Confessing Outside Preferences

I am much more likely to feel like a respectful, trusting family member than an entitled warrior, while outside "property improvements" rather than inside anthropocentric habitats. Sometimes even as I approach my favorite sanctuary, an AllSouls Unitarian-Universalist built structure, I feel more sacred peace before I open our front door of intended mutual hospitality accommodation conversation accompaniment on life's great spirited journey, than after closed off into merely human monoculturing nature. It's not that I see or hear myself as some great and profound nature mystic. A post-millennial John Muir I am clearly not, although I would like to at least feel myself this communal way. This contrast between indoor and outdoor trust and resonance comes not from feeling trees embrace me but from me embracing trees through sight and sound, smell, touch, occasionally taste, if no humans are watching with judgmental eyes. Trees are much more tolerant of my curiosity, intrusiveness, than my cousins, and most of my siblings. Perhaps tolerance is not the best word choice. Acceptance sounds more reassuring. Inviting into co-presence feels too grand, yet honorable, worthy of vocational commitment, loyal Where indoor mistrust and distrust relationships speak of selfishly heartless patriotism and national monoculturing identity and language and cultural antipathy, rather than positive integrity of a sanctuaried people longing to live free and comparatively loving lives under and within paint and textured sheetrock looking a bit like bark if high-end and if I am feeling generous; boundaried boxes smelling like chemical toxins. This unfortunate comparison feels too simple, for sustained resolution of internal unsanctuaried sensitivity to notice I need to get out more, because this means leaving my good faith community behind as if I were so autonomously strong in active outside hope and passionately robust love that I need not hear human stories, songs, Need not see and conjoin liturgical non-verbal dance, sacred rhythms and patterns of compassionate dialogue, mutual esteem and support, appreciation, warm accompaniment, not of warriors, but of peace-builders, resolvers, cooperative listeners, prayers non-predative. My oppositionally defiant daughter, when in a forgiving mood, refers to me as a "Talking Head." I find too much truth in her smiling tolerance of this inflamed ego's hunger and thirst for regard rather than a quieter mutual righteousness of co-presence, stalking hearts inside as necessary for communion's nurture and outside as profitable for everyday sane nature. I respect the limiting fact that pipe organs and grand pianos cannot sustain in the rain, but I also seem to respect the possibility of rapture in a cappella chant and fire-circle sanctuary dance witnessed by trees and stars, spoken of only by sacred smoky breezes.