Slow (adjective)

Slow (adjective) : moving or operating, or designed to do so, only at a low speed; not quick or fast. synonyms: unhurried, leisurely, steady, sedate, poky, sluggish

Every year, January 1st brings a wave of declarations and intentions splashing across my facebook page.  I've hardly started purging the house of Christmas clutter and somehow it seems everyone else has already shaken off the dust of the old year and moved headlong into the new.  

In the face of it, I find myself feeling out of pace.  Here I am spinning my wheels while the rest of the world races ahead.  

Pining my slowness earlier this week, I thought of my paternal Grandma.  She never did anything fast, as far as I can remember.  She ate slow, walked slow, talked slow.  She buttered bread slow and somehow managed to make large dinners that were ready right-on-time while working at a snail's pace.  

Recalling her slow ways, I remembered the comfort she gave even in the midst of (or perhaps because of) her predictable slowness.  I remember her lamenting once, during a visit to an Amish farm in Lancaster PA, how she missed the slowness of the old days, how everything was so hurried now, she felt she couldn't keep up.

Remembering my Grandma's slowness, I felt less alone, more able to accept my own, often poky, pace. 

//

Slow isn't sexy.  A poky puppy is cute, but doesn't hold our attention span for long when the rest of the world is racing by.  And, though we offer lip-service to the value of 'slowing down' or embracing an 'unhurried' life, we're quick to defend our productivity lest we somehow be deemed lazy or, worse, slow.  

I guess it's one thing to choose slow.  Another to be slow, by nature.  

//

This morning, while pushing myself to get ahead and make up for my slow, I remembered a conversation my husband had with my mother-in-law when he first told her we were dating.  

His mom asked, among other things, "If she fast?  Can she get things done?" 

It's was a funny question to ask, because my husband lives on the slow side of things as well.  Maybe she thought he needed someone to kick-up the pace and keep things moving along?  

Whatever she had in mind, it was not to be.  My husband answered immediately and with certainty, "No, I've never seen her do anything fast."

Remembering his reply, I smiled, and felt another layer of self-imposed judgement about the pace at which I live, slide off, like an ill-fitting skin.  

//

I think there are a lot of people who miss slow, but most of us feel we can't really afford it.  Here, I guess, is where the slow people (like me) have something to offer.  Hitching along at our leisurely pace we seem to stand out as a symbol that slow is not lost and, what's more, slow is sustainable.  Slow may even be the only sustainable speed in a world committed to fast without pause.  

What struck me most in the online definition of slow quoted above, is the phrase "designed to do so."  Maybe that's what I am - designed to move slowly, to offer steady in a world off-kilter.  I like the way that phrase hints at the intentionality of making something (or someone) slow.  Almost like slow itself has a purpose or is a gift.  

Who needs the gift of your slow today?  What practices help you live more in tune with your own natural pace?   

Mistaken Identity, Poetry and a Secret

Twenty years ago, Naomi Shihab Nye’s poetry collection, Red Suitcase, came across the check-in desk at the library where I worked.  Captivated by the cover, the title, I flipped through, checked the book out, and wrote down two poems I’ve carried in my head and heart ever since.  One was, Shoulders, which I comeback to time and time again; the other was Valentine for Ernest Man, in which Nye tells a secret.  

“Poems hide,” she says:

In the bottoms of our shoes,

they are sleeping.  They are the shadows

drifting across our ceilings the moment

before we wake up.  What we have to do

is live in a way that lets us find them. 

The poem goes on to tell the story of a man who gave his wife two skunks for Valentine’s day.  His wife is upset at and he is at a loss to understand her tears.  The poem continues, offering the reasoning behind his strange gift.    

“I thought they had such beautiful eyes.”

And he was serious.  He was a serious man

who lived in a serious way.  Nothing was ugly

just because the world said so.  He really

liked those skunks.  So, he re-invented them

as valentines and they became beautiful.

At least, to him.  And the poems that had been hiding

In the eyes of the skunks for centuries

crawled out and curled up at his feet.

//

I also want to tell you a secret, not that you asked, but here you are: Poets hide too.

//

After college, I attended what my professors told me was one of the best seminaries in the country.  I got good grades – great grades, in fact.  I even got an A in theology.  But, in our weekly precept gatherings, I had an often repeated, strange experience. 

Ten or so students sat in a circle.  Led by a sleepy doctoral student, we discussed the week’s readings.  Questions were asked, comments made, and time passed in a smooth flow of conversational give-and-take. 

I read the texts (mostly, I mean, skimming is, in my book, completely acceptable when it comes to several hundred pages of Calvin and Barth).  I commented too, I raised my hand, opened my mouth, and spoke.  Often, without fail, while I talked, the room turned oddly silent.  Students stared.  I felt I must be speaking a foreign language.  I became self-conscious and my comments withered on the vine.  After I finished speaking, the room held a weighted pause.  Then, a grunt, or someone’s shifting in their chair cleared the air and conversation resumed, often in another direction completely, as if I’d never spoke at all.

Maybe I’m over-dramatizing for effect? 

That could be true, but all I can say is, that’s how it felt to me.  

Back at our little apartment in the evening, navigating the slim hallway of our kitchen, I explained the experience to my husband.  “It’s like my words are lead balloons.”  Gesturing with my hands, I clarified, “I launch them up, out, and into the room.  They should float, like butterflies or leaves, but instead they land in the middle of the circle with a thud.  Then everyone looks around awkwardly before moving on.”

We laughed and let it go.

Fifteen years later, I repeated the story for a friend.  “I didn’t quite fit in,” I said. 

“Oh, my gosh, of course you didn’t fit in,” he said.  “You were a poet among mathematicians.”

A bell went off in my head, my heart, it rang all the way down to my shoes.  He was right.  I was speaking a different language. 

//

I’m sure I wasn’t the only poet at Princeton Theological Seminary, in fact I’ve met a handful in the years since graduating.  Thankfully, the experience wasn’t scaring since my grades helped counter-weight the sense of not fitting in; what I was left with was more of a sense of a question mark hovering over my head.  What I was experiencing – me, a serious woman, who lived in a serious way – was a case of mistaken identity. 

//

Some time ago, I fell in love with The Story of Ferdinand. The story of Ferdinand is a story of mistaken identity – because of his great size, and an unfortunately timed bee sting, everyone is convinced that Ferdinand is a prize fighter.  Ferdinand is carted off to the bull fight ring in Madrid, but his actions there give everyone – from the Benderilleros to the Picadors and Matador – pause.  Ferdinand, who has always loved sitting quietly, smelling the flowers, sits down in the middle of the bull fight ring, completely absorbed in smelling the flowers that have fallen from the lovely ladies’ hair.  The crowd is disappointed, the fighters are disappointed, and Ferdinand is taken back home where he sits quietly, smelling flowers, and “he is very happy.”

In this analogy, I suppose, seminary is the bull fighting ring and I led myself there and did my best to fight in the circle I was given, but, still, when I thought no one would hold it against me, I made handbound books with watercolor illustrations, I wrote creative nonfiction, I colored outside the lines.

I’ve grown less and less fond of labels over the years, because of the way they so often restrict and confine rather than opening and inviting.  But for some time now, I’ve been trying ‘poet’ on for size and, when I need to find permission to bring all of me to the task at hand, I slip the title “Preaching Poet” or “Artist” on for size. 

//

This week, as I launch my first little poetry book out into the clear, blue, winter air, I’m thinking of the man who gave his wife skunks for Valentines, the way he saw that “nothing was ugly, just because the world says so.”  I’m thinking of the courage it takes to be who you are, in a world where fighting is more valuable than smelling the flowers.  I’m thinking poets, like poems, hide and present themselves in strange guises and all it takes is the patience, the willingness, the nerve, to live in a way that lets us find them.

________________________________________________________________________________

Hot off the presses!  My poetry book is available now, just $9.99 on Amazon.  Stop by, check out the reviews, and order one or two for Christmas.  

"A poetry book for people who don't read poetry."

How I Have Seen Men Treat My Daughter

(Sophia, happy as a clam, in her Daddy's pick up truck.)

A heavyset, gray-haired man, short and jovial, honed in on my cautious, serious daughter the moment she arrived.  She was eight or nine at the time.  He was a volunteer at Vacation Bible School that week, she was just entering a room full of kids she didn't know in a church we don't attend and her face reflected the concentrated reserve of an introvert confronted with a room full of strangers. 

“Smile!” he commanded before welcoming her or offering his name.  Reluctantly, awkwardly, she obeyed, he was in charge, after all.

Standing nearby, I felt a strong desire to whack that man in the face.  Maybe not exactly, but mostly.  The mama-bear in me recognized, immediately, the inappropriateness of his command and, in it, I heard the echoes of all the men who've commanded me to smile over the years. 

I too was a quiet, serious girl.  I cannot tell you the number of times men, mostly in passing, reminded me to smile. 

“Smile!” they demanded, as they passed me in the mall, in the lunch line where I worked, or walking down the street with my friends.  "You're too serious," they would sometimes add, "you'd be prettier if you smiled." 

Sometimes it felt like a harmless flirtation, a backward compliment of sorts.  At least I had a chance at being pretty, if only I would be less, well, less me.  I didn't realize then that these comments and complaints had nothing to do with me.  Nothing.  I didn't understand they reflected masculine insecurity, the desire for me to be easier, but not, of course, too easy. 

Over time, I got the message that it wasn’t ok to be me.  To be a woman, young or old, who rests serene in her own quiet seriousness is to shirk cultural expectations of the bubbly, giggly girl who lights up the world around her, flashing her pearly whites.  In tending to my own internal fires, I was letting down the male egos in the room, those expansive egos so often in need of continual support.

//

About a month later, I took my daughter to the pediatrician. She was suffering from a baffling array of symptoms and we had no idea what was going on.  Was it allergies, a cold, a stomach bug?   

She sat alone on the high examining table wrapped in a paper gown, while one of our favorite pediatricians, a gentle, thoughtful man, tried to puzzle things out.  My daughter was inordinately worried about the possibility of needing a strep test.  She fears and dreads the test, gagging every time and occasionally vomiting on whoever administers it. 

Finally, reaching for the large q-tip in its white paper packaging, the doctor announced that he wanted to test for strep.  My daughter's eyes grew wide in fear and, seeing her anxiety, the pediatrician offered a few simple tricks to help endure the swab.  Then, he asked whether she wanted to sit on the exam table or in my lap. 

She climbed down from the paper-clad bench, hopped into my lap, and I wrapped my arms around her.  Pulling up a chair, the doctor leaned in with the swab, but my daughter held out her small hand and stopped him mid-motion with a clear and simple request.  

“Can you wait until I’m ready?” she asked.   

“Yes,” he said and sat back, waiting for her command.

She paused, gathering courage, then blurted a quick, “OK.”  She gagged a little, but then it was done, and while we waited for the results, I sat there marveling at this girl of mine.

I was amazed at her centeredness, the way she drew from her own deep well to tell the doctor to pause, to make the space necessary to do difficult things on her own terms and in her own time.  

Reflecting on the situation now, I can see how the pediatrician helped protect and reinforce my daughter's sense of strength and autonomy in a vulnerable situation.  He took her concerns seriously and then helped to allay them by offering concrete strategies for dealing with the awkward swab.  

He was not offended by her fear; not belittling or dismissive.  With his ego completely off the table, he didn't feel the need to chide her into compliance or, worse, to barge ahead with the swab (as I've seen other pediatricians do).  He made space for her to connect with her own resources - sitting in her mama's lap, setting her own timing - and, in the end, my daughter was empowered by the experience. 

This, I want to tell her, is how it works.  This, I want to remind myself, is how it should be.  This is how two people interact with grace and respect, how a healthy man doesn't ask you to weaken yourself to fortify his own ego, but rather lends his strength to create a safe space for you to be who you are - loud or quiet, smiling or not.        

The Other Virtues

Memorial day weekend plays a dual role in modern America - offering an opportunity to honor those who died in active military service and ushering in the beginning of the summer holidays. Here's hoping summer offers us all an opportunity to practice the art of playfulness and live in awareness of the great freedom and vulnerability of our humanity.  

Communion (A Seminarian's Perspective)

During Seminary, another student and I, interned at a tiny, historic, Methodist church in New Jersey.  She was Methodist, I was not; but we were both welcomed into the fold in equal measure. 

The congregation was small and aged and the thing they appreciated most about the few sermons I gave was how well they could hear my voice and how clearly I enunciated.  The thing I appreciated most about preaching there was how the cleric’s robe covered me from head to toe, obscuring my feminine figure, rearranging me into a blank slate of black polyester.  Only my flat, tan shoes and the bottom of my dress pants showed and only then when I stepped out away from the pulpit, which was not often. 

My fellow intern, a heavyset single girl, shorter than me and rounder, also wore the robe while speaking.  On other Sundays, though, she dressed to the nines in strappy dresses with tight waists and full skirts like the ones housewives are pictured wearing in magazine ads from the 1950's.  She completed the look by pairing the dresses with impossibly high heeled shoes, the height and skinniness of which, caused her to teeter and totter precariously.

She didn’t seem at home in those dresses and matching shoes and I wondered why she wore them.  But I also probably didn’t seem at home in my drab business-casual attire that I’d purchased specially for the internship and possible future interviews.  Neither of us, I guess, were entirely at home in ourselves or our pastoral positions, which I suppose is the plight of many an intern.   

The small church was traditionally built, with old wooden pews and a long center aisle that led to a kneeling rail and altar.  Each service began with a processional from the narthex, down the center aisle, to the altar where candles were lit while the organist played. 

One of my most distinct memories of that church is of watching my fellow intern make her wobbly way down the carpeted center aisle with a plate of communion bread in hand.  The plate was wide, flat and loaded with bits of bread and she was so precariously perched in her heels that I felt for sure she was going to wipe out at any moment, scattering the body of Christ across the dense carpet.  I held my breath as she mounted the altar’s two steps and exhaled when she finally set the plate down. 

Having grown up Baptist and turned Anabaptist, the rituals of the Methodist church were foreign to me and struck me as overly formal.  I longed for something more personal, less prescribed.  I imagined with equal measures of horror and delight, what it would be like if she simply dropped the whole plate.  Some part of me longed for the broken body to spill, even just once; for us all to have to deal with the sudden beauty, the surprise of Christ spread among us in such an earthy, unscripted way.  

My colleague never dropped the host, but crumbs did often fall as we handed the bread to the congregants kneeling along the rail.  No matter how rigidly we try to contain him, Christ is always breaking through.  Mercy and grace scatter everywhere like crumbs, and who we are and who God is, is always being revealed.  Christ is always spreading out in our midst, disrupting our scripted ways, like the beige shoes and dress pants of a young woman sticking out beneath her robe, like a young woman in a flared out dress and heels making her wobbly way up the aisle, truth that cannot be hidden or disguised. 

But We Have This Treasure (What Happened At My House This Weekend)

But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us. 2 Corinthians 4:7

A petite Episcopalian priest and a divorced mother of two share one couch.  A retired history professor and editor reclines in a corner chair.  Beside him, a pastor's wife, worship leader and self-described 'queen of part-time jobs' sits cross-legged in a stiff Ikea chair.  Next to her is another recent retiree, a musician and woodworker trying to get his legs back under him after a lifetime of work in the non-profit sector.  

Beside me is a Grandmother with rheumatoid arthritis who works full time in the field of medical writing.  My dog, Coco, sprawls sleepily on the couch between us, circuiting the room throughout the day to give and receive her fair share of attention.  

We get to know each other over the course of the morning, beginning deep and going deeper still, with each of us likely sharing more than we intended to when the day began and yet finding ourselves relieved and grateful for it.  By lunch time, there's a general sense of excitement and conversation flows freely.  

Then, in the afternoon, we share our gifts - by which I mean, the writing we've labored over and likely felt more than a little scared to bring to share.  One by one we pass white pages with black words printed on them, such deceptively simple dressing for expressions so near and dear to each writers' heart.  

This is when the amazement begins.  

The Episcopal priest, weighted down with the church's good work of Lent and impending Easter, labors daily on the creation of a science fiction novel.  More than twelve chapters in already, she shares hopes of adding a prequel and sequel.  As we read, a world unfolds (two planets to be exact), double-spaced across several pages and I'm amazed - not because it's either good or bad, but because it exists at all.  And when the time comes for questions and feedback, the woman's lovely face lights up at each comment and every critique is welcomed as an opportunity to improve, an invitation to communicate more clearly.

This is how it goes for more than two hours.  Pages passed around a circle and one by one the people in my living room are revealed to possess hidden treasure that shines and sparkles as they unveil a wide range of words.  One writes so eloquently about friendship and music transcending a racial divide, that several readers gasp and tears spring to more than one set of eyes.  Another writes a simple and sparse description of her fast from social media and we all find within her gentle words an invitation - what might we do with our hands and minds if we simply had more time?   

Each story leaves us, like treasure hunters having stumbled across a rare jewel, longing for more.  

"I should've brought all thirty pages," the retired professor says, obviously delighted by our genuine interest in his story.  

"I only just recently resurrected this novel," the single mother says, "I'm not sure when I can commit more time to work on it."  But we all, dazzled by the mystery woven in a few short pages, silently wish with baited breath and pleading eyes, for more. 

At the end of the day, there's a palpable sense of encouragement, as we circuit the room one last time sharing our goals and 'takeaways' from the day.  Although it's a writing retreat, it's been and always is, a spiritual experience for me.  I am left with a profound sense of honor and gratitude, not unlike that which I felt entering and leaving the hospital rooms as a chaplain.

Within the human soul is a world of depth, meaning, and wonder - a small glimpse of divinity mirrored in the human being fully alive. Not just some humans possess this gift, we all do.  I used to only see the great divide in that verse from Paul to the church of Corinth - the vast disparity between those earthen jars and God's extraordinary power.  But, to read it that way, is to miss the point, at least in part. 

Now I see it from another angle - God has placed treasure in these jars of clay and sometimes, on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of March, the moment will be just right for that glorious power to shine forth and it will be all you can do to keep from squinting at the glory revealed as sunlight dances across a room full of diamonds, a gathering of simple, human souls.   

This past weekend Andi Cumbo-Floyd and I hosted our annual central PA writers' retreat.  Sign up for my newsletter if you'd like to hear about future events and, if you're a writer, consider attending our next event June 23-5 on Andi's farm in Radiant, VA.  

The Core: Physical Therapy & Prayer (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

It’s my second day of Physical Therapy for lower back pain.  I lay flat on my back on a green, cushioned table.  My knees are bent and I lift my pelvis in and out of bridge pose ten, twenty times.  “How does that feel?” the therapist asks.

“I feel it pull a little in my lower back,” I say.

“Are you using your core?” he asks.

I pause and listen to my body.  I hear no answer.  “What do you mean?” I ask.

“You want to be using your transverse abdominal muscles to lift,” he says, “not pushing up with your legs and back.  That’s why your back’s tweaking.  It’s not about how high you can go, it’s about using those muscles.”

I turn back to my body and try tightening my lower stomach, the soft section where my children grew.  “Hello,” my transverse abdominal muscles whisper as if waking from a long nap.

The therapist goes on to tell me that the lower abdominal muscles, commonly referred to as the "core," act as a natural girdle keeping the pelvis and spine in alignment.  I wonder, as I redo my bridges, how I can go through years of my life completely disengaged from my core?

//

A week later, I lay belly-down on the long, green cushioned table, my face pressed into an oval opening.  My shirt is lifted, my back exposed, and a therapist works slow circles in the muscles of my lower back.  Later, cool gel holds pads in strategic position and wires send electricity buzzing into tightened muscles coaxing them into surrender.  A layer of warm towels is laid on top, a timer set, and the therapist busies herself in another part of the room.

With my face in the hole, I close my eyes, I open them.  My contacts drift across my eyes and the world around me is slightly out of focus.  Conversations float through the air and I tune them in and out like radio stations. 

The electrical stimulation on my lumbar spine feels like hundreds of tiny ants dancing, their feet on fire and it’s not an altogether unpleasant sensation.  I open my eyes, I close them.  I rest and think of the woman waiting on a long-desired pregnancy.  I pray.  I think of the man who is dying and his wife.  I pray.  I wonder who I am here in this place.  At Physical Therapy, I am muscle and bone, slouching posture, weakened core.  But, beyond that, am I young?  Am I old?  Am I mother, daughter, wife?  I listen to hear what my life will say.

//

After the timer goes off, the pads are removed and I flip from stomach to back.  Knees bent, I practice “fall outs” and “ninety degree presses” counting slowly from one to thirty on each side.  My mind drifts, and thoughts go in and out of focus but I return again and again to tightening the core, attending in each moment to that inner space.   

This, I know, is what prayer is, a centering practice, a movement in which, putting aside all else, we tend to the core.

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!  

We Didn't Keep Score (#SmallWonder Link-up)

The thought never would have occurred to me.  

The teen behind the cash register at the local Sport’s Emporium asked, “Are you going to keep score or not?” and I said, “Yes.”  This was after we picked our ball colors, before we chose our clubs. 

“Western theme or Castle?” she asked.

“Castle,” I said, which is what we’d agreed on, although I knew my eight-year-old son was awful curious about the Western course.  She reached into a bin and handed me a piece of card stock folded with a sharpened golf pencil tucked inside.  Between the folds were tidy squares for keeping score and the par expectations for each hole. 

Leaving behind the video games, laser tag and AC, we set out across a concrete wasteland toward the putt-putt courses.  Alone with our older two kids for the night, we were happy to be doing something that would’ve been impossible with two four year olds in tow.  Sophia and Solomon loped along, their spindly legs flashing new sneakers, hers a neon sherbet and his navy blue. 

We were sweating already and yawning in the early evening light, but strategically placed waterfalls and a breeze pulled us up the hill toward hole #1.  The cashier had planted a seed in my mind and so I asked my husband, “Do we want to keep score?”  

“Do you guys want to keep score?” John asked the kids. 

“No,” they called back over their shoulders.  So we didn’t.  The tidy little pencil and its accompanying card stayed buried in my bag.  It was a good thing, because right off the bat at hole #1, Sophia’s sent her ball flying directly into the water.  We laughed and, noting how hot it was and how far away replacement balls were located, fished the ball out of the water.

“Can I try again?” she asked.  Of course. 

And so it went.  Two gawky kids in new sneakers and two almost forty parents spinning along through 18 holes of minor mishaps and triumphs.  We took turns, mostly, and refrained from “walking the ball” when a shot proved too tough, mostly.  Solomon consistently sent other people’s balls flying with inadvertent taps from his big, new shoes.  He tripped over his own club at least twice and, around hole #10, sent his own ball arcing though the air into the water.  We all gave-up at one point or another and then, at the next hole, got back into the game again.

We had fun, which was the point.

Around hole #15 it dawned on me that perhaps, because we weren’t keeping score, we weren’t really trying.  Then I got a little tense and tried to focus on the shot at hand.  It didn’t seem to make a difference.  

I realized then that I was trying, only my effort was turned in a different direction – away from perfection and accomplishment, toward fun and enjoyment.  As far as I know, there isn’t a score card for that.  

*   *   *   *

Only 10 spaces left!  I'm super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer's retreat this summer at God's Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia.  Visit Andi's website for more info!

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

Self-Care: The Simple Math of "Too"

(Laura Lynn Brown, over at Makesyoumom.com is leading a discussion this summer around self-care - you can find upcoming discussion topics here.  Then add your voice to the conversation in the comments.  This conversation is near and dear to my heart and I'm looking forward to following along and contributing as I am able.  This post is linked with the topic: Self-Care Assess Your Situation. )

Nothin’ from nothin’ leaves nothin’ . . . Billy Preston

If I were to sum my self-care situation up in two phrases they would be, “too little” and “too much.”

Too little quiet, solitude, stillness.

Too much laundry, loudness and scattered demands.

Too little money, time, support.

Too much chaos.

“Too little” and “too much.”

Looking closer, however, I notice these two phrases can be further reduced to one word – “too.”

“Too” is, like “also” and “and,” a word of addition; it is yes and inclusion and multiplication.

Perhaps one of the greatest challenges and rewards of welcoming two (by which I mean twins) is learning to live in and welcome “too.”  For much of my life I’ve longed for singularity of purpose and identity and now I find myself learning how to embrace the gifts of many and much. 

Yet “too” presupposes the existence of something prior - some thing, some one, to which “too” is added.  I can see now, in learning to live with “too” that it is not my job to prevent “too” or even try to control it, but to tend to the one to which “too” is always being added. 

Self-care is attention to the center, the root, the self onto which all of life is added in varied measures. 

Self-care is not in opposition to “too” but rather presupposes “too.”

Lately, one little line from Billy Preston’s 1974 hit, “Nothing’ from Nothing” has been following me around in my head as I tend to all of the little “too’s” that add up my life these days,

“Nothin’ from nothin’ leaves nothin’,

you gotta have somethin’ if you wanna be with me.”

Sometimes it feels like all of the “too’s” in my life leave me with nothin’.  When I am at zero, which I often am, I have nothing to give and all of those too’s just pile up, neither good nor bad, just “too.”  I’m beginning to heed the signs that tell me I’m headed toward nothin', to notice the moments when zero is rapidly approaching.  

At thirty-eight I'm relearning basic addition and subtraction, recalculating the cost of “too” and working to maintain “somethin’” lest we all be left with “nothin’”.  More than ever before I understand that it all begins with one.  

The Humming Hive: Life-giving Work (#Small Wonder Link-up)

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt - marvelous error!-

that I had a beehive

here inside my heart.

- from Last Night as I Was Sleeping, by Antonio Machado

Two batches of oatmeal-peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies.

One box of brownies.

A double-batch of Zuppa Tuscana and another double of Lentil- Spinach Soup.

Cleaning the yard, cleaning the house and mopping for the first time in (gulp) “a while.”

These are the things my husband and I did on Thursday and Friday as we prepared for this weekend’s two writing events.

It was a lot of work.

//

Thursday morning the twins’ preschool hours – the time in which I usually write – were filled with activity.  Late into the afternoon I scooped teaspoonful’s of cookie dough onto well-greased pans.  Into the oven they went, then onto the stovetop to cool, off the pan and into a large Tupperware container. 

I chopped a bagful of potatoes and several onions.  I sautéed and simmered, while washing an endless stream of dishes.  We had frozen pizza for dinner because I was so busy cooking ahead.  The twins were relieved to know all of that soup was not meant for them.

The entire afternoon and on into the evening I spent spinning from counter to stove, sink and oven in that small corner of the kitchen.  At some point, on one of those rounds of cutting and sliding things into a pot, in the midst of washing and rinsing I felt it – something like a happy hive of humming bees buzzing inside my chest. 

“I love this," I thought.

The feeling continued on into the next day – through scooping up the piles of “dog dirt” scattered around the yard, cleaning the toilets and plotting the arrangement of chairs and tables. 

Then the people came.

First Andi – the writer/editor I met last summer.  Andi, who inspired our search for a dream house with the vulnerable sharing of her own dreams.  Andi, who showed me last summer how simple a retreat could be. 

Next came the kids – eleven total.    

The kids were off-the-wall with Friday night fever and a little dose of sass, but when they started writing things grew quiet for a few splendid minutes while colored pencils scratched ideas to life.  

Later, with shinning faces they shared their stories.  My son came to me, leaned in close and whispered his in my ear. 

After they left, silence crept into the corners of the house.  We tucked the folding table and chairs away and slept in the unfamiliar stillness that is a house not filled with children. 

Saturday, more people came, new faces and familiar ones, published authors and people wondering what they were doing here.  Everyone carried hope and doubt, everyone had placed a stake in the ground by the simple act of arrival.

Seated in a large circle in the living room, I was grateful.  I was not stressed. I was not anxious.  I marveled at the gift of presence shared among a group for a few short hours.  I wondered at the way people, when given a chance, open and blossom like bright flowers; how we are all more beautiful, more gifted, and more broken than we might ever dare imagine or admit. 

Afterward, when the grownups left and our kids came home from a friend’s house, the peacefulness prevailed.  There was a calm in our house, a quiet buzz of contentment.  And I wondered if it wasn’t because we’d spent it all, and spent it well in a way that fit just right for us. 

//

For each of us there's work that leads to death and work that leads to life – work that depletes and work that replenishes.  While we cannot always chose between the two – life unfortunately demands both – finding and settling in to work which gives life even as it is spent is a gift beyond measure.  Something sweet like honey.

Frederich Beuchner calls it, “The place where our own deep gladness meets the world’s deep needs.”  Others, like Parker Palmer, call it Vocation – or – “the thing that we cannot not do.”  

However you put it, however long it takes you to find it, no matter how much must be lost in the process, do not forget my friends - 

There is a hive inside your heart, 

golden and still.  It whispers 

in the quiet of the night, 

in the stillness before wakefulness.  

It is no dream.  It is the gift 

of who you are, the seed, 

the soil and sunlight, 

the sticky sweet pollen 

that spreads and changes

into golden light.  Listen,

if you can, and you will 

hear its happy hum.      

*   *   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days. 

You're invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

Named and Known (#SmallWonder link-up)

(I'm happy to welcome Jody Lee Collins here today with a #SmallWonder guest post.  Jody is part of the team that helps coordinate and support this community.  She is a writer, poet, Grandmother, and substitute teacher who lives Seattle, Washington.  You can read more of her words at her blog, Three Way Light.  I really love the story she shares today - there's a sweetness to it that keeps it tumbling around in my heart.  Enjoy!)

I silently knock on the Kindergarten door - helper for the day in my Assistant Teacher role.  I love Kindergarten.  I did my student teaching there—sang a LOT of songs, played games, and sat on the floor and learned words.

Today is one of those days—a learning day—except I am the student.

I teach in a very diverse school district.  The population we serve has changed significantly in the past 7 or 8 years. Our students are 85% immigrants—mostly African, primarily from Somalia, Sudan, Eritrea and Ethiopia. Needless to say, school is a challenge for these immigrant children.

Today the teacher asks me to take time with Mamoud and Khalid who are only just learning English. 

Mamoud is silent as he follows, but Khalid’s first words to me as I reach out my hand, are, “Good morning, teacher.”

I am warmed at the thought of appreciative parents who have taught him this important phrase. They know more than anyone the power a good education has and the place of a teacher in that process.

Out in the hallway at a small table, Khalid, Masoud and I look at picture books. One in particular is called ‘Rain’, suitable for our Seattle area day.  I begin with Khalid. He is delighted he knows the word ‘umbrella’ and repeats it every time the picture shows up.

“Umbrrrrellla” he says rolling his ‘r’s. It’s a purple umbrella.

I point to the car in the rain; ‘car’, he says, ‘car.’

I point to the tree in the rain; ‘tree’, he says, ‘trrrrree.’

I point to the flowers in the rain; ‘flowers’, he says ‘flowers.’

But the second time around he is mixed up and says ‘tree’ for ‘flower’ and ‘car’ for ‘tree’ and ‘flower’ for ‘frog’. There’s really no connection between these pictures and my words.

We are both a little frustrated and the boys are yawning and squirmy.

I remember Maria Montessori’s cornerstone words about meaningful work. Changing my strategy, we venture into the classroom. I point to a spot on the floor near the cubbies and the boys sit quietly. 

I know they can tell me their names and probably can spell them.

Names have meaning, especially to the owner.

I grab 3 whiteboards, markers and erasers and join them on the floor, asking them to each write their name.  Masoud is successful and proceeds to add a treasure map to his picture. Correct letters in the correct order, even a capital-ish looking capital ‘M’.

Khalid is stuck.  There is a capital ‘K’, an ‘a’, no ‘h’ at all, an ‘i’ but no ‘d’.  There are also several o’s and m’s.  I assume he’s a little mixed up and hand over hand, help him write his name correctly.

He tries it alone; still ‘K, no 'h', no 'a', an ‘l’, but no 'd', many ‘o’s and an ‘m.’ He is adamant about there being an ‘o’ and an ‘m’—not with words but by the way he furiously erases or pushes my hand away when I try to correct.

He of course isn’t conversing with me; he doesn't know how to communicate what he wants but his actions are speaking volumes.

  

Aha—Well, I’ll step over to his desk and read his name tag (yes, I was learning, too.)  Around the corner from the bookcase at the round table, there it is, “Khalid Omar.”

Oy. For Heaven’s sake—no wonder we got ‘o’s and ‘m’s.

I return to my spot between the boys on the floor and write Khalid’s first and last name out for him to copy.

The frustration vanishes, his eyes sparkle and he calmly and clearly announces in perfect English, “Thank you!” As in, 'what took you so long? you finally got it! THAT'S who I am!'

It was a simple, small moment to remind how powerful it is and how deeply touched we are when we are named--named and known.

And how life-changing it can be when we are known by our Father God most of all. 

Did I tell you I love Kindergarten?

*   *   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we might gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days. 

You're invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.