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I love this path.
It is perfect in its precision And in the means of execution. It was seven o’clock in the evening And the car was finally fixed. I had stayed a week in Idaho Springs, Colorado. And for several days I was out of money, And the food was running low. But just a few hours before, Forty dollars had found their way into my pocket. “It’s for gas,” the Holy Spirit whispered. And I knew that if I only stayed Till noon the next day, I could fill my larder to overflowing. But, strangely, I didn’t want that. The moment that the engine turned over, I was filled with a desire to leave. And so, I put my tools away and left. I need to put some miles down, I thought. And I need to put Denver behind me. And so, I drove through the metropolis And kept on driving until the land evened out And the blanket of the plain wrapped me up in comfort. That’s far enough for today, I thought, and bedded down. When I awoke, I wrote and walked the dog, And again I drove across the plains. And when the gas ran out, I put the forty dollars in. And when I’d driven a few more miles, I remembered that I had another $1.26 in change. I put it in and drove again across the plains. And I looked at the map and wondered How far I’d get before the gas ran out. I counted the towns. And I almost stopped in Russell. I knew that town. But it wasn’t quite right. I drove some more and saw a sign that said Salina. And as I did, I remembered that a town with “S” Had stood out to me when I looked at the map, So subtle the impressions are, Almost imperceptible the promptings! But I am getting better, day by day, at hearing them. And so I kept on driving, driving, driving, And the gas was getting low. I wondered if I’d make it. Yes, I’ll make it, I thought. And when the needle was at the top of the “E” And the gas light on, I arrived. I got out and looked around. And there, in front of the shop, Was a man selling his wares. “Roasted peanuts,” he said, “And almond and walnut bars!” I’ve come here to meet you, man, I thought. And we talked for quite a while. “You can do this,” his booth seemed to say. “Not walnut bars but your own wares. And you’ll be doing it soon. Here are some tips.” Ok, I thought. And thank you, God! And the next morning, I made my Cream of Wheat And then counted my spare stores: Another helping of Cream of Wheat, A potato and a fourth of an onion, And a little bag of Lipton soup, And a bag of chia seeds, And honey. I can eat for another day, almost, I thought. And a little longer if I can get milk to make chia pudding. And I began to look for odd jobs. But before I got half-way down the block, I had $10 for gas, and unlimited food For as long as I cared to stay in Salina, Kansas, And even a place to sleep if I wanted it, And a suggestion that I find a real job for a while at a restaurant, And I was reminded that I had felt impressed That I would soon be working for a restaurant. Fancy that! And I thought to myself, How precise, how perfect God’s directions, And how ample, the means that he provides Unto the accomplishment of his designs.
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I am so grateful, so grateful,
To enter into the Holy Land With nothing but myself. I came into the world naked And I enter into the next world naked. I am out of the mountains now
And the land opens up and spreads out For as far as the eye can see. And the windmills turn And flash Their red lights. And it is a different world From the world that I came from. There is peace in the silent unbroken plain, There is not so much going on. And I breathe a sigh of relief. And feel the crusty shackles fall Around me as I weep But not with tears. What are we after with the new life, economically?
We are after a society Where you can easily maintain Every necessity of life On a small income: Food, clothing, Shelter, tools, And somebody to love. This way of life will mean That whether you run the factory Or work on the factory floor, it is the same. It will vanquish the fear of loss And make the top and the bottom bold To do the right thing, no matter the cost. And doing the right thing Will make the world better. And what means do we employ To bring about such a change? Not force, Not politics, Not sweeping campaigns, But quiet and faithful perseverance in the simple way And belief in the hand of the unseen, So that every convert to this way of life Is purchased by the example of another. And though it may seem foolish or naive, This way of life will one day be the only way That people can imagine living. Write it down. It will be. And the people of the earth will grow rich So that, eventually, they will stop counting the cost, But will rejoice, not in what they might obtain, But in the thing they give away. Love is easiest when you believe.
And resentment springs out of unbelief. Think about it. If the still small voice whispers that it will be alright, And you believe that it is so, Then it’s easy to be kind And faithful To spite hardships. But if you doubt the still small voice Then it is hard to stay positive When the chips are down. And that breeds harsh words And unfaithfulness. Even trifles become hard to endure, And the nihilist is born. So faith is a principal building block of love. And the two grow up together As the hearer of the Word of God believes. Today's post is a story about someone I met in my travels. It's a bit longer than my usual posts, but I would hate for you to miss it - it's a good one. If you don't have time to read it now, you can also listen to me reading it while you work or drive by checking out my YouTube channel or my Podcast titled The Trackless Path. It should have been released this morning under the same name.
I met “D” on the backside of the mountain. We were parked along a wide turnout in the road. We had stayed there for the night. And just as the sun was creeping over the mountaintop, I stepped out of the RV to see him, Not 50 yards away, his shirt off, And his great bare belly glistening in the morning sunshine. But he did not appear fat to me, Nor naked on the upper half. He was exactly clothed with the thing he was, And it was beautiful and strange. It was like noticing a plump groundhog Who just so happened to poke himself out of his hole At the exact moment that I glanced out of my front door. And I knew that we were supposed to meet. “Hello,” I said. And he was startled. He had been riding his bicycle down the mountainside And had stopped to rest. Between his legs Was an old ten-speed bike With a little trailer following behind. As I approached him, My family came out to say hello as well, And the children looked up at him in wonder. There was something innocent about “D”, and childlike. He fit in with the canyon and the pines Like a wild thing, but harmless. And when he spoke, he spoke in broken thoughts. I translate it here so you can understand. But it wasn’t that way that day, Something was fractured inside his mind, But perfectly so, I thought. “Where are you from?” I asked. “Everywhere,” he said. “Oh,” I said. “But most recently, Steamboat Springs.” “Really,” I said. “Well, what’s it like?” “They’ve got the mask,” he said, “They’ve got it bad.” “Oh,” I said. “That’s too bad,” “I won’t wear it,” he said. “It’s of a reprobate mind, “And they’re given over to it!” And he pulled out a much-thumbed bible. And quoted me chapter and verse, But not like a preacher, Like one who believes the thing he says And isn’t afraid to do without for the sake of it. “So you are homeless?” I asked. “I have a home,” he said, It’s here and there, it’s everywhere. I’m at home in nature,” he said, And I believed him. “I’m traveling across Colorado,” he said, “And back again, most likely. I love the mountains.” “Me too,” I said. “But what about the wintertime?” “Oh, I’ve been cold,” he said. “I remember one time, I was coming down the mountain And I was so cold, I thought I’d die. I was afraid, and it was the only time I ever did this, But I went inside a little house. There was no one there, And I warmed myself. I slept the night. But the whole time, I was afraid That someone would come, And I’d be in their house. But I was so cold, I couldn’t help it. And in the morning, I left a gift to say thank you,” I wondered what kind of gift he left Since “D” did not think like other people. And I wondered if they noticed The trinket lying on the shelf. “What’s your name?” I asked. “D”, he said. “Dee, like DEE?” I asked. “No, just D, like the letter D,” he said. “Really?! I’ve never heard that name before,” I said. “I named myself,” he said. “I had another name my father gave me, But that was bad and I don’t like to remember it.” I could tell that he had had a painful childhood, So painful that he had to separate himself From the thing it was. And for a half an hour “D” shared himself with us. And every few broken thoughts, He’d pull out the much-thumbed bible And read us a verse. He loved his bible. It was a part of the thing he was, Like the canyon, and the pines, And the sunshine, And the bike, And the trailer following behind. And all of it, I thought, was a thing perfected. And I was so glad that my children were there to see it. It’s rare, I thought, to find a thing so pure. And just then my wife Pulled out another sacred book, Not sacred to most, but cherished by us, And handed it to “D”. “If you love the bible, I think that you will love this too,” she said. But I could tell that “D” didn’t have room for another book. He recoiled at the sight of it. But he tried to be polite. “Well, I’ll try,” he said. And I thought that perhaps it was a mistake To trifle with something so perfect. “But’s it’s right,” she said. And I knew her intuition, So I didn’t protest. But I wondered what it would take To integrate anything else into the perfect wild thing That traveled up and down and over The mountains of Colorado. “Well, goodbye,” he said When we were finished. “It was good to meet you ‘D’,” we said, “It was good to meet you too,” he said, And we wished each other best And then watched as he mounted the bicycle And took off down the mountainside, His broad, tanned back glistening In the morning sunshine. And it brought a tear to my eye. My children waved and shouted “Goodbye D.” And he raised a hand and waved, And that made them happy. We’ve often talked about our travels since, And the sacred things that we experienced. But I don’t know if there is anything so sacred As the day we stepped outside Into the morning sunshine And found the most endangered creature Of the Colorado countryside, “D”. She was born to travel,
To move from town to town And to sit around the campfire Sharing the unshiny gifts of the road With forever friends whom she just barely met. But for now, she’s bound up at home With the care of little ones. Domesticity. What a curse, and what a blessing, For one whose heart longs to be moving, Whose soul needs the deep green of the redwoods And the perfect clear blue of the Caribbean Sea. What a curse, and what a blessing, To sacrifice the thing she is So that her little ones Might be. The gift of things is best for children
Who don’t yet know what’s best for them Nor what they really want. The gift of money is best for those Who know what they want If the thing they want Is best for them. A key difference between communism
And the oneness that exists between brothers In God's unseen Kingdom Is that God's Kingdom Does not rely upon Two of the principal pillars of communism - Force and deceipt. Truth and free will and brotherly love Prompt all of the giving and receiving. No force. No lies. I am going to ask somebody else
To pay for the book that you receive. That’s the new economy. I’m going to give you the book for free And I am not going to ask you to pay for it. I’m going to ask for what I need right now. And since you’re not here right now, I will ask the nearest friend I meet. Can I have food to eat? Can I have the thing I need? That’s the new economy. You sow where you do not reap, And you reap where you do not sow. And you can buy the book on Amazon if you please. We’re in-between and so it is a transition. And all of this is an experimentation Upon the Word… a work of faith To see how far we can press Into the New Life. I know that God will provide for me.
But outward things press in And beg to be taken care of. And they can become vexatious. And so I like to push them out, to pay them early. And thus, to know that they are taken care of So that I can ply my trade in peace, Also, to define them and keep them small. That makes every surplus dollar extra credit. I like to be on the edge of what I have.
I like not knowing where my next meal will come from. It gives me sweet pleasure To ride upon providence. So a strategy brews To shed what I have quickly- To invest it into the ones I love Before my right hand Can know what my left hand is doing, And to spread my bread upon the waters And thus be ever on the very wake Of what God provides. This post seems contradictory to the last one. But I sense a resolution Though it’s hard to describe. I think that it is something like Shed more often, and outsource the frugality Wherever possible to the ones you serve. The frugal man will always have the advantage
Over the man who spends beyond his means. But we have forgotten what it means to be frugal. Spend far less than what you make And never go into debt. That definition will work. I met a man who lived that way And he was wealthy in a way That I have never seen In another human being. It was almost unearthly, Powerful. Humble. And after all these years It seems that God has brought me To the thing I learned in him With one addition: To now and then shed it all And start again. An ad just played before the video
And suggested that I needed to manifest something, And it pulled me in. Yeah, maybe I need that... I thought. But it is out there. It suggests That what I have is not enough. And isn't that the opposite of wealth? I busked today.
And it was the children That paid my way. They thought it was cool. And they called their friends And dropped coins into my case. That surprised me. But it was beautiful. A certain feeling visits me today.
I remember it from my childhood. It is the feeling of looking out on the world in silence, And seeing everything just how it appears, Without interpretation. And you would think that the sentiment Would be neutral, but it’s not. There is a warm and definite sense Of everything being just right, As if existence itself Has a favorable opinion of itself. But strangely, it’s not perfect. The flaws are more pronounced. And that’s part of what makes it beautiful. And that makes me wonder If the things we think are right Are not necessarily right. Perhaps reality is right If we see it through child’s eyes. And perhaps, the more we see it that way The more we’ll be in keeping With the true perception, The rightest perception. Perhaps then, we’ll be less likely To try to force the world into the image Of the thing we want it to be. And that seems right. I sit on the edge of the world - looking in.
And here upon the ridge of heaven There is Peace. If we can create for ourselves
A living hell in this life. Then it only makes sense That the hell that we create might continue If the blackness of our hearts is real And not imagined. And if our conscience pricks us here When our eyes are dimmed By deceitful outward appearances, Then the same conscience might prick us there When the falsehood of our outer shell is stripped away, And all the more if we see more clearly there. We don’t see clearly here, And that’s the problem. Our conscience can be seared. We can sin without regret. All the more reason To face the inward contradictions Before we discover too late That what we sowed in life Follows us into eternity. I will be moving for the rest of my life,
Moving, moving, ever moving. For it calls me, ever calls me To wander, ever wander Down the roads and byways In and out and through the earth until I am called back home. And it is such a comfort To know that in my restless journey I have found a home, A place to warm Myself beside the fire That burns within my bosom And calls me to the ones Whose lonesome stories I must know. We are one in our lost stories. We are one in the forsaking And together we will wander Wander, wander, at His bidding Till the answers come a knocking Come a knocking and presenting Come a knocking and unlocking The doors that will unbreak us Though the world itself forsake us In the waiting, We are not forgotten And though lost for a season, We will find our way back home. I like this place.
I like this time of year. And I like this time of day, The way the sun reflects so gently Off the bricks of the buildings across the street, Not like the brutal sun of summertime. And on the mountain, The light casts shades Into the crevices and dimples Of the wooded, colored, slopes. And the hush of Autumn blankets everything Here on the street with the peace That only visits once per year. I want to wrap it up and carry it Into the cold and clouded Meager days of winter, But I can’t. All the same, it’s precious. How can I possibly complain about anything When there are days like this. “A week ago,” she said,
“From Kosovo,” she said. “Really!” I said. “Yes.” And there was a bucket full of roses beside her, Ten dollars a rose, Kind of steep, I thought, And a sign in her hand that said, Please help, large family. “How many are in your family?” I asked. “My two sisters and me And my father and mother.” My family is bigger, I thought. But I didn’t hold that against her. “And where are you staying?” I asked. “A hotel,” she said. “A hundred dollars a night.” And her eyes went wide, And so did mine. “That’s a lot,” I said. “Yes.” “But you’ll be ok, I think,” I said. And she nodded her head. They know how to beg, I thought. And they know how to sell. They’ll be ok. And I handed her five dollars. The mountain is laden
With yellow veils and brown And the red oak climbs her sides And to the North, the evergreen Holds steady looking down Upon the canyon. So what? It’s nothing new. And yet each and every year I find in it the hope of new beginnings. Where is the bill of your mother’s divorcement?
You say she has one. And I say that I never agreed to that. We had a different understanding, An understanding that was renounced And not by me. But now you weep And mourn uncontrollably Because you believe that it is over. But it’s not. The love is still inside of me. And sooner or later, that love will win, For all other things will fall away. But this love will never cease. It is eternal. It is the thing That binds our family Everlastingly. And it doesn’t matter how long it takes. She came to me
Through misty vision Lest I slip into forgetting And told me “You are the big wave, And I the little wave. You’ve taught me how to sail.” And then she wrapped me up Within her arms as one more reminder That she loves me. And that was sacred, blessed. I thought that, perhaps, She could not forgive me, That she could not love me. But I see that perhaps she does Even to spite, or because Of the thing I am. Thank you, Father, And please don’t let me forget! We start another day of work
Early in the morning, Long before the sun arises, When the muse won't let us sleep. It's the sacred poet's hour, The hour when others must slumber But we are blest with the best Of midnight powers. And if we rise to meet the thing That lifts us from our beds, Then we are blessed to hear the voice That speaks from heaven's crest, And then go forth into the world To share the fruit of Eden's tree, The tree that comes before and after The fall of you and me. And it's early in the morning That we hear His voice the best. In the early morning hours We enter into rest. |
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