It was rather a rough day for Archie, our year-old Miniature Schnauzer.
Came first the yard guys. They are unwelcome to Archie at any time, but in this case showed up at an unprecedented 3 in the afternoon. The pup was calmly lying there, toy in mouth, nursing his boredom as he awaited a break in my mysterious kitchen table labors, when who should suddenly loom up on the back patio but a towering figure in mask, with leaf-blower, roaring mechanized threats and challenging the sanctity of Archie’s backyard kingdom.
A heroic leap to the sliding glass – frantic, urgent, unrelenting howls of outrage – and thus ended for 25 deafening minutes all concentration and productivity for the guy at the kitchen table.
Hours later, Archie was resting on the couch, as my beloved and I leaned in for the climactic moment of suspense in the movie. Suddenly, the dog, in fluid motion, hurtled through the air to body-slam the sliding glass again, his shrieks curdling to crescendos not heard in that living room since the passing of his predecessor some years ago.
A cat had actually deigned to stroll across our moonlit yard, hauteur in tow, sashaying her way toward nocturnal diversions. Archie blew out his mind. It was Putin and the Ukraine all over again. The NERVE! The OUTRAGE! The THREAT to Civilization As Dogs Know It.
We slid the tempered glass aside a split second before he could smash his way through; he erupted out the still-skinny opening like the cork from a champagne bottle, tearing across the shadowy yard – then back – then through the bushes – down the side yard – back through the bushes – and so on, and on, caroming off walls, splitting sound barriers, and leaving us to wonder, idly, how we might go about learning how our movie ended.
Clearly, to our canine, a cat is more than a sleek four-footed snob, and a yard guy more than a man with a mower. He sees in both possibilities for murder and mayhem denied those of us who’ve grown accustomed to their comings, goings, and casual demeanor.
Watching Archie, I thought of a line from a movie I did manage to finish, one long ago night when I didn’t have a dog screaming like a banshee in the back bushes. A woman in the story was accusing her friend of having too much imagination.
“You're just like Don Quixote,” she says. “You think that everything is always something else.”
“Well,” the man says, “he had a point. 'Course he carried it a bit too far. He thought that every windmill was a giant. That's insane. But, thinking that they might be, well ... all the best minds used to think the world was flat. But what if it isn't? It might be round. And bread mold might be medicine. If we never looked at things and thought of what might be ... why, we'd all still be out there in the tall grass with the apes.”
Laying aside what seismic effect the sight of apes in the tall grass would have on Archie, ‘m inclined to think the fellow in the flick had a point. ‘m constantly astonished and increasingly concerned at the lack of imagination I find all around me – and the lack of its cousin, curiosity, too. People just don’t seem to wonder, anymore.
Presented with a bit of trivia, a historical allusion, a scientific curiosity, an odd swerve of human nature – even a whiff of true inspiration – the questions die stillborn. Looking around, one sees blank stares, poker faces, sleepy eyes stealing a surreptitious glance at a watch or cell phone. Folks just aren’t interested in what they’re not already interested in.
“If this was something really worth knowing,” their manner suggests, “I’d already know it. Since I don’t, how important can it be? Can we move on, already? Yawn. Haven’t done my Wordle yet.”
You might argue that this lack of imagination is a big part of what's wrong with America; you could just as well argue that all the other things wrong with America have drained our imagination. Either way, our dulled curiosity and dilapidated creativity are as unAmerican as the absence of courage and contempt for liberty that are rapidly engulfing "the home of the brave and the land of the free."
This is a nation that once imagined the possibility of human liberty on a scale the world had never known – and believed a few farmers and tradesmen could defeat the greatest army in world history to achieve that. We're the people who looked up at the moon, shining in the summer night, and thought, “We could be standing there.”
Our ideas of government, our breakthroughs in business, transportation, and communication, our gifts of art and entertainment, have blessed and astonished the world. Yet, these days, the best we seem able to manage are Kamala Harris, Segways, the Kardashians, and Tik Tok.
Somewhere, we lost the vision.
Our lack of wondering is wounding the world ... but it's costing each of us infinitely more in our relationship with our God. For there is no real joy or lasting peace to be had in this life, apart from knowing its Creator. And we can’t know Him without stretching our imaginations a bit.
“For as the heavens are higher than the earth," says the Lord, "So are My ways higher than your ways, And My thoughts than your thoughts.” – Isaiah 55:9
“Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have entered into the heart of man
The things which God has prepared for those who love Him.” – 1 Corinthians 2:9
Wonder if we're wondering enough at the beauty of His creation … the unpredictability of His ways … the tender expressions, great and small, of His love. I imagine not. He has put eternity in our hearts, Solomon says – but we're mesmerized by the mundane.
How much wisdom is slipping through our endless distractions? How many possibilities fall through our texting fingers? How many miracles are we missing, in the crowded moments jostling by?
Say what you will about Archie – he’s always listening. Sniffing, tasting, looking. Wondering.
He knows giants when he sees them. Life isn’t going to slip past him, on quiet cat’s feet.
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