The View from Above
I visited a garden at the Hospital in Shelby the other day. There is a small labyrinth there called the Path of Grace. The path is lined with brick, but the path is grass. The turns are gentle. I took them slowly and tried to pay attention. A breeze moved the trees. There was only the slightest hum of activity from the outside world. The noise came and went like a tide. I carried a tight chest into that walk. I did not drop it by the first turn. I did not drop it by the last. But it loosened a little. That felt like a start.
At the end of the path is a bronze plaque. It carries lines from Psalms 139, verses 9 and 10, “If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.” Words about refuge and being held by a greater thing. I put my hand on the metal and stood still. The sun had warmed it. I thought of my mother. I thought of people in the rooms around her. I thought of the people who care for them. I thought of my own fear. The plaque did not fix anything. It told the truth. There is trouble. There is a refuge. Someone hears.
The Stoics teach a simple move. Rise in your mind. See your life from higher ground. Picture the room. Then the floor. Then the building. Then the town. Then the land. Then the curve of the earth. Keep climbing until the whole of it rests in view. You are still you. You still love the same people. You still face the same duties. But the picture gets wider. Your story begins to fit within a larger narrative. The weight does not vanish. It finds its proper size.
This is not an escape. It is not the denial of pain or anger. It is a way to hold them without being crushed. From above, you can see the web of causes that led to this point. You can see the limits of your reach. You can see how a small act can make a difference. The practice gives you room to choose. It gives you enough distance to respond rather than react. It turns noise into signal. It turns panic into a plan.
I attempted to do this while walking the labyrinth. First, the room where Mom is resting. Then the hall where nurses and techs move with quiet skill. Then the floor with its mixture of grief and hope. Then there is the full hospital, which holds so many stories at once. Then the small city that raised us. The schools. The mill houses. The churches. Then the hills that ring this place. Then the country I love and fear. Then the small blue world, bright over dark water. I kept my eyes open. A bird perched on a table in the corner of the garden. I listened for my own breath and the silent prayer I was praying. I tried to see it all at once. Then I let the view soften until the next step under my feet came back into focus.
We’ve moved Mom to a long-term care facility in our hometown, and she is under Hospice care. I took a morning to go to my place of peace, Boone. That town has always been good soil for my soul. The air is clean. The light feels honest. The mountains hold you and teach you scale. I have walked those sidewalks with young dreams and old questions. I have stood on the overlook and watched fog lift from the valleys. I have learned there to look from above without losing touch with the ground. The trip will not make the nursing home disappear, it won’t give us any more days with Mom, but it will give me a broader horizon to carry back.
This practice does not belittle what hurts. It does not mean that other people have it worse, so you should be quiet. The View from Above is the opposite of dismissal. It is a form of care. It says this is hard, and it belongs to a larger whole. Your sorrow touches other sorrows. Your courage helps other people find theirs. Your restraint reduces the harm you pass along. The view helps you hold two truths at once. Life is fragile. Life is shared.
The View from Above aligns with the Dichotomy of Control. When you rise in your mind, you can see where your agency ends. You can see where acceptance begins. You can see where skillful effort might bend an outcome. You can see where insistence only breaks you. From there, you can choose the next right action. Make a call. Ask a nurse a clear question. Sit and hold a hand. Eat a sandwich. Pray. Sleep when you can. That is not small. That is the work.
It also pairs with Evening Reflection. At night, I look back over the day and ask simple questions in simple words. What did I do well? Where did I make a mess? What can I do better tomorrow? The View from Above gives me the day as a whole. The reflection provides me with an opportunity to learn from it. One opens the frame. The other sharpens the focus. Together, they keep me from drifting into despair or self-flattery. They keep me honest.
Memento Mori sits close by. From above, time looks different. You can see how brief a life is. You can see the flow of generations. You can feel gratitude that you got to be here at all. That gratitude is not soft. It gives shape to courage. It says what needs saying. Love while you can. Forgive where you can. Build what you can. Rest where you must. Do not trade the present moment for fantasies about control. Keep it simple. Keep it kind.
All of this matters in a season when the country feels brittle. The news cycles hit like waves. Programs that serve the most vulnerable are cut. Public trust thins. From above, I can see that shared thing more clearly. It is not the work of a week. It is not the work of one election. It is the slow work of care and law and courage. It is made by people who may never meet. The view reminds me to resist panic. It reminds me to do my part. Write. Call. Show up. Help a neighbor. Support the helpers. Speak the truth with charity. Go on to the next small duty.
The Wesleyan way offers a path that fits this practice. Grace goes before us. Grace meets us and changes us. Grace continues to work as we grow toward holiness. The View from Above rests in that flow. It is a means of grace in its own way. It helps me notice the presence of God in the mess of life. It honors the General Rules. Do no harm. Do good. Attend to the practices that keep me close to God. When I rise in my mind, I make room to do no harm. I make room to do good. I make room to pray, listen, and be shaped.
Wesley organized people into class meetings where they asked how it was with their souls. The View from Above is one way to answer. It draws my attention away from my ego and back toward God and neighbor. It turns me from anxious self-talk toward humble trust. It invites the Spirit to steady my mind. It makes me a little more patient with others. It makes me a little more bold in love. It gives me courage to engage in social holiness. That includes policy and protest. It also includes care for the person in front of me.
The Hebrew scriptures tell the story of a people who hold grief and hope together. The psalms rise and fall with that breath. The prophets widen the view so that the people can see the poor at the gate and the truth of their common life. The plaque in the garden joins that stream. A refuge for the oppressed. A God who hears the afflicted. Those lines set my feet down with care. I can be part of the answer to a prayer like that. I can be a small refuge in a hard hallway.
The Gospels present Jesus on the mountain at dawn. Alone with God. Then back down among the sick and the hungry. The View from Above fits that rhythm. Rise. See. Return. Act with mercy. That is a pattern that sustains a soul.
There are parallels in the East that enrich this practice. In Buddhist teaching, there is a sky-like awareness that holds thoughts and feelings lightly. Clouds come and go. The sky remains open. Non-attachment follows. Not as indifference. As freedom to respond with compassion. In Hindu thought, there is the witness within. You rest in that calm center and watch the passing show of body and mind. The watchful posture makes room for wise action. In the Taoist sense, you see the whole river and stop thrashing. You find the current that carries toward life. These images can sit alongside the Stoic climb. They share a spirit of steadiness. They aim at wise love.
Here is how I practice when I can. I sit or I walk. I notice my breath. I picture the room. I picture the floor. I picture the building. I picture the town. I picture the land and water. I picture the planet. I look down with care. Not as a judge. As a neighbor. I let the view soften until the next small duty appears. I do it. Later, I reflect. I write a few plain sentences about what I learned. That is all. It takes a little time. It returns more than it costs.
You can use the labyrinth to anchor it. Each turn can mark a widening circle. At the center, pause and let the widest view hold you. On the way out, let each turn name one near act. Call the husband. Text your sister. Ask the nurse for an update. Eat a real meal. Close your eyes for ten minutes. Whisper a prayer of thanks for the kindness you saw today. Step back into the building with a clearer head. Carry the center with you as best you can.
I think about Boone as I write this. I can see the campus sidewalks. I can see the football field under a crisp fall sky. I can see the morning sun on Howard Street. That place taught me to look across distance and still love the person beside me. The mountains gave me a map for this practice. Climb. Look. Come down. Share what you saw in the language of care. When I go there, I remember who I am. I remember what matters. I remember that strong communities are built on small, faithful acts.
Rev Magrey said that action without contemplation is unrooted and contemplation without action is inconsequential. The View from Above puts roots under action. It also pushes prayer into the world where it belongs. It steadies the hand that writes. It softens the voice that speaks. It keeps the heart from hardening in the face of cruelty. It makes room for courage that is not loud. It makes room for patience that is not passive.
I think about the essays I have already written. The Dichotomy of Control taught me to sort the world and to act where action makes sense. Evening Reflection gave me a way to keep learning. Memento Mori keeps my time honest. Premeditatio Malorum trains me to meet hard days with calm. The View from Above ties them together. It tells me I am part of a larger body. It keeps my help from turning into control. It keeps my grief from turning into bitterness. It keeps my hope from turning into illusion. It makes me useful.
My Creed still stands. A life pointed toward love and justice. A mind that seeks truth. A heart that keeps its doors open. Celebrating the holiness of ordinary days. The View from Above helps me live that creed when fear tries to shut me down. It reminds me that my worth is not only in my output. It reminds me that I belong to people and to God. It reminds me that even in a hard season, small mercies are near. A smile from a nurse. A text from a friend. Warm metal under my palm where a Psalm keeps watch.
The republic feels shaky. I do not have to pretend otherwise. The practice keeps me from adding my own chaos to the mix. It keeps me steady enough to support what protects the vulnerable. It keeps me clear-eyed about harm. It keeps me gentle with people who are tired. It keeps me stubborn about the truth. It keeps me faithful in small civic acts even when large systems disappoint me. The view shows me how many hands hold this country together. I take my place among them.
Tonight I will try to walk the labyrinth again in my mind. I will practice the climb and the return. I will try to sleep. I will keep an eye on the people I love and be present for them. I will write a little, pray a little, and eat when I can. I will look up when I feel the walls closing in. I will look down again to find the next small step. I will keep moving.
The path of grace is not magic. It is a practice. The View from Above is not a trick. It is a practice. They work best when you return to them often. You can do that even in chaos. You can do it in a chair in a dim room. You can do it in a hallway with a cooling cup of tea. You can do it on a short walk to the parking lot, where the sun hits your face and you remember what light feels like. The work is hard, but you are not alone in it.
