On my trip to California this summer, I spent part of a day walking up and down Redondo Beach. As I walked past the Lifeguard Tower, topped with a beautiful little clay-tile roof, I noticed the peninsula that stretched out between the tower and the ocean. It was made of stones, piled together organically, strewn into a path that just disappeared at the water's edge. When I took the photo, I just loved the way the stones led the eye out toward the water. As I have looked at it over and over again, though, I love it for what it teaches me about the creative tension between our plans and life's mystery.
We spend much of our time designing the architechture of our lives, planning for our safety, security, and adventure. We want to do the best we can to build a life that can weather the storms, stand out, and is expansive enough to hold the things that are important to us. We would all love to have a room with a view--one with windows that look out over rolling hills, crashing waves, or a sea of flowers. From atop the beautiful Spanish-style lifeguard tower on Redondo Beach, you can catch a glimpse of that kind of beautiful view. If we leave the tower and follow the stones to the water's edge, the path becomes less clear. Behind us stand the constructs of our best-laid plans. Before us lie forces we cannot control, a depth we can only plumb with great caution, and a sense of infinity that no man-made construct could ever provide. Mystery. The stones draw our eye out to the water's edge, reminding us to pause in our planning; suspend our striving; gaze out into wide-open space, and face forces beyond our control. Sometimes it's unsettling, but we need to be unsettled. Listen to the waves crashing around you. Feel the salty mist rise from each wave and reach your face. Breathe. Suspended there, between plans and mystery, just breathe. We must return to our tower, to our plans, to our lives...but the stones remind us to always return to the water's edge and remember to let go.
