Unstoppable

We’ve got a nice garden going this year, but by far the most interesting plant to watch this spring has been the volunteer ivy that has commandeered a dirt patch just behind our house.

I’m the weed-puller in our family (the husband plants plants; I kill ‘em), and I noticed the ivy during my post-winter cleanup spree a while back. It was little at the time, only a few dainty strands stretching up from under some rocks. They were pretty, so I left them alone.

Besides, I thought, how much trouble could one or two little vines be?

Fast forward a month or two, and that patch of dirt is buried beneath a luxurious mat of ivy, green and thick and invincible. The stuff is everywhere. I’d swear it grows a foot a day and sends out new shoots like it’s Spider-Man. (I’m not entirely sure what that means, TBH, but the image works for me.)

Yeah, I should have yanked it, either when I first saw it or when I realized it was trying to take over the world. But I’ve left it alone, even though it’s creeping between siding and up the water spout and snaking one suspicious arm toward the back door.

I can't pull it because ivy is so dang cool. Nothing stands between that plant and growth. Put a rock on it? It’ll wriggle its way out. Put a wall in front of it, it climbs straight up the side. Give it a stake or a shepherd’s hook or another plant incautiously draping one arm in the ivy’s general direction and up it goes, fast as a whip, wrapping and swirling and tangling and looking all innocent until you realize it’s inching its way — quickly! — toward your ankle.

Nothing stops ivy. It just keeps going, no matter what’s in its path.

Man, I admire that.

I like to think of myself as a no-nonsense go-getter who lets nothing slow her down, not when she really believes in something. I even have a necklace engraved with “Unstoppable” and that great, inspirational Bible verse, Philippians 4:13: I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.

Trouble is, I’m totally stoppable. I stop all the time, even when I really, really care about something and really, really believe in it.

Maybe I’m just chicken. Maybe I lack the courage to stand behind my convictions and let fear of failure — or of hard work, or of getting laughed at or yelled at or despised — knock me down without even putting up a real fight.

Or maybe I’m lazy, and when the going gets tough, I realize I’d rather have a bowl of ice cream and watch “Everybody Loves Raymond” reruns.

I think both of those things are true, not that I’m proud of that.

I also think humans aren’t ivy.

We have awesome, human brains that let us think lofty thoughts and have ideas that move us to action. We feel compassion and idealism and pride and love, and we get all riled up and ready to Change The World.

But so often we hit obstacles and, wham, those ideas and ambitions go out the window while our human brains go every which way except the ivy way. We do everything except just keep going, no matter what.

In some ways, that’s a good thing. Sometimes plodding forward at all costs is the wrong move. Stubbornly moving toward the goal you set or adhering to the decision you made can have devastatingly bad consequences.

But there’s a lot to be said for the ivy way. Ivy vines don’t barge through obstacles; they go around them. They don’t have an intended course; they just grow, reaching as far as they can, however they can get there. And they don’t try to go it alone. They branch off, create new, multiply, share the job of reaching, reaching, reaching wherever their roots send them.

I have work I want to do in this world. I’m not sure what that work is going to look like by the time I’m done with it. I just know I have this stirring inside that says, “Go. Do.” 

I’m going to run into a heck of a lot of obstacles, getting wherever it is I’m going. And I’m going to be scared and lazy and stoppable. But maybe I can keep going anyway. Maybe I can keep my feet rooted in the stuff that stirs my soul and just see what happens. And maybe I can remember I’m not alone, and that all around me, hearts are yearning and minds are straining and fellow travelers are reaching, reaching, destinationless but determined.

And as I reach, maybe I can remember the One who is reaching for me, reaching, yearning, straining, climbing around every obstacle to tap me on the soul and say, “I love you, I love you, I love you, you silly, stoppable thing.”

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make sure the back yard ivy hasn’t figured out how to get into the house.

It’s unstoppable like that.

---------------------

I used Google Lens to try to identify our yard ivy but couldn’t. If you recognize it and can tell me what it’s called, I’d love to hear from you.

I also have potted indoor ivy that’s currently growing up a window near my desk. I’m a little afraid of it.

---------------------

For those of you who read my last blog post: I ran into Hugo Davies again yesterday. He says hi.

If you know someone who might appreciate reading blog posts about cats and ivy and being better humans and whatnot, I’d be honored if you’d share this with them. Share your email in the signup box below to receive notifications when I post something new, which is weeklyish, or email me at julie.j.riddle@gmail.com. I’d like to hear from you.

Wanted

I wasn’t expecting to make a new friend the day I met Hugo Davies.

I was engrossed in my latest book during a walk in my neighborhood when a hearty “Mrrrrow!” caught my attention. Putting the book down, I discovered a jaunty white and brown cat trotting toward me purposefully.

I occasionally see animals of various sorts on my walks, but none, despite my coaxing, ever give me the time of day. This cat, though, had Definite Intention as he trotted the distance between us, looking me in the eye and meowing loudly as he came.

Obviously, this cat had been expecting me. I sat down on the sidewalk to say hello. Without missing a beat, the cat climbed onto my lap, circled a few times with his motor running full-throttle, and plopped in a heap on my legs with all the contentment of belonging.

“HUGO DAVIES,” read one of several tags dangling from his collar. “DO NOT FEED” and “I HAVE A HOME,” said another. A third provided several phone numbers, although they were tough to read, what with Hugo repeatedly rolling over for belly pats.

I spent a good five minutes chatting with my new buddy before wishing him well and continuing on my walk.

That was a month or so ago. In the intervening days, I looked for Hugo on my walks but never ran into him. Until last week, that is. Again, to my delight, he greeted me with a robust meow and a purposeful trot and a purr-powered lap-plop.

It was wonderful to see him. And it was wonderful how happy he seemed to see me.

Now, I'm a sensible human, and I know I’m not special to Hugo. I’m just the human he happened to encounter on the sidewalk when he was in the mood for some attention.

In a way, though, that makes his warm welcome all the more endearing.

Hugo didn’t demand that I pass inspection before he welcomed me into his cat world. He didn’t need me to prove that I’m nice, or that my lap is soft, or that I’m a good petter. He didn’t pick me because of who I am, or in spite of who I am. He just said, in his cat way, “I choose you, no matter who you are.”

It’s nice to be wanted just because you’re wanted.

Last week, I got to interview a music therapist who works with justice-involved teenagers, most of them still struggling with significant childhood trauma. When the therapist meets with the teens, they often come to him angry and afraid, sometimes yelling, sometimes worse.

He doesn’t make them listen to sunshiney songs and tell them to be happy, the therapist said. Instead, he yells with them. He listens with them to angry, hurting music that matches what they are feeling. He helps them write their own music where they can put their hurt and their fear, and he records their pounding, angry rap songs that let them give voice to the burdens they carry: “I done lost so many of my friends my pain runnin’ deep / I’mma go all in with this money, Momma / cause we ain’t have nowhere to sleep.”

You have to meet people where they are, the therapist said.

I thought of that as Hugo sat on my lap, not demanding I be anything other than a human on the sidewalk.

How often, I wondered, might we open doors and change hearts and start on a path toward healing, just by meeting people where they are?

I don’t always understand people who are different from me. But maybe I don’t have to understand them to look them in the eye, show them I care, and welcome them into my life.

Maybe that looks like saying hello to someone whose clothes or music or skin color are different from mine.

Maybe it looks like using a pronoun that’s uncomfortable in my mouth because it helps someone feel less alone in the world.

Maybe it means being angry alongside someone, or being sad with them, or not having all the answers but being there to listen.

Or maybe it just means letting the people I care about see that I love them and want them in my life, unconditionally.

Since my latest encounter with Hugo, I’ve taken several walks, each time hoping I’ll see his fuzzy head and hear his demanding meow as he trots toward me like he couldn’t be happier to see me. I love being wanted, even if it’s by a cat. And I love not having to earn affection, because I’m often not convinced I deserve it.

Few stories in the Bible get me as choked up as the parable of the Prodigal Son, the rogue who makes all the wrong decisions and watches in despair as his life goes haywire. He turns reluctant feet toward home, knowing he deserves nothing but a boot to the tail end.

Looking up as he nears home, heart clutched in fear and sorrow, he sees his dad – not with his arms crossed in anger, not standing and waiting at the gate, but running, coat flapping, arms outstretched, running with all his might to grab his son and wrap him in his arms and cry on his shoulder and say to that undeserving boy, “My child, my child. I love you so.”

On this Father’s Day, my heart leans in weary sobs on my Father’s shoulder, wrapped in the comfort of His welcome, overwhelmed by his acceptance.

I know my insides, and I know He knows them, too, and I know I haven’t earned those feet that race to me and tell me I’m wanted.

Love isn’t about earning. Love is just love. Love is Hugo demanding a lap. Love is a Father’s arms wrapping me in forgiveness. And love is me showing the people around me they are wanted, just exactly as they are.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go take a walk. There’s this cat who can’t wait to see me, and I don’t want to let him down.