What do you see?

 

I took this quick picture of our kitchen island the other day. I think it was the morning after my 9 year-olds had their first sleep-over. But, really, the picture might be much the same on any given morning or afternoon. This countertop is a magnet for clutter. I don't have to look at it for long before I feel a rising tide of stress and overwhelm.

I see wet swim towels and pancake batter going bad.

I see my oldest son's dirty shirt, dishes to be washed, and papers that defy categorization. 

I see the lemons we keep forgetting to turn into lemonade; I see a hundred places for the flies who pass through our broken screens to land. 

This is what I see and all of it is true. 

But if I take a deep breath and widen my lens, I also see flowers from a friend (the product of my daughter's first ever summer job). I see silly notes exchanged between my husband and son. I see heaps of fresh produce and a home that's lived in. I see food for our mouths and evidence of friends (for our souls) and the fulness of life lived in the here and now. 

This is what I see and all of it is true. 

The clutter is real, as well as the stress I feel in trying to tame it. The presence and abundance are real too. Both. There is light and darkness here on this kitchen island - blessing and curse, abundance and scarcity. 

I don't seek to pretend one isn't real and cling to the other. I'm not after some pollyanna point-of-view. I'm hoping instead to practice, now and again, the art of widening my lens. 

What more is there to be seen? What's there but not apparent at first glance? How does a wider lens allow a more deeply grounded sense of reality?   

In the Place Where You'd Rather Not Be

 

Learn from the things that are already in the place where you wish you were not. – Padraig O’Tuama in The Shelter, (p.9) 

A dead lightbulb has been sitting on our kitchen island for more than a week. Before that, it was in the light fixture above our dining room table for more than a month, dead. I unscrewed it in a burst of this room is too dark and depressing, I’m going to do something about it energy. That was at least a week ago and it now sits on the kitchen island waiting for someone who’s going to the store that sells the right kind of bulb to remember to take it along for comparison and finally buy a new one. 

That lightbulb is driving me crazy. 

That lightbulb is revealing things about the place I’m in that I would rather not know. 

(Don’t worry, the lightbulb isn’t telling me I’m a failure, it’s not that kind of bulb.) 

When I listen closely, though, the lightbulb has a lot to say. It tells me there’s a lot going on in my life right now. So much, that little details are certain to have to be let go. It invites me to pick my priorities, again. It helps me to see that having food on the table is a triumph in itself and one good conversation that invests in the future shines a light brighter than any bulb. 

I’m in a place I don’t want to be in, again. A place of many and much, a place of I didn’t realize we were going to have to deal with this now, but here we are in the middle of it anyway.  

Following Padraig’s advice, I feel my heart muscle stretch to open to this new place, this new challenge, this here and now. Once it's open, once I accept what is, I can begin to learn. I can begin to welcome the belief that even in this place, what we need is here. And so I begin by listening to the lightbulb, by “listening to the things that are already in the place where you wish you were not.”

Everything You Need

Photo by Eric Han on Unsplash

This morning, I overheard my daughter reassuring our highly anxious indoor cat. "You have everything you need, Perfect," she said.

Due to her anxiety, Perfect mostly lives in my bedroom - napping on the bed and birdwatching through the glass of eight large windows. She rarely meows, refuses to sit in a lap, and keeps to herself most days. But she does get quite communicative sometimes, at the beginning or end of the day. 

If you happen to be upstairs at such a time, she'll catch you in the hallway with a wide-mouthed but nearly silent, "eh." Hardly loud enough to hear, this is her most urgent cry. If you respond by making eye contact, she will lead you down the hallway, looking back frequently, urgently checking to be sure you're following, until she reaches my bedroom where her water and food bowls sit. 

"Eh!" she declares, when you reach her bowls. She looks up to be sure you see what she means and rubs against your legs and the doorframe with her tail on high alert. Most often she already has food and water, plenty. 

I don't know why she leads us there, so urgently, like Lassie leading Timmy's parents to the well where Timmy has once again fallen in and is in danger of drowning. I often hold extended conversations with Perfect there in the doorway, with her food and water bowl nearby.

"What?" I ask. "What do you need?"

"Eh," she says in reply. Sometimes she just opens her mouth in the shape of a meow and not a single sound comes out. 

This, I know, is what happened with my daughter this morning. Perfect found her in the hallway, getting ready for school, and led her urgently to the bowls, which we already full. 

"You have everything you need, Perfect," my daughter assured her. 

The compassion in those words, the reassurance touched me deeply. I was reminded of the well-known Wendell Berry poem, The Wild Geese, in which geese seen flying overhead invite the poet and reader to return to trust; to return to the "ancient faith" in which it is known that "what we need is here."

I have seen this poem, or excerpts of it, shared so frequently online and at retreats. It offers a reassurance we so often need. It offers an invitation to trust and, somehow, manages to convince us that such trust (as is so often exhibited in the natural world) is not foolhardy. 

Those words are a comfort to me, but I wonder how they might sit with those who truly lack basic needs. What if, say, Perfect's food bowl was empty, her water bowl bone dry? 

Wendell's words don't hit me, though, as a pat response to urgent need. His words invite us, unmet needs and all, to a trust that runs deeper and wider than our current abundance or lack. Maybe he's hinting at something like those familiar marriage vows - for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health - offering an affirmation that there is a current of love that runs deeper than any current circumstance. 

Maybe that's something of what I read into my daughter's words this morning - a comment, not just on the Perfect's current situation, but on the truth of her life. "You have everything you need, Perfect." 

Everything you need. 

May it be so. 

The Lord is My Shepherd: Simple Prayer Practices for Engaging with Psalm 23

Many of us rallied through the sudden changes brought by COVID 19 with equal doses of information and humor this past week. I personally, have read more news this week than at any other time in my life - I'm even checking local news several times a day. 

As we roll into Sunday, our minds are distracted and full and many of us may struggle as we turn to new church routines - with our hearts and minds so weary and full, how can we absorb much more? Even if the content is different (prayers and sermons and scripture rather than news update) I'm still finding it challenging to take it all in. 

I'm so thankful to see that Psalm 23 happens to be included in the lectionary reading for this fourth Sunday of Lent. Psalm 23 is a favorite of many and a familiar comfort in times of distress because it speaks directly to our anxious, wandering minds and hearts by rooting us in tactile, embodied images. 

Reading the Psalm, we're asked to put data and information aside and engage the imagination. "I am like a sheep," the Psalmist says, "lay your worries aside and come take a walk with me. Let me tell you about my shepherd. He cares for you too." 

The Psalm is ripe with colorful images of green pastures, still waters, dark valleys, and even the decadent spread of a picnic laid out right smack-dab in the midst of a place of great threat. 

If you find yourself struggling to "do church" or "find God" this week, I want to offer two simple practices you might try (these work great with kids too). 

Imaginative Prayer: Try praying Psalm 23 using your imagination. This form of prayer comes from the Jesuit tradition and involves moving through a passage of scripture slowly, intentionally, and imaginatively. Read the passage once, to become familiar with it. Then, read through again, pausing to paint a mental picture of each image the Psalm presents. 

For example: Imagine yourself as the sheep, feel your own thick wool. Feel the grass on your hooves, lay down in the great greenness, nibble some grass, if you want. Feel the shepherd's presence beside you. How does the shepherd look at you? 

Continue moving through the passage one verse at a time, imaginatively using all of your senses to engage with God. If you find your mind wandering, gently return to the verse or image at hand. You might move through the entire Psalm in this way, or you might move through one verse at a time over the course of several days. Taking time to journal about the experience afterward might help make any insights more concrete. If weather and circumstances allow, this imaginative prayer might be enhanced by being outside. 

Praying With Your Body: Whether you're trying to "do church" with several children or simply need a way to move away from your own mental gymnastics of fear and worry, praying with the body offers a great way to focus during times of stress. 

Pardon the blurred images, but I've posted below a simple body prayer that accompanies Psalm 23. This prayer is taken from Roy DeLeon's book, Praying With the Body: Bringing the Psalms to Life. 

The first image below shows the adapted prayer and accompanying postures. The next two are a close-up of the first and second half of the prayer.

All of these postures (as drawn) take place on the floor - you'll want to lay out a towel or exercise mat. They can also be easily done in a seated position in an upright chair (steal one from the dinning room table). Take the time to breath several times in each pose and repeat the suggested phrases. Breathing through your nose in a focused way (such that it makes a bit of noise) helps slow you down and bring attention to your breath. 

You could move through this prayer once, slowly or several times as the postures become more familiar. I think this prayer movement could also be a lovely way to unwind and move toward bed at the end of each day.

DeLeon closes the prayer practice with this adapted interpretation of Psalm 23:

O Source of all life's goodness,

you provide everything we need.

You teach me contentment, and true happiness,

the grass is not any greener where I am not.

In times of trouble, chaos, and calamity,

let me be wise and turn to you for comfort. 

For you are a kind and merciful God,

a faithful friend with whom all is possible.

I hope these resources help you find ways to be grounded today and receive the Love and Comfort that's available at all times and in all places as we open ourselves to God.

Got questions? Hit me up in the comments below. 

Finding comfort or insight in focusing on this Psalm? Please feel free to share that too in the comments. Feel free to pass this resource along to any friends you think might benefit from these simple prayer practices. 

Shedding

Coco is shedding her winter coat in great, black clumps that glob onto the living room carpet and blow like tumbleweeds under the kitchen’s ceiling fan.  Twice a day now, we are vacuuming our rugs, emptying the canister between runs, watching matted dog hair and dirt drift into the kitchen trash.

In the evenings, after work, I change into old clothes and call her out onto the front porch.  We both sit on the wooden floorboards and I pull our dollar store pet brush slowly through her wooly black curls.  

It’s satisfying and soothing all at once, the way I imagine brushing a horse must be.  When the brush is full, I pull the clumps off, gathering a growing pile to mark my progress, my accumulated success.  

Tonight, I cornered our tomcat, Blackie in the green grass and gave him a good brushing too.  He took it with equal parts purring and complaint. 

A friend admitted awhile back, after her elderly dog died, that she was elated to be freed from the extra mess – she would not be getting another dog.  I know, for a lot of people, pet hair is reason enough to refrain from ownership.  My own mother battled dog hair with a broom and dust pan, like she was battling the devil itself.

It does bother me – the hair, the dirt, not to mention the litter box’s stinking mess.  But, still, I know those few minutes each evening are some of the best of my day – some of the purest, the simplest - stroking and gathering, shedding what no longer serves. 

This. Here. Now. (Again)

Last week, after a fifteen-plus year hiatus from the sport, I went running with my daughter. 

We laced up our running shoes and set off, down the wet, grassy slope of the field across the street, through a narrow hedge of what we hoped wasn’t poison ivy, and onto the trail.  She bobbed along beside me, like a frisky squirrel, impossibly light on her feet.  She commented on how slow we were going. She claimed she could walk at the pace at which I was "running."  I told her she could feel free to run ahead if she wanted.  I told her, “I am 41 years old.”

We went up the slight hill and down the other side and she reminded me to “run through the bottom” – to use the hill’s slope to fuel the steps ahead.  We moved out of the shade and into the sun and I started to think about walking. 

Walking, really, had been on my mind since before we began. 

Would I walk?  Would I not?  Was I capable of making the whole distance at a slow and steady jog?  Sure, I’m running now – in the shade, downhill – but what about the sunny patch along the road? the slow, steady incline near the house?

I had been thinking about running for a long time – for a year, really, if not more.  But before I could get started, I seemed to need to know how I would end.  Was I starting a lifelong habit?  Would I lose ten pounds or more?  Was I going to be a ‘Runner’? Or was this a one-time deal, a passing fad, maybe yoga or Pilates were more my kind of thing?

It seemed I didn’t think the effort was worth it if I couldn’t guarantee some intangible future result.  So, I didn’t run.  Until last week, when something in me had had enough and I decided to let go of the need to know and take it one step at a time.  

Trotting along the trail, I recognized my familiar tendency to race ahead, to absent myself from what is – a slow and steady jog – in favor of the fear and fantasy of what might be. 

So, I started practicing as we ran. 

Here. Now. This., I thought.

Each time I wondered if, when, I would walk, I repeated the phrase.  Each time I wondered how far I would get, I returned to where I was.  And while this might seem like an inspirational post about exercise and the will to overcome – I assure you, it is not. 

I don’t really like running at all.  I may keep at it, I might not.  But what I noticed (and what may be enough, for now, to keep me coming back) is the way even this small thing – twenty minutes on a trail with my daughter – offered an invitation to the spiritual practices of presence and return. 

On the final stretch of road, my daughter sprinted ahead, leaving me to climb the hill alone.  It wasn’t as hard as I thought it might be.

*  *  *

My most recent newsletter featured a reflection on the phrase "This. Here. Now."  You can read that essay here.  Do you ever find yourself plagued by a need to know?  What practices do you use to stay in the present and move along one step at a time? I'd love to hear in the comments below.

Turn Toward the Light (Do Not Be Afraid)

How did the rose

ever open its heart

and give to this world 

all its beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light

against its being.

Otherwise,

we all remain 

too frightened. 

- Hafiz

The world needs us all; every heart open, fragrant, bright with the gift of pure being.  

May the light of Love rest upon you this day.  

May the light of your own beautiful soul be an encouragement to all who cross your path today.

*   *   *

Things have been quiet on the blog for some time now.  Be sure to sign up for my newsletter and stay tuned later this week for an update on all the new things happening behind the scenes here at This Contemplative Life.    

Keep Showing Up

I found myself in a bit of a funk last night. After mowing the front lawn, I sneaked into my office to pray for awhile. It helped. And then I saw my daughter outside and decided to join her because the hot humid day had finally turned cool and breezy. We road our bikes in lazy circles on the driveway and I noticed, again, the red roses blooming like fireworks along the side of the little house. I realized the Queen Anne's Lace was in full bloom too. After I parked my bike, I ran in for a vase and scissors and Sophia and I cut the first bouquets of the season. I felt immeasurably better then, I felt returned to my home, my self.

I painted this little plaque last year, based on a note I had taped above my painting station, "Keep showing up." My kids asked what it meant, and I said, "It means keep trying, keep being willing to be where you are, to start again in whatever moment you find yourself in."

I think that's part of what happened last night. Thanks to prayer and a cool breeze, I stopped worrying about what comes next and showed up to what was right in front of me - a riot of flowers, a lovely daughter to share the task of cutting the season's first bouquets.

In her book, An Altar in the World, Barbara Brown Taylor says, “No one longs for what he or she already has, and yet the accumulated insight of those wise about the spiritual life suggests that the reason so many of us cannot see the red X that marks the spot is because we are standing on it. The treasure we seek requires no lengthy expedition, no expensive equipment, no superior aptitude or special company. All we lack is the willingness to imagine that we already have everything we need. The only thing missing is our consent to be where we are.”

Today, friends, keep showing up, consent to be where you are, in whatever you are in. And, when you do, I hope you find flowers, or a friend, or even just a moment's peace and quiet that helps you move gently, hopefully, into the next moment and the moment after that.

Slow Down (an invitation)

(I call this picture "Converse in the Wild")

slow down,
just be

be still
be present

listen to, and dwell in, what is
here, now, this moment

what love?
what fear?
and what possible doorway
between the two?

(grace, always, is the door)

Relish (To Enjoy Greatly)

Relish verb 
1. to enjoy greatly

synonyms: enjoy, delight in, love, adore, take pleasure in, rejoice in, appreciate, savor, revel in, luxuriate in, glory in

The world outside was an old gray dishrag, wet and dripping, on the day I met a writer friend for coffee.  Settling in, we shared our mutual hatred of January, the way it feels like it always has five weeks at least or seven. 

“February is ok,” she said. “By February I at least have hope that March will be nicer.”

This writer is a friend of a friend and has attended several of the local writing events I’ve offered.  Each time we meet, we talk like people who don’t know each other well, but would like to know each other better.  

Near the end of one event, as we stood talking, she said something I've mulled over for months.  She had been asking what I was up to now that all of my kids are in school and when I fumbled for a response she said something like, “I think it takes a good year for a woman to recover after her kids start school.”  That one sentence stuck with me and offered much needed permission as I begin the process of reemergence after years of being fully consumed by a hectic home life.     

Over coffee last week we each talked about our works in progress and writing plans for the future.  She’s just finished revisions on her first novel, is wading into a second, and looking for an agent.  I told her how I’d written a rough draft of a memoir last spring and, in the midst of it, realized I didn’t have any idea what I was doing.  So I stopped working on the memoir and started writing Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk & Poultry. 

“You know how, if you were going to sew a wedding dress, you would first sew a mock-up of the pattern out of cheaper material, to make sure you understood how to do it?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, nodding.

“That’s what Chicken Scratch was supposed to be, a chance to try the process,” I explained.

“Well, it worked out well,” she said.

The thing is, writing and publishing Chicken Scratch taught me a lot about publishing, but it didn’t teach my how to write a memoir and that’s where I find myself stuck now.  “I’m not really sure what I’m doing next,” I said.

 “Well, you did a lot - writing and publishing that book in a very short period of time.  Maybe you just need to relish that,” she suggested.  Registering my blank stare, she asked, “Have you done that?”

In my imagination, the word relish hung between us like some gorgeous, ripe fruit swaying on a low-hanging branch.  Relish is a rich word, luxurious like dark chocolate and red wine.  The act of relishing, though, is utterly foreign to me.  The act of relishing sits like caviar on a cracker – I don’t know what to do with it, don’t know if I even want to try.

“No,” I said, “I haven’t.”  Then, I added, “I don’t know how to.  I’m a worker bee, always on to the next thing.”

With that, our conversation shifts again to future plans, but the word 'relish' stays with me for days; sticky, like a trace of honey in my mind.  Looking it up to write about it today, I see that to relish is to love, to delight in, enjoy and rejoice and it occurs to me that, although the word relish may not appear in the Bible, it's synonyms sure do.  

A quick glance at the Psalms, or at Jesus for that matter, reveals that people of God are to be skilled in the art of relishing - biblical writers delight in the Lord, in God's word, in creation.  We are to be people who know how to enjoy the goodness of this earthly life.  Without the ability to relish the good, how will we ever adequately recognize and confront the bad? 

When it comes to "relishing" I have, some work cut out for me, which suits this worker bee just fine.  The invitation now is to look and listen for the doorways of delight, the moments when I can open my hands, my heart, to the goodness of what is and has been done.  And by doing so, I will be buoyed to begin whatever new work the future holds.     

If you liked this post, you may also like Enjoy! Tales of Waitressing, Chaplaincy & Motherhood.

We Are Held (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

(I'm still seeking and finding my writing rhythm for this new year, so today I'm again sharing one from the archives.  This post was written back in 2013 when my twins were just about 18 months old. The image above is of a plate my husband and the twins picked up for me at a (indoor!) yard sale over the weekend.  I love the swirl of it and the image in the middle reminds me of a child in the womb.) 

*   *   *

I sat in the living room last week rocking my poor, sick, sleeping boy and watched while his twin brother explored a small wooden chair.  He walked diligently to the book basket, chose a board book, then toddled quickly over to the chair.  Placing the book on the chair, he lifted one little knee and, after maneuvering the book to make room, pulled himself up and turned, settling into a seated position with a look of great satisfaction. 

There he sat, fuzzy-headed and plump, like a ripe peach, his short legs sticking out straight in front of him.  Glancing at me with a look of triumph, he opened his book and “read” briefly and with great volume.  Then, with a swift movement, he slipped himself off of the chair, and ran back to the books shelf where he made another reading selection.  

Back to the chair he went, repeating the whole process again and again with a different book in hand each time, as though neither “Trucks” nor “Things That Go” could scratch his literary itch. 

Stand, climb, turn and sit, his movements went.  Then, repeat.  

Sitting and standing are new pleasures for him.  And the act of doing so with a book in hand in a little wooden chair just his size makes the act all the more pleasurable.  

He repeats the movements - standing and sitting - over and over again and I imaging he's swirling the feeling of it all around inside of his little body, memorizing each sensation until at last the feeling fades to ordinary, like so many other firsts tasted and mastered in his short eighteen months.

*   *   *

Speaking of standing and sitting, a strange thing has happened several times now during my monthly retreat.  At some point during a moment of silent stillness or quiet conversation, I find myself acutely aware of the reality that the chair I am sitting in is holding me. 

Every time we sit, we are being held. 

But most of us, most of the time, have stopped feeling it.

*   *   *

Earlier this week, I sat in the pediatrician’s office with the same sick child whose limbs hung limp as he fought a raging fever.  Between the bustle of nurse and doctor, in the midst of the bright light and noise, he slumped against me - his belly to mine, his heavy head pressed, un-moving against my chest.  

My boy's fine, blond hair was damp with sweat and his cheeks blazed red with heat.  His eyes watered and breath came in short pants.  Against my chest, his small mouth hung open and saliva pooled and overflowed. 

He smelled like sweaty, sick, baby.  Or maybe I smelled.  Holding him there as the minutes passed, I lost sight of where he stopped and I began.  

At one point he raised his flushed head, squinting his eyes in discomfort and I noticed that the whole front of me, two t-shirts thick, was soaked through with spit.  Still, I pulled him back into me, curving my body like a hammock to hold him.  I rocked and sang and he he hung on for dear life between the Dr.'s probing exam and tests for the flu and strep throat. 

*   *   *

I turned my body into a living, breathing home for my child in the Dr's office that day.  Later, I wondered if God doesn’t also do this for us.

Maybe God also curves, bending into a mighty ocean of a lap, a wide, swinging hammock of rest that holds us, not just when we're aware of it, but all the time.  Maybe we're just so used to being held, we no longer feel it any more.  Or maybe we believe we're too big, too smelly with our own sickness, too Other, to rest in God. 

But, this much I know is true: God holds us, my friends, even when we’ve lost the ability to feel it, even when we’ve outgrown the desire to be held.  God waits like a hammock swinging in the breeze, like a mother’s lap that sways full of life and breath and song. May you find some small moment to climb up again today, to settle in and feel again the Love that holds you, always.         

*   *   *

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!