Last month, I went on my annual silent retreat at a Jesuit retreat house near the Atlantic Ocean, Eastern Point Retreat House. It features a wide variety of natural seaside beauty, a view of the ocean, wooded paths, and a pond with swans in the warmer months. I have a favorite spot to which I return year after year, and the many memories of consolations experienced over the years make it easy to slide right into an interior space of quiet and intimacy with God. My most cherished spot is out on the large granite rocks near waves that are alternately crashing and peaceful, much like the movements in a retreat. There are times when whatever within in me that is stormy gets released, and other times I experience days of deep interior quiet and a honey-sweet peace that deepens in the silence.
In those moments of peace, I enjoy just being with Jesus—Jesus in Scripture, yes, but also Christ present in creation: in the songs of birds, the tiny details of a flower, or the expansiveness of the ocean and all its life beneath the surface. Sometimes I let myself be like a child again and lie on my back and watch clouds. I know that what I see in the clouds is as much the play of my imagination as anything in the cloud formation, but St. Ignatius thought that God works through our prayerfully offered imaginations, too, so I let myself go there.
What shape is that cloud? Oh, it’s a bird that reminds me of the song sparrow I listened to earlier. I feel grateful. That other cloud is an amusing face. It reminds me to be playful and not take myself or others too seriously. It’s not that I think God is sending me secret messages in the clouds, but I do find it opens up my imagination to wander in a playful way that can still be meaningful prayer as I notice the interior movements to which I am led.
This year, while I was looking out at the ocean, a large, puffy white cloud started to develop shadows inside of it, so that the white and the gray of the clouds were in strong contrast. To my delight, it started to look like words or a number. Was that a number 5 followed by two other numbers? I laughed a little at myself seeing numbers in the clouds and joked with Jesus, Is that your area code? Shouldn’t it start with a 3, for the Trinity? While the whole thing seemed silly, I played along anyway. After a while, the gray parts of the cloud became even more defined, and a word appeared to me: SUI, clearly spelled out in the center of the cloud.
My academic specialty is ancient Greek philosophy, and while I am no Latinist, I did find the word meaningful. Sui is a reflexive pronoun, like himself, herself, or itself. Those who took Latin in high school might even recognize that it is a reflexive pronoun in the genitive case, meaning “of himself, herself, or itself.” The pronoun refers back to the subject of the sentence; in other words, it reflects on the action of the subject.
I smiled at the word, because my whole day until then had been noticing and feeling in a deep way how much every part of creation is “of God’s self.” The cloud is of God’s self—only there for a moment, but still a reflection of God in creation. The waves reflect God’s light in their sparkle and reflect God’s being in their goodness. The song sparrow’s song and life are short but glorify God, like a reflection. Even I, in my own small way, reflect God, as do my fellow retreatants sharing the silence and daily Eucharist. Everything I noticed that day was a sparkle of light on the water, reflecting the ongoing creativity of God.
The word in the cloud faded from view within a few minutes of my seeing it, and the cloud dissipated into another shape. But the beauty of creation, even well after leaving my retreat, abounds everywhere. At my local park, I can still notice how all the other song sparrows or the yellow warblers are also “of God’s self.” The rhododendrons blossoming at the arboretum are of God’s self. My family and friends and the strangers I meet on the street are of God’s self. God’s reflection is there, waiting for us to pay attention, even in playful (or nerdy) ways.
