At the entrance to a farmhouse, now abandoned, the weeds have choked out most of the wild flowers. Still, a brave stand of Queen Anne’s Lace rises along the fence line. Its stems are fragile, but they shoot for sky, baring intricate white blooms.

If vistas draw us out, intricacies draw us in. Depth is as intoxicating as breadth. It woos us with a finer world that one may only enter if she stops, bends, moves in for the tight shot.

Rewards from the Queen Anne’s Lace are immediate and obvious: thousands of tinier white blooms supported by the tiniest green stems. Each summer snowflake is unique and wonderfully made.

Those who quilt understand the pull and pursuit of perfect stitches laid out like miniature maps in chosen blocks of color. Quilters lose themselves in fine details, and hours pass during which they breathe in measured breaths, each stitch a labor of love and focus. Intricacy becomes intimacy.

How easily calligraphers move from the world of broad strokes and bold sweeps into the intricate land of small loops and whorls, slight lines that end in points almost imperceptible to the human eye. Bent over their work, calligraphers understand the intimate relationship of hand to pen to paper.

The intricacies in our world beckon us just as surely as the vistas do. And if we risk sending our words and our selves into the vast spaces before us, we also risk sending them into those tighter, finer places.

Vista: a distant view through or along an avenue or opening; a prospect

There is something in us that loves a vista. As I make my way down the old highway, my pace quickens until I crest the hill about a half mile in. The vista that appears before me is one that never disappoints.

Layers of elm, cottonwood, birch, hickory, and ash wash the early morning with green. With this vista before me and my eyes fixed on the horizon, I walk with purpose. Space unfolds exponentially; the distant treeline, like a mirage, shimmers with possibilities.

If there be sound in this vista, let it be wind through the cottonwoods. Just this.

On a wall in my house are words my father wrote, words I have learned to live by:

Words have no other choice. They have to risk space. 

In the everyday world of people and things, it is often difficult to find space. We crowd our lives with sound and stuff, fearing the silence and risks of space. Busyness suffocates any seed of thought; words wither under the weight of work.

When I walk toward the vista of northern Davis County each morning, I find that there are words, once dormant, that spring to life. They risk the solitude at dawn, nebulous at first, but clearly taking shape.

Often by the time I reach my turning point and begin the trip home, these words, like a familiar chorus, resound with each step. Having written themselves into this blessed space and time, they will ultimately find themselves committed to paper: the most serious risk.

There is something in us that loves a vista. It offers a sanctuary of space we all instinctively desire.

In the sanctuary of play, no one needs a ribbon or medal. There are no MVPs, no time limits, and no rules that cannot be changed–and changed frequently–with the consent of the players.

Walking this morning, I stopped to admire the two palomino horses in the small paddock about a quarter mile down the road. Watching them, I could not help but remember the horses I used to ride along West 27th Street in Kearney, Nebraska. They were wooden dowels with fabric heads, glass eyes, and synthetic manes. They were decked out with fancy halters and reins. And in our eyes, they were magnificent.

Imagine a herd of neighborhood kids wielding stick horses up and down the sidewalks, a wild and woolly posse with arms and hair flying. This was play at its best. Stories and roles took shape quickly, and each rider lost herself in these narratives.

Today, my sanctuary of play often finds its center in my bedroom. This is where my grandchildren, Gracyn and Griffin, choose to play. Sequestered in the back of the house with the door shut (always with the door shut), the play can continue without adult interruptions and daily distractions.

My bed is the camper, and an elaborate camper it is! With each new day, Gracyn adds another room or feature: a kitchen with a chef (who also serves as a doctor when needed); a dance studio (because she is perpetually preparing to perform some sort of dance); a bowling alley; an office; our own “Fun City” complete with trampolines and water slides; and an ice skating rink.

From my spot on the bed, I listen as she narrates the adventures, dictating the roles that Griffin and I will play. Decked with flashy jewelry and scarves, she imagines us through worlds of travel and adventure. She is always the big sister, Griffin the father, and I am the mother. Griff drives the van and leaves the room–only briefly–to go to work.

As the constant, the nucleus, I remain in my spot to propel the narrative through questions and comments. As long as I am there to witness the goings and comings, the planning and dreaming, the center holds.

In play, we lose ourselves–if just momentarily. Poet Robert Frost writes:

It [a poem] begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction         with the first line laid down. It runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life—not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on but in a momentary stay against confusion.

For me, our play, like the first line of a good poem, assumes a direction with the first line spoken. And then, it runs a glorious course through nights of pageantry with dress-up and made-up song, through moments of tender care for stuffed animals and dolls who play primary roles in every story, and through the comfortably predictable routine of beginnings and endings.

In the sanctuary of imagined worlds and lives, the only conflict resides in which doll will be the day’s travel buddy or who gets to be the keeper of the keys to the camper. There is little we cannot do, and few problems we cannot solve in the camper.

And this play inevitably results in some type of clarification of life, a momentary stay against confusion. For these blessed moments, I do not consider that suffering and uncertainty live beyond these walls. With the sweet weight of Griffin’s body against mine, there is no place I would rather be.

The early morning along the old highway is a sanctuary of sights and sounds. But it is the common blue of the wild chicory and the uncommon blue of the indigo bunting that both delight and surprise me.

Chicory can grow in soil that most plants cannot; it has a deep tap-root that can break through the hardest, most compacted soil. As such, I’ve come to expect the proliferation of its periwinkle flowers in ditches and lining the highways and county roads. It is common and pushes through even newly laid gravel.

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And yet there is something glorious in the persistence of blue amidst the summer world of green.

The blue of the male indigo bunting is an uncommon cerulean, almost neon in its brilliance. A shy, wren-like bird, the indigo bunting often migrates by night, navigating by the stars. From a distance, it appears black until the sun hits its mark. When it does, even the bluest sky pales in comparison.

Each day I walk, I hope to see just one indigo bunting, lit up by the morning sun, close enough to take in its flash of blue for one moment. The indigo buntings of rural Davis County taunt me with their sweet songs. They surround me and–maddeningly–sound close enough to touch. I have learned to spot them on the tallest, barest branches: solitary singers at dawn. Most days, I take solace in their presence in spite of the fact that I cannot see them.

Last week as I was about to leave the old highway to turn onto Monarch Trail, I spotted something on the pavement in front of me. As I got closer, I realized that it was an indigo bunting, dead by the edge of the road. I stopped, stooped to take a closer look. Perfectly preserved, its head was a deeper indigo, its breast and wings, cerulean. Even in death, its beauty spoke life. I picked it up and moved it into the clover that lined the ditch, for I could not bear the thought of a passing truck grinding all that brilliance into the pavement.

As I walked on, I could not help but anticipate my return trip. I would look at the bunting again. I would take in as much of it as I could. I would not forget how the deeper blue gives way to something other-worldly and uncommonly lovely.

The sanctuary of blue in my quest to see the indigo bunting is private and infrequent.  Why would a bird so wonderful choose to hide itself? Why would the sun neglect to halo it each time it moves from the shadows onto an open branch? Why would my eyes fail to see it when my ears can hear it?

When I think of the indigo bunting, I recall Matthew’s words concerning prayer:

But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.  Matthew 6:6 (NIV)

What is done privately, in secret, is not only acceptable in our Father’s sight, but preferable. I forget this, too often. The indigo bunting reminds me that beauty and grace abound, and it is enough to know that they do even when I cannot see.

The indigo bunting continually prays in a private sanctuary, reserving the abundance of its blue for the Creator. I would do well to do likewise.