The rhythm of the waves is a soothing antidote to those parts of my week that have nicked and depleted me. My friend and I are walking along the shore of Lake Michigan, on the campus of Northwestern University, our backdrop the straight-edge line of a powder-blue horizon toward the east, and the Chicago skyline to the south. Along the lake, people--both young and old--are strolling, talking, boating, swimming, sitting, and loitering. And, in some cases, in a reverie, just staring off into the distance.
On this weekend afternoon, my friend and I had nowhere to go, and weren't in a hurry to get there. It seemed a good day for a long and restful nothing.
At the entrance to an inviting tree-dotted and grassed area, a prominently placed sign greets all who walk into this place of respite, rest and sanctuary with this unusual and curious caution: "Enter at your own risk."
Yes. The sign stopped me. Literally. I did a double take. And I laughed. And of course, I took a picture of the sign (with my new phone -- after all, what's the point of having a new phone if you don't take pictures?). And then it made me sad. . .and made me wonder, "what's the point?"
Okay. At one level, I get the "risk" part. Everything now in our world is tainted with the fear of liability. After all, someone may get hurt. (Although it doesn't read well on your medical report, "Injuries sustained while loitering.")
So, risk becomes a double-edged sword. However, I believe that in our fear-induced world, our energy is given to casting a watchful eye to the danger always lurking (or the enemies always at bay). We live tense and on edge.
"Be careful!" You could be injured, frightened, attacked, alarmed, or worse, sued. And our life is now predicated on limiting liability. I know what that feels like. I mean physically.
Viscerally.
Emotionally.
And spiritually.
Isn't it interesting what happens when we choose (or live by) that particular choice of words?
When I use the lens (or perspective)--"enter with caution"--I instinctively see (perceive, view) my experience in a narrower or more restrictive framework. In other words, I live this moment anticipating fear.
So it's not just about caution. Yes, I do understand that there are times when caution is called for. What troubles me is that more often than not, I trade in my freedom or imagination or choice or intention or unabashed delight or even my contentment, because I am certain I may offend--or that I don't deserve it, or that I haven't earned it, or that I have colored outside the lines, and must pay the price. (Like the faithful band of "believers" in the movie Babette's Feast, who, when offered the extraordinarily generous gift of the feast-of-a-lifetime, make the decision to "taste" the wine, but not "enjoy it.")
I read a story about a neighborhood (near San Diego, California), where fifteen years ago, children climbed trees, built forts, floated homemade boats in the stream, fished for bluegills in the little pond near the public library and savored their days in a community cherished for its "open space"--a community boasting on its welcome sign, "Country Living." And then, it all stopped. "Authoritative adults" from the "community organization" intervened. "Somehow," resident John Ricks reported, "the tree house was now a fire hazard, and the 'dam' the children created in the small stream might cause severe flooding."
So the children adapted. They moved their "play" space from the woodland to the asphalt. Families erected basketball hoops in driveways, and kids created ramps for skateboards on the sidewalks.
And the community association reminded the residents that such activities violated the covenants they had signed when they bought their houses.
Right. We wouldn't want to do that now, would we?
Down came the ramps and poles, and indoors went the kids. . .to their Nintendo Game Boys and screen time.
No. Life isn't what it used to be. And yes, we do make choices regarding safety, which require wisdom.
But here's the deal for me: I don't want to live my life in fear.
We quote Thoreau, longingly, "I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life...to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."
Which all sounds admirable and dauntless.
But what does it mean?
Perhaps, that is where the sign should be--at the place for those who choose to live deliberately.
Because there, it is risky.
And caution is warranted.
Why? Because to really care, grieve, love, begin again, give birth to passion, open your heart, accept loss, be overcome by beauty, sustain friendship, sit in stillness, wrestle with prayer and faith, tell the truth, and offer sanctuary to sadness or joy, requires a heart willing to accept the risk and, in all likelihood, to be broken wide open.
It's interesting to me that I found this sign in a place of sanctuary. That is the flip side of the coin. And the truth is, they may be right. The truth is that if I do enter a place of sanctuary, if I do practice Sabbath, or if I do honor stillness, or if I do give up my diversions to be at home in my own skin, or if I do choose the courage to be fully present, it may not be easy. It may, in fact, be risky.
This is the great irony. "Enter at your risk" need not mean, "shut down your heart". . .or restrict your life or your passion or your sorrow or your joy. It is the opposite: enter at your own risk, precisely because your heart is fully engaged, fully present, fully alive. And you may have no idea of the bounty, in the payoff.
I wish I could tell you that after my walk, I gave up all my fear.
I haven't.
Not yet.
But I do have a picture of that sign. Just to remind me. . .each day. . .to take the risk. . .and open my heart.
Notes:
-- The elements of the story of the San Diego suburb is drawn from the book Last Child in the Woods, by Richard Louv
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