The Red Umbrella
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by Marjorie Donnelly
"I will no longer carry an umbrella when I walk in the rain and snow," I declared at the closing circle of Shalem's Southeast Regional Gathering last January. In response, a companionable burst of laughter erupted. I was particularly aware of the deep resounding laughter directly behind me.
Next, we looked around the circle into the faces of the spiritual community graciously given for five days, which we now reluctantly needed to release. I finally turned to the man sitting in back of me. For an instant we shared a glimpse of soulful presence too deep for words, just as we had shared the knowing laughter a moment before. We bowed to one another, and I turned, confident of the healing power of a silent praying community.
The meeting of our spiritual hearts was the result of what seemed a chance meeting of two of the most unlikely souls on the retreat labyrinth. However, I believe such synchronistic meetings are anything but chance. Indeed, they are orchestrated by our divine Creator, who was also the center point of both our laughter and our glimpse.
From the time I arrived, I had wanted to walk the labyrinth. Wednesday morning—the first day of the Great Silence for our community—dawned with snow already accumulating. It was cloudy and wet with intermittent flurries and rainfall. The fact that I had not brought my waterproof jacket or my boots was cause for self-flagellation: What in the world was I thinking coming to the mountains in winter unprepared for snow?
Even so, I was determined to not delay another moment, reasoning that, if the weather got worse, I might totally miss my chance. After donning extra layers of protection, I happily remembered the red umbrella that I keep in my car for just such minor weather emergencies. Fortified by a sense of daring adventure, I smugly, yet with great care, trudged in my less than adequate tennis shoes down the slippery mountainous road.
Immediately, I knew that the experience was well worth my efforts. My steps (as if by magic) appeared in the virgin snow, and the walk was a feast for my other senses as well—hearing the snow crunch, the gentle rainfall on my umbrella, the chirp of a lone bird's song; feeling the cold air on my face and the solidness of my reliable feet as they rose and fell; smelling the crisp winter air pungent with smoke from a nearby lodge's fire.
At the labyrinth's center, I stepped into each of the six rosettes and prayed for the members of my small group and for myself. As I solemnly and quietly went about this ritual, I caught sight of another brave soul dressed in a sunny yellow jacket literally bouncing down the path and reminding me of Tigger in Winnie-the-Pooh. As he arrived at the entrance, our eyes met, and he flashed a huge grin, jumped up and down and clapped his hands in an exuberant greeting. I smiled in response and continued my walk under the protective red umbrella, feeling like the perpetually gloomy old grey donkey Eeyore in comparison.
Every few steps this fellow walker would lean down, make a snowball, throw it into the air, clap his hands and literally bounce in delight. Describing Tigger, Pooh states, "He always seems bigger because of his bounces." And so it was with my labyrinth companion.
As I made my way back out, there was a catch in my throat before tears stung my eyelids. My walking partner and I were Yin and Yang-his uninhibited joy in direct contrast to the heavy sadness I was carrying. Likewise, his spontaneity, childlike wonder and playfulness were in direct opposition to my control, adult responsibility and seriousness.
The joy, however, was contagious, and I felt my own mood shift and lighten, aware of the truth that "Every child knows God." After lunch, writing about the experience, I added, "Perhaps it's not too late for me to play," and once again, tears sprang to my eyes.
While I was writing, the yellow-jacketed man was drawing that same experience. He drew a black and white picture of the labyrinth but with small splashes of red—the umbrella. He later confided, "I almost threw one of those snowballs at you!" I replied, "I wish you had."
The red umbrella kept me safe, dry and protected, but it also kept me at a respectable distance from the childlike fun of spontaneously making and throwing winter snowballs. I experienced second-hand joy by observing someone else having fun, but I did not join the celebration of life in the moment. My hunch is I won't know that kind of uninhibited "Worraworraworraworra" Tigger joy unless I risk walking in the rain and snow without an umbrella.
So like a newly recovering alcoholic with whiskey or a former smoker with cigarettes, this recovering responsible adult needs to create some healthy distance between herself and that pesky, reliable umbrella. Today, I packaged it and mailed it to my labyrinth companion. I am confident that he can easily abstain from using it the next time it rains or snows. I tucked in a copy of Winnie-the-Pooh and dusted off my copy as well, remembering my new friend's advice that if I wanted to learn to play, I should read children's books. Admittedly, I don't have a lot of recent practice playing—much less bouncing—but I sense it's high time to begin. For starters, I've replaced the red umbrella with my talisman for this retreat—a pocket-sized, stuffed Tigger!
Marjorie is a graduate of Shalem's Spiritual Guidance Program, Class of Summer 2004.