Sometimes Creation itself can help our agendas and worries recede long enough for us to sense the nearness of God. Not long ago, I was sitting beside a humble trout stream in the Driftless Area of southeast Minnesota with my fly rod in hand. A dancing stream in a forested valley. Not a person in sight, nor any sound of human existence. I felt totally present to the gentle breeze and soft sunshine. I was even sure that the high and distant form could only be a soaring eagle.

Fly fishing is not always a spirit-rich experience for me. In fact, it might be telling that I first picked up a rod simply because I thought dropping a fly into inviting spots might give me something interesting to do while I was bored with not catching fish. I like its practicality, so I keep at it and trust that it is important to my soul. I find that it entertains my mind and hands when I need to transition off life’s freeway onto a slow dirt road. Occasionally, on days like this one, the practice itself falls away and takes with it all my seemingly important thinking. In those precious moments, I realize anew that I am standing—and always have been—in the nearness of God. Fishing the fly can take me between mountains or over impressive stones, but always, always I am beside waters and among trees. Reflecting on what God speaks to me in beautiful moments like these, I know I need to listen more closely to the waters and the trees.

The waters stir my soul as symbols of abundance and movement. Some days, in my inattentiveness, I tackle or trample the stream aggressively in search of the next hole with real potential. In so doing, far too often I hurry by a surprisingly good stretch. Large Browns darting for the shadows then prove my distraction. The stream generously communicates abundance to me in hiding other Browns and Brookies upstream and gives me another chance to begin paying attention. I also sense abundance when I fish behind other anglers and still make a catch, or when I realize that even a nest in my line is a blessing. The nest makes me stop and sit on the bank where I can listen to the stream that does not stop flowing.  Then I can imagine the unending volume of water which springs to life from a cave, with cool, clear hope. These waters do not freeze, even in winter, because they faithfully keep moving. I would very much like to live my life as one filled by such springs of living water.

The same streamside moments waken me to the still trees across the waters, speaking of wholeness and stability. They grow slowly, unnoticeably, one season after the next, never complaining of rain or snow, but continuously reaching, reaching up to the heavens. Majestic heights and rich colors testify to deep roots, well-being and nutrition. My inner being longs to be like that. What if I were steady and calm as the great pines or solid and expansive like the ancient oaks? Apart from their rare creaking and their visual appearance, their  only utterance is to cast a shadow across our path, calling for our notice. While the stream is always moving and never the same, these noble trees will endure and continue to speak to future generations. Hopefully, they will also pause to listen.

When I recall that tender day and my heightened sense of nearness to God, the opening words of the first Psalm ring in my ears:

“They are like trees planted by streams of waters” (Ps. 1:3, NRSV)

And hearing them, I remember the observation of Fr. Hugh Feiss, OSB, who said during a retreat that the Hebrew word for “planted” could be just as easily be read “transplanted.” The waters and the trees, along with the fly fishing that disposes me to their witness, uproot me from a contrived world built primarily upon my own expectations. They remind me that—if I stop trampling the stream aggressively, in search of the next promising pool—I am daily re-planted in the nearness of God and fed with the waters of life. There I find my natural connection to God’s abundance, movement, wholeness and stability. Connections which nourish me . . . and which are the source of my most genuine service to others.

That connection is not precisely about the particularity of this geographical location, for people all over the world have found natural places to be thin places, sacred places. We each experience that true connection in subtle and unique ways that evoke our attentiveness to the presence of God that always persists. For many Celtic people, sacred wells were places of connection. For you it may be a favorite place by the lake or in the garden or the woods. For me, I must continue to pick up a fly rod and carry with it the question: Can I ease in to holy attentiveness today? Perhaps with the help of the waters and the trees.

This reflection was first published in the Sept/Oct/Nov 2015 edition of Thin Places, edited by Marilyn and Alan Youel.