Only lately have I realized how control adds to my appreciation of this outdoor decoration. Any time of day or night, I plug it in and presto! A bubbling fountain. My responsibility lies in keeping the agates clean and the water level high. I choose when the soothing device operates. I decide which way the bird stares. I have no say about hurricanes, earthquakes, or wildfires, but on this patio, I hold sway.
Eons ago, my God was Gentle Stager, never a formidable being, but a keen-eyed Observer of good order. God could leave me—the heron—as is, lift me out from the stones, point me in a different direction, sink me into rocks or place me atop them. God desired my sleek virtue and heavenward focus. In God’s Plan, I was water decoration meant to beautify a small patio space of the universe. My task: obey and pray.
Greek myths gave me another view of humans and the supernatural. The gods, so like us, emit love and cruelty, loyalty and capriciousness. Troublesome and controlling, they delight when mortals obey and plead. A favorite of mine is temperamental Poseidon, Lord of the unpredictable, raging sea. Homer’s Odysseus, who blinded Cyclops, wants to go home. Poseidon, father of wounded Cyclops, wants Odysseus to suffer: “When the wanderer had come close to shore, he heard the surge; against the shoal it hammered hard; the wailing combers rolled and thundered all along the dry land’s coast. Sea-spume enveloped everything in sight.” Only when wily Odysseus takes charge of his situation does Athena come to assist him. Mortals thrive when they challenge the gods.
Mortal as I am, I flounder between earth and heaven. Watching the spinning Irma, I put my trust in the scientific sphere. With the meteorologists I track Irma’s path, compare models, and know, almost to the hour, when the hammer will strike Florida. I knead facts into a rational, consumable whole. On the other hand, I pray for miracles: people get out in time, the hurricane veers far right, traffic won’t jam, all have enough fuel and clean water, and that (maybe) Athena swoops down to save the animals.
Looking at my photo of Victoria’s Butterfly Garden, I am once again in a space like my patio. With my camera, I am a woman in control of her natural world: herons preening and water slipping over rocks—fixed in time. Recalling the gentle jungle, I remember nature as a calm and ordered place. Bless the camera, the easy part of control.
What about in the midst of upheaval? A complaint surfaces. “Why would God let this happen?” Zeus heard the same words centuries ago. He refused to let humans off the hook. “Men are so quick to blame the gods: they say we devise their misery. But they themselves design grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns.” Uh, oh.
I am part of Zeus’ ambivalent humanity which causes much of its own grief. Time to get off my knees and share somehow in the work required of humans, not gods: seek the missing, bury the dead, house the dispossessed, and donate to food banks, shelters, and clinics. After the horror come the harder, long-term problems: carbon emissions and aging dams, coral reefs and endangered species, chemicals and rising seas.
CNN blares that Irma will smash into Florida. Before I know it, I’m hoping for an impossible Divine leniency. I look out to my patio where the water fountain stands serene. I force myself to imagine a new world order of wily, resourceful humans in partnership with the God who, without hesitation, has given us both the natural world and the fearsome ability to choose.