of spiritual renewal for me.  Walking, hiking and even running/jogging by themselves are great for my mental and spiritual state.  They help clear my mind and allow it to relax even as my muscles are getting a workout.  To be able to do so in a beautiful, wild place adds to the sense of spiritual renewal.  Hiking is thus enjoyable for me.

It's not about conquering a mountain peak.  It's not about conquering anything.  To be honest, I don't even really like the word conquer.  That's not why I hike.

A trip up Mount Whitney, I realized, is about conquering.  Or at least, it can very easily be about conquering, if the goal of reaching the mountain top is the #1 goal of the trip.

For me, the goal of reaching the top is not my #1 goal.  My #1 goal is spiritual renewal.  Spiritual renewal is why I hike.

Reaching the top is still a goal I have for tomorrow's hike, but it's not my first priority.  I know that I am physically capable of making it to the top (I've done it before), but if the level of exertion is such that I am not being spiritually renewed, then my #1 goal will not be met, even if I make it to the top.

Having realized that, I now feel that it will be OK if I decide not to go all the way.  That doesn't mean I'm not going to try, and I think there is a good chance that I will, but the internal pressure to make it to the top no matter what, and sacrifice the real reason I hike, is no longer there. 

And neither is the anxiety.

Since coming to that realization, I've noticed that this same anxiety is present throughout our culture.  So many people feel pressure to achieve certain goals in life.  People work hard, night and day, to achieve a certain standard of living, because other people or society at large have led them to believe that a certain standard of living is worthy of being your #1 goal in life. 

A better goal, however, is to have peace of mind.  A better goal is to be able to find happiness, and enjoy life, and to share that happiness with others.  If endlessly working to have a certain standard of living is keeping you from enjoying life and finding happiness, then perhaps it's time to consider which goals in life are really worth pursuing.

Community Clean-Up

Here's a picture from two weeks ago. For reasons that I won't mention, I determined that my son was in need of some "constructive" activity. So I got him up early on a Saturday (I know, that in itself should have been punishment enough), and took him along with me to a community clean-up event.

It just so happened that this community clean-up took place along my new jogging path.

Ethan didn't seem to mind too much, especially when he learned that there were donuts for the volunteers. Together, we filled up about two large garbage sacks of trash. Then we went home.

This week, he and I each received thank you letters from the mayor of Signal Hill.

No Pretending, No Excuses

It's time to stop pretending. Ever since I became pastor at Bixby Knolls Christian Church, I've walked or ridden my bike to the church most weekdays. This, I figured, was good for the environment, and made up for the fact that I was no longer running.

Well, there's no doubt that it is good for the environment. However, a one-mile bike ride that--at a leisurely pace--takes just five minutes, doesn't quite equal the three-mile runs I was doing before coming here.

I stopped running because where I live now--on Signal Hill's northern border with Long Beach--just isn't as pretty as where I used to run. The rice fields of the Sacramento Valley, with their flat dirt roads and calming agricultural scenery, were perfect. I'd bring the dog, and she'd chase rabbits, and I'd chase her, and all was good. But here, in the city, it's a world of hard pavement, car exhaust fumes, and too many red lights and don't walk signals. Plus, it's just not as pretty.

Well, as I say, it's time to stop pretending. It's time to stop making excuses.... A few weeks ago, I plotted out a running path that crossed the fewest major streets as possible. I was surprised to discover a 2.5 mile loop that only crosses one major street, although I do have to cross it a second time to return home. Heading south, my route goes a few blocks through a quiet, residential neighborhood with tree-lined streets. Nice. Then it leads to a bridge that crosses the busy and noisy San Diego freeway ("the 405," as we locals call it), and up to Spring Street. Busy street crossing #1.

After Spring Street, my route goes a full 1.25 miles before it crosses another street of any size. Not bad!

After plotting it all out, I grabbed my running shoes and took off. I figured that 2.5 miles would be a good run, even though I used to run 3 miles; having not run a whole lot over the past year, I didn't want to overdo it.

I headed through the residential area, crossed the freeway, and headed up the hill to Spring Street. Then it was downhill, then uphill again, to the cemetery at Willow Street. I turned left, running along the edge of the cemetery until I reached Orange Street. I turned left again, and headed up the steepest hill of the route. They call it Signal Hill for a reason, and I gave myself permission to walk this short stretch. Then, on the gradual downhill back to Spring Street (busy street crossing #2), I resumed running, and kept running all the way home, crying "wee wee wee wee."

OK, maybe I didn't cry all the way home, but I very nearly did the next day, when my leg muscles told me I should have taken it even easier for my first run, or at least done a better job stretching. It was almost a week before I ran again. I needed that time to recover.

I have run that route several times since, with little or no pain afterward. And, I have discovered a number of pleasant surprises: 1. Much of the land I run past is leased to oil companies, and aside from a number of oil wells, is largely undeveloped. Parts of it contain native and wild plants, and there's this one spot, near the crest on California Street, where the aroma of some of these plants is wonderfully intoxicating, and instantly transports me to some of the places I went camping as a kid. 2. Because the land is undeveloped, there are stretches without sidewalks where I get to run on dirt. 3. The crests of the hills afford some wonderful views. Heading south, I see the port of Long Beach and the ocean. Heading north, the San Gabriel Mountains rise up in the distance (although this week, the mountains are hidden behind a blanket of thick smoke from a large brush fire that's burning near the Bridge to Nowhere, which is unfortunate).

Of course, there are some drawbacks to running in the city. I'm limited by summer smog to running only in the morning. Even then, a passing truck or bus sometimes leaves me choking on its exhaust. Another drawback is that the dog doesn't get to come.

What motivated my return to running? A desire to stay healthy, of course. Also, a noticeable increase in anxiety; some difficulty getting a good night's sleep; and, yes, vanity. Vanity is always a motivator, is it not?

However, I'm sure that having my palm read (reluctantly) by an elderly lady on the occasion of her eleventy-first birthday a few weeks ago and being told that I had better take care of my heart had nothing to do with my return to running.

So there you are. No more pretending, no more excuses. And yes, I'm still riding my bike to church, and on Labor Day, will be participating in a 25-mile Unity Bike Ride. I welcome you to join me, or at least sponsor me as I raise money for my church and the South Coast Interfaith Council.

In the meantime, I'll be running.

Amir's Garden

It was like the tree on Mt. Cahuenga, only better. Like my encounter with that tree, this was a complete surprise.

I had a some time for a run, so I parked the car in the L.A. Zoo parking lot, as I have done several times in recent weeks. Running up the dirt trail, I enjoyed the views from the ridge that separates the zoo from the eastern edge of the San Fernando Valley. Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the Mineral Springs picnic area.

I wasn't ready to turn back, so I found a trail I hadn't been on before and continued on my run. This section was completely in the sun, heading up a hill covered with chaparral. I wasn't really paying a whole lot of attention to the vegetation ... that is, until I noticed an unusual assortment of brightly colored flowers. They were different from any of the wildflowers I had passed to that point. Looking further up, I saw more, and it was obvious that they were not wild, but had been planted there.

A few more steps brought me to a beautiful shaded area with benches and picnic tables. A flagpole stood in the middle. A tree in the center had a low stone wall built around it. And half a dozen trails led off down the hill in various directions.

I began following the trails, which twisted and meandered through the dense plantlife. Every so often I would find another bench or table in its own little area. The nature of the paths was such that I felt like I was walking a labyrinth, albeit one in which I could only see a small portion of the whole due to all the plants and trees. In some areas, the trees and shrubs formed a tunnel through which the trails passed; in others, sunlight filtered down to the trail.

What I had discovered by accident was a garden which was planted the year I was born by a man named Amir, and which is now maintained by volunteers. It can only be found by those willing to hike or ride a horse. Some maps of Griffith Park do show Amir's Garden, although I suspect that most park visitors don't know of its existence. Which is just fine by me.

Good Friday

I was jolted awake this morning well before sunrise by a dream that involved me walking out of the Crystal Cathedral (which I've never been to, except once to drop a friend off for choir practice) and then witnessing a plane crash. Dreams like that are why I don't like flying. It took me awhile to go back to sleep, and by the time I did, it was time to get up. If I didn't get up, then no one else would either, since I'm the early riser in this family and everyone else gets up only when I make them. And even though I perform this task every day, no one ever says, "Gee, Dad, thanks for waking me up so I can get to school on time!"

The boys have to be at school, which is halfway across town, at 8:30. Ginger has to be at work, which is all the way across town, by 8:45. So at 8:15, we all get in the car, and I take them to their respective destinations. Then I return home, to do the dishes, the laundry, and surf the internet, searching for a temporary job. Except today, after dropping Ginger off, instead of turning around and coming home, I kept going straight, right out of Burbank and into Griffith Park, to go for a run.

Running is good for me. It helps me work through my anxieties. I find that there is a lot to be anxious about, like planes crashing. Or earthquakes. Or terrorists. Or why, when I write, I can't ever get my tenses to agree. On this Good Friday, it certainly seemed to me that I am living in a Good Friday world.

As I started running, I worried about whether I was helping or hurting my body, given that today's air quality was listed as "moderate," which isn't exactly "unhealthy," but isn't exactly "good," either. I thought about the war in Iraq, now five years old, and whether or not our next president will be able to undo some of the damage caused by the current president. I thought about the comment my wife made to me as I dropped her off, about how our current lack of money is my fault, and about some of the comments I've made to her.

At tonight's Good Friday worship service at First Christian Church in North Hollywood, the sanctuary was dark. The readings were read, slowly, quietly, somberly. There's not much joy in the Good Friday readings. Easter Sunday would be different, I knew; a half dozen fifth-graders are to be baptized at sunrise, and the sanctuary will be bursting with flowers and alleluias. But tonight was not about that.

I noticed that the doors to the baptistry, though still closed, were unlatched. In our tradition, we baptize by immersion when a person is old enough to make a decision to follow Christ, and the baptistry is like a little hot tub behind the wall at the front of the sanctuary, which can be seen when the doors are opened up. Tonight, as my friend Josh played his guitar and sang, with a young woman, the most beautiful rendition of "Via Dolorosa" I had ever heard, the doors to the baptistry slowly started to swing open. They only opened about three-quarters of an inch, but someone had left the light in the baptistry on, and the crack was enough to see in.

And I thought about how, even though it's Good Friday, Easter can't be shut out entirely. The foreshadowing is all too clear. Easter joy wasn't invited to this service of quiet meditation, but it slipped in anyway.

And in the time of silent meditation that concluded the service, and as the sanctuary was stripped of its decorations--and even after someone had thought to quietly turn off the baptistry light--my mind drifted back to my run through Griffith Park this morning, and the beautiful wildflowers I saw growing along the dirt road. They were so incredibly gorgeous that I had brought my camera along so I could take a picture of them, even though I don't usually like to carry anything with me when I run. Even on Good Friday, those flowers were shouting their alleluias for all the joggers and hikers and birds and equestrians to enjoy. The world may be falling apart in so many ways, and yet the flowers continue to bloom. Turns out that, even on Good Friday, there is something in this world even more powerful than death, war, and smog.

Precious Water

With the brand new running shoes I got for Christmas on my feet, I left the house and headed south on Pepper Street and Hollywood Way four blocks to the Chandler Boulevard Bike & Running Path. When I was a kid, this was an old set of railroad tracks that ran down the center of Chandler Blvd; now it's a popular place for neighbors to enjoy being outdoors. Upon reaching the path, I turned west and ran until I reached North Hollywood. I ran a little farther, then retraced my steps back home.

On Hollywood Way I ran by some apartments. Sprinklers were watering the lawn. And the sidewalk. In fact, the sidewalk was flooded with water from the sprinklers. On Pepper Street, I encountered the same thing, this time in front of a house. There, the water was running down the sidewalk, passing in front of several other houses before finding a driveway which diverted the stream to the street.

Aside from being annoyed that my new shoes were getting wet, I was also concerned that I (or someone else) would slip on the wet pavement. Most troubling of all, however, was the fact that all this water was being wasted. There isn't enough water to go around in California. Green lawns are a luxury in a region that receives only 10 to 20 inches of rain a year on average; last year less than 4 inches fell.

It's been predicted that in the coming decades, battles over water rights will become fierce. In some parts of the world, wars will be fought over water the way wars are fought today over oil. One of the reasons I became a vegetarian one year ago was because it takes a lot less water to produce a plant-based meal than it does to produce a meat-based meal. That's not a choice I expect everyone to make; however, everyone--especially in California--should know better than to waste water.

This afternoon, Ethan's Cub Scout leader called to say that tonight's meeting would take place at the local library, where a speaker was giving a presentation on native plants. She talked about the many wonderful, beautiful plants that are indigenous to California, plants that need little or no water other than that which nature provides. Plants like the toyon, aka California Holly. (The photo here shows one that my family saw on a hike we took before Christmas.) We Californians don't need to have imported, thirsty trees and plants from back east in order to have beautiful gardens. We just need to learn about the land on which we live.

The Squirrel Isn't There

It wasn't skunks this time. Neither was it snakes, or even rabbits. This time, it was a squirrel.

Saydee saw it first. She bolted ahead of me, chasing after that squirrel as fast as her four paws would carry her. I came trotting up behind her, as fast as my two running-shoe-clad feet would carry me.

The smaller animal outran the larger. After a short chase of about twenty yards, the squirrel disappeared into a hole in the hard, dry clay. Saydee stuck her nose into the hole and barked.

"What's the matter?" I asked when I caught up. "Did the squirrel get away from you?"

"Woof!" Saydee said. Translation: "No, it didn't get away; I've got it trapped -- it's down here in this hole."

At that moment, a movement about ten feet away caught my eye. With her nose still in the hole, Saydee didn't see it, and therefore she didn't realize that the hole in the ground had another exit, and that the squireel had, in fact, run off into some nearby bushes. Saydee just kept barking away, convinced that if she could only get her nose far enough into that small hole, she'd reach the elusive squirrel.

"Silly dog," I said. "What you're looking for isn't there."

"Yes, it is," she replied. "I saw it go in here, and I'm determined to find it."

"But I saw your squirrel run into the bushes. If you want to find it, you're going to have to get your head out of the hole and move. If you keep digging away at that hole, pawing the ground, you'll never find what you seek."

"You're not making any sense," she said. "I saw it go down this hole. I can smell its scent!"

No matter what I said or did, I could not convince her that the squirrel she was after was not in the hole.

A week later, we were running down that same dirt road; and that same squirrel appeared in front of us. Again, Saydee chased that squirrel into its hole. Sure enough, as soon as Saydee reached the hole and stuck her nose into it, the squirrel went out the back exit and into the bushes.

"The squirrel isn't there," I said.

"Don't start that again!" she growled.

"Okay, fine. I'm just trying to help."

It's been said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over again while expecting different results. Saydee kept barking and pawing at that hole, expecting to find that squirrel, but she never did find it. I'm not sure what that says about her.

Then again, I kept talking to her, trying to convince her that what her eyes and her nose were telling her wasn't the whole story, expecting her to listen, but she never did. I'm not sure what that says about me.

Finally, I left her there, and took off running. It was almost two miles back to home. When she caught up to me, she didn't say anything, but the look on her face told me that somehow it was my fault that she didn't find that squirrel.

I thought about telling her that sometimes, when you can't find what you're looking for, you need to do something different, look someplace else. However, I figured that if she wouldn't listen before, she wouldn't listen now. So, instead, I just kept running, all the way home.

Strange Things Happening

It's been a very strange week. I went running on Tuesday, and saw five snakes slithering in the sun. I haven't seen five snakes total on all the runs I've taken around the rice fields here over the past several years. But on one day, I saw five, all within a half mile.

Then yesterday, summer came to a screeching, booming halt. The weather turned cool, and the clouds came in. The wind picked up, blowing so hard it sent tree branches crashing to the ground. It was enough to frighten my sons, especially when the weatherman on TV started talking about "indications of wind rotation" in our area. Then the thunder and lightning arrived (something that only happens here 2 or 3 times a year), it started raining (first real rain we've had in months), and then the rain was mixed in with some hail (hail happens even less than thunder and lightning). I'm told that up in the mountains, it snowed.

But the really strange thing is that it is now public knowledge that I am a pastor searching for a church. For some time now, I have known that my gifts for ministry no longer match the vision this congregation has for its future, and that it is time to move on. The congregation has started to realize this as well. This, coupled with the congregation's financial problems, has led to a lot of anxiety among the members, which in turn led me to announce my resignation as of the end of this year ... even though I have not yet received a call from another congregation.

It was the right thing for me to do, though it does have its risks. I made my announcement Sunday afternoon; Sunday night, I stayed up all night watching movies on TV, because I couldn't sleep. Sleep has come easier the rest of this week, since I have been able to talk to several clergy friends who have given me their reassurance.

The plus side is that I no longer need to keep secret my intentions to leave, or my current search for a new church. I hate keeping secrets, and am a terrible liar, so this gives me some freedom to talk about such things. It is an anxious time, but I am trusting my future (and that of my family) to God.

I took this photo last spring in southern California.

Crawdads

Well, despite my close encounter last week, I went running again this morning. The truth is, being able to experience nature is one of my motivations for running. A big one, in fact. I don't know how treadmill runners do it.
There's lots of wildlife in the rice fields. Birds are the most notable: hawks, kestrals, magpies. Migratory waterfowl, like ducks, geese, and swans are present, especially in the winter months. Sandhill cranes and herons can also be seen.
Toads and frogs are heard more often than they're seen. Once or twice, I have spotted snakes slithering in the sun. Turtles also make their homes here; at least, that's what I've been told. I've yet to see one.

Then there are the crawdads. Some folks, especially in other parts of the country, call them crayfish. At certain times of the year, as the rice fields are flooded and drained, they come crawling out, appearing on roads, lawns, and even my front porch.
Some people eat crawdads. I did, once, and found crawdad to be a rather tasty treat. Others keep them as pets. Imagine waking up face-to-face with a crawdad! Unlike fish, crawdads can easily crawl out of your aquarium, so watch out.

Crawdads have powerful claws that they use for crushing snails and small fish. Among some species, the claws are strong enough and sharp enough to shear a person's finger clean off. Ouch!
The crawdads I encounter when I run make me laugh. Once, when I approached one, he turned to face me, and raised his mighty claws high in the air, as if to say, "Watch out! These are deadly, and I'm not afraid to use them!" He raised his claws as high as possible, trying to make himself look bigger -- much like teenage boys flexing their muscles.
I took one look at the crawdad, and I said to him, "Give me a break. You're two and a half inches long! I could crush you with one step, and not even break my stride."
He looked back at me and stretched his oversized claws even higher, saying to me, "Oh, yeah?" As he did so, his raised claws made him so top-heavy that he toppled onto his back, and began flailing around helplessly.
"See ya later!" I said as I ran past him. (I did not, however, step on him.)
I ran maybe five yards when another crawdad saw me approaching. "Hey, hey, hey," he said as he turned to face me, raising his claws. And the ritual began again.
I laugh at the crawdads, but I admire them as well. They bravely face the challenges that confront them, rather than running away. It is true that I could (as I've mentioned) easily kill one by stepping on it, and yet the crawdads' behavior seems to work for them. Crawdads are crustaceans, and crustaceans have been on earth since the days of the dinosaurs. They must be doing something right, to have surived so long.
When I face challenges or problems in my life, I tend to ignore them as long as I can. But eventually, I must -- like the crawdads -- turn and face my challenges head-on. The church I pastor is currently facing its own set of challenges, which we have put off dealing with for years; but now they, too, must be faced.
Yes, I laugh at the behavior of the crawdads, but I learn from them, too.

Close Encounter

For the past several weeks, running has taken place early in the morning. It's been way too hot at any other time of day. Afternoons have been over 100 degrees F. At sunset, it's still above 90. Even at 6:00 a.m., I quickly work up a sweat as I run three miles through the rice fields.

The problem is that, as summer prepares to give way to fall, the sun rises later and later ... which means it's still dark at 6:00. I can't wait for the sun, because by 6:45 I need to get the rest of the family up so they can get ready for school/work. Hopefully the weather will cool down and I can run in the afternoons, because running while it's still dark is not a good idea, as I found out yesterday.

Saydee (the dog) and I had just started our run. The eastern sky was starting to get light, but the western sky was still dominated by the almost-full moon. The birds had already begun to sing. Crawdads were scuttling across the pad. About ten yards ahead of us, a small black mammal was sauntering into the path.

A small black mammal with a big white stripe running down its back.

I froze, but Saydee ran up to investigate. "Saydee! Get back here!" Saydee and the skunk faced each other, about three feet apart. The skunk raised its tail.

I clapped my hands and continued calling to Saydee. How far can skunks spray? I didn't care to find out, and stayed back. I was sure that Saydee, almost nose-to-nose now with the skunk, was done for.

Slowly, the skunk backed away, its tail still raised. It disappeared into the rice field. Cautiously, I began walking forward, my eyes on the spot where the skunk had disappeared. When I reached it, there was no sign of the skunk. "That was a close one, Saydee."

Hopefully the weather will cool down next week, and we can run in the afternoon.

Losing Myself

Have you ever lost yourself?

I remember a time when I was taking a small boat across a mountain lake just after sunset. Everything was perfect. The temperature was right--cool, but not too cold. Water was spraying onto my face--enough to leave me refreshed, but not soaked.

To the west, near the horizon, the sky glowed orange and pink. A little higher up, it was purple. Above me, it was deep indigo, and the summer triangle was just making its appearance.

It's hard to explain the feeling I had. I felt as if I could touch the stars. It seemed that the sunset was mine, not in an exclusively possessive sense, but in the sense that I and the sunset (and the water and the wind and the night itself) were one.

I felt as if I had lost myself.

I remember another time I felt that feeling. It was in worship. It's actually happened more than once to me in worship, usually when I allow myself to get carried away in the singing and the spirit. I'm made aware, at such times, that I'm a part of something much bigger than myself, bigger even than all of those who had gathered together. I lose myself; the boundaries that separate me from all that is around me disappear, and I feel that I and the universe are one.

They say that infants have no awareness of themselves as distinct individuals. It takes some time for a baby to learn that he or she is a separate being from his or her mother, a separate being from the surrounding environment. When a baby begins the journey of self-discovery, it is an exciting time for both parent and child.

I don't know much about what heaven is like. I wonder, though, if heaven isn't a place where we lose ourselves, a place where we become completely at one with the universe. It would be like being an infant again, except that we'd still have all our wisdom and intelligence. Better yet, we'd share in the collective wisdom and intelilgence of all who ever lived. Individual freedom would be replaced by a collective cosciousness as we blend into one.

That may sound scary to some. It may sound as if we are being assimilated into a borg-like state of being. (Resistance is futile!) But what if it's not like that? Perhaps the only reason it's scary is that we live in the most individualized society the world has ever seen, a society that values individual rights and freedom above all else. Maybe it is, in fact, something truly wonderful, to be so united with the universe, its Creator, and all of life. Perhaps it is our own identities that keep us from being free, and we're not truly free until we make the connection.

The dog and I went running again this morning, and have just returned. We go early now, at sunrise, because that's the only time it's cool enough. As the dew-covered weeds along the dirt road brushed past my legs, as the rising sun twinkled through distant trees, as a swarm of dragonflies hovered nearby, and as breath/wind/spirit moved faster and faster through my nose, mouth, and lungs, I felt that connection.

And now, before the rest of the family wakes up, it's time to go baptize myself in the waters of the bathroom shower.

The photo is one I took during my church's Vacation Bible School.

Sanctuary

I am an introvert. Being an introvert doesn't mean I don't like people, or that I'm necessarily afraid of big crowds. It does mean, every now and then, that I need to get away.

This is the trailhead at a nature preserve located a few miles from my house. It's a California Department of Fish and Game Ecological Reserve, and an Audobon Society Bird Sanctuary. It's known as the Bobelaine Audobon Sanctuary.

I like the word sanctuary. It means a safe place; a refuge; a shelter. There is no hunting or fishing allowed here. If you were to walk the trails, you'd probably notice the many birdhouses that have been placed there, and some of the inhabitants of those houses. But the easiest way to know that this is a sanctuary for birds and animals is to close your eyes. The sounds of birds large and small sing a constant, vibrant chorus. Buzzing insects provide the harmony, and leaves flapping in the wind are the percussion accompaniment.

Recently, the Bobelaine Audobon Sanctuary has become a sanctuary for me as well. It has become a place where I can go to get away. Sometimes, when I go, I run. Sometimes, I walk slowly. Sometimes I just sit and listen. Sometimes I go with others, and sometimes I go alone.

Always when I come, I find the strength I need to live, to face my fears and worries. Am I raising my kids right? Do I love my wife the way she deserves? Am I leading my church in the right direction? How long until finances force me to move away from the church and community I love?

These are the questions that keep me awake at night. Spending time in nature has a way of soothing anxieties like these, making them more manageable. The inner strength I find reminds me of another definition of sanctuary: a sacred, holy place.

As the above picture shows, the trail begins with a climb over the levee. It then leads through groves of old-growth oaks, past green meadows that will undoubtedly turn golden brown as summer approaches and the rain stops.

Eventually, it leads to the bank of the Feather River. Standing there, you can look across and see where it is joined by the Bear River. The waters of these two rivers are smooth and peaceful. By contrast, at home there is a steady stream of people—teenagers, mostly—that is anything but smooth and peaceful. Home is a noisy, chaotic place. Piles of dirty dishes and trails of laundry are the wake that is left behind. Doors are constantly opening and closing. It's a high-energy environment, the perfect setting for an extrovert. Which, as I've already mentioned, I am not.

I know what you're thinking: this is my home, not theirs. Why not tell them to leave? Certainly I have that right, the right to have the periods of peaceful calm that are necessary to my sanity. To have teenagers inviting themselves over, morning, noon, and night—it's absurd! Go home!

As tempted as I am to say this to them, to shout it even, I don't. The reason is that these young people have had extreme hardship in their lives. They have had experiences in their childhoods that I once thought only existed in stories, stories that are not very pleasant. For whatever reason, my home has become for them a sanctuary ...
and I know how important a sanctuary is...
so I let them stay.

Today, at the Bobelaine Audobon Sanctuary, I ran three miles. Then I sat, ate a light lunch, and enjoyed the spring sunshine. I watched an older couple walk by. He was carrying a camera with a large telephoto lens, attached to a tripod; she followed him, with a pair of binoculars. We didn't speak. Perhaps the grandeur of this sanctuary kept us in silence, the same way that walking into a great cathedral leads people to involuntarily lower their voices.

Now it is late in the evening. The teenagers are not here, and my own two young boys are in bed. Yet I have a feeling that the "big kids" (as we call them) will be stopping by before the night is over. After all, "late" is a relative concept. Who knows, they may even spend the night on our living room floor.

I'm learning to accept and even welcome their presence. It's not always easy for me. But I believe that everyone deserves to spend some time in the sanctuary.

Running Together

He runs ahead of me, his shaggy black hair waving in the sunlight. Weeds, lush and green from recent rains, brush against his bare calves, where muscles tighten and relax with every step he takes.

I follow, not far behind. I'm more than twice his age, but I'm determined to at least stay close to him. After the first half mile, I see him take off his shirt. It means he's serious, I guess. I am, too, so I take my shirt off as well.

Normally, I run alone, which means that I'm the one who sets the pace, the one who decides how long the run will be, and which road I'll be taking. I enjoy being independent, in control, and free. When I run alone, I get to do my own thing, and I don't have to compete against anyone.

My attitude toward running is pretty much the same attitude many people have toward church. "I don't need to go to church to be a Christian," they say. "I can be spiritual without being religious. I worship God in my own way."

I never really know how to respond to those who say such things. A part of me agrees with them. A part of me longs for the freedom they have in choosing their own spiritual path, and their ability to set their own pace on the journey of faith. As a pastor, I don't have that freedom.

But as a runner, I do.

Then he comes along and asks if we could run together. I consent, even though I obviously have mixed feelings about this. As soon as the soles of our shoes touch the dirt, he jumps in the lead. Great. Now he gets to set the pace and choose the path. I start to wonder if this is all a big mistake.

I really want to keep up, so I run hard, harder than I've ever run before. My heart is pounding, my lungs are working hard, and my legs are moving fast. Sweat is pouring from my face and down my chest. For the most part, I do keep up. He's never more than a couple of yards ahead of me.

Never before have I run so fast.

It's then that I realize that, running by myself, I had become lazy. I hadn't been pushing myself enough, which meant I hadn't been coming close to achieving what I was capable of. I hadn't been growing in my running ability, or getting any stronger. I had become stagnant.

Without a companion on the path, I never would have realized this. Without him running with me, I would never have known what I was capable of. I ran faster, and better, because of him.

The funny thing is, he ran faster because of me. He knew I was right behind him, and there was no way he was going to let an "old man" pass him.

We ran faster because we ran together.

I now have an answer to those who say they can worship God without going to church: Yes, you can, but if you want to grow in faith, and build some spiritual muscle, then you really need a companion or two. You won't get all you can out of the journey of faith unless you let the church travel with you on that journey. If you want to run faster and grow stronger, you need to run together.

Perspiration, Respiration, Inspiration

Twelve years ago, living in Indianapolis, I began running. Once a week or so, I'd take off and run a mile or two along the footpath that bordered the White River canal near Butler University. When the weather was bad, I'd run indoors, but I really preferred to be outside. Some days, I literally raced the thunderstorms home.

Then we moved to the central coast of California, where I ran on coastal bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean at Montaña de Oro State Park. A coyote ran with me once, and several times I could see grey whales swimming offshore.

For the past seven years I've lived in the Sacramento Valley, and have discovered that the pads that border the rice fields are excellent for running, as long as the cropdusters aren't dropping their poisons from the sky. My running has been on-again, off-again over these seven years, but for at least the past two or three years, it's been fairly consistent; not a week has gone by that I haven't run. More recently, it's been twice a week, due in part to my eager running partner--my dog Saydee. This week, for the first time, I've gone running three times in one week.

My distances have increased. I can now run three miles without resting or walking. Since the trail I run parallels a set of railroad tracks, I sometimes find myself racing mile-long freight trains. And, thanks to Saydee, the local rabbits now get plenty of exercise as well.

In recent weeks (out of curiosity) I've been searching out other runners on the internet. Most of them are, in my opinion, a bit extreme in their running. I personally have no desire to run a 26-mile marathon in under four hours. Heck, I really don't have any desire to run 26 miles in one week. Yet those men and women do so all the time.

Also, a lot of runners seem overly obsessed with running gear ... and maybe I would be, too, if I ran as much as they do. But one of the things I like about running is the freedom of it. You don't really need any special gear. You can just get up and go. In my garage is a bike that I haven't ridden in over a year, because it needs repairing and I haven't got around to it. I can't ride it if it's not working. But running, for the most part, isn't like that. All I need is me. Until two years ago, I didn't even have any running shoes, although I must admit, now that I do, I can't imagine running in anything else. And my new long-sleeve running shirt is so much more comfortable on a cold day than a baggy sweatshirt that flaps around in the wind. So yeah, having some specialized items is nice, but I don't want to overdo it. I certainly don't want to have the freedom I enjoy constrained by a growing "must-have" list of essential gear.

Some of the discussions of essential gear focus on the best type of music to listen to, or the best music player to have. I have no interest in such things. I want to hear the hawks screeching overhead as I run, or the whistle that lets me know a train is approaching from the south. I want to hear the wind, the buzz in the electic lines, and the chirping of the frogs. If--God forbid--I should ever find myself stuck somewhere where the only option for running is a treadmill, then maybe I'll give some thought to music, but only until I can figure out a way to get back outside beneath the sky and sun, where I can experience nature and talk to God and feel the Spirit as I run.

Besides, I can't picture my running partner on a treadmill.

Running

I've been checking in lately on a blog I found. Its author is a man who is running all the way across the country. He's in Indiana today, on his way to San Francisco.

I find it incredibly inspiring to read about his adventure. It's also helping me keep running myself, though my 2 and 3 mile runs once or twice a week are nothing compared to what he's doing -- not to mention that it's a comfortable 50 degrees here in California, quite a contrast to the single digits he started with yesterday morning.

Check out his blog if you're interested.