Sometimes the Lilies Speak the Loudest

Image: Meredith Horton

“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.” A good friend recently shared with me these words from Leonardo DaVinci. I don’t know about you, but this statement is one that I would do well to remember at the dawning of a new decade. As we embark upon another year, one of the biggest challenges that we face is how to balance our wants to do more with the knowledge that we must simultaneously do less. Whether we are ambassadors of truth, creators of beauty, or carriers of good tidings our works only ring true when punctuated by a balanced equilibrium of doing and resting. Only in crafting a pleasant harmony between our yes’s and no’s can we form a coherent way of life, a vocation that remains uncluttered, but also meaningful.

Perhaps now more than ever, it is tempting to scale the bigger and better in attempts to one-up ourselves from years past and fashion a more pleasant self-image. Within business, for example, companies worldwide are clamoring for consumers’ attention by launching cutting-edge initiatives, developing innovative new technologies, and introducing dynamic marketing campaigns. And while these can all be good things, if we aren’t careful we could miss something amidst the zeal for greatness. Like DaVinci, we have to be willing to leave some aspects of a painting “undone,” for fear of overworking them to the point where they lose their aura of mystery.

As a writer I find myself in a constant battle between the self that wants to make headlines-you know, the self that says something witty and knows just how witty it is-and the self that longs to speak those messages that are not always well-received but are exactly the things that others need to hear. There is a part of me that is rush and restless and thinks it has all the answers. Then another, quieter, part realizes that it is okay to take things as they come and learn to simply be present where I am.

I recently left the city for a smaller town, in search of myself, in search of a slower pace of life, in search of a sense of rootedness in place and community. What I found after leaving is that where we live does not dictate how much we are-or are not-in touch with ourselves, our land, and our people. What matters always, everywhere, is our willingness to live authentically and intentionally.

Often it takes a time of getting away, by going on a hike, stepping into our backyard for a few hours or simply taking a long hot bath, to realize that the world is big and we are little. As much of a difference as we may think we make, we are but a drop in the bucket. And yet, each of our lives is simultaneously as beautiful and complex as the finest painting to ever grace a museum. Our faces, especially our eyes, provide glimpses of the human soul-a powerful story that words escaping lips cannot fully express. Like multi-faceted gems found deep beneath the earth’s crust, our inner selves bear stories of great import often masked by the guises of appearance, position, and talent. By taking the time to rest in that inner beauty, then and only then can we come into full bloom.

Each day, we step out into the created order, simultaneous masterpiece and milieu. Some of us step into places of bleakness, others into places of constant invigoration. We press forward to make something of ourselves and the world around us, to look, to listen, to respond. For all of us there are highs and lows, bursts of light, long lapses of darkness. But no matter where we might find ourselves, we all maintain a common thread as each of us wrestle in search of meaning, truth, and significance.

In that quest for meaning, the notion that I keep bumping up against again and again is that sometimes the lilies speak the loudest. What I mean by this phrase is that sometimes we can learn more by spending a few hours on a walk in an arboretum than by sitting in a classroom soaking up information. At other moments this translates into a cup of hot tea by the fire instead of a jaunt to the neighborhood grind. Often life’s seemingly “simple” pleasures, like lilies sprouting in a garden or perched nicely in a glass vase, hold hidden pockets of depth and intrigue. These secret gardens of wonder can enable us to drink deeply from tender springs that bring life, renewal and lasting joy. Like Thomas Merton once wrote, “If we are too eager to have everything, we will almost certainly miss even the one thing we need.” (No Man Is An Island) But, if we are willing to miss some things, we may realize that we have finally found exactly what we have been looking for all along.