On Boundaries and the Necessary Magic of the Word, 'No!'

no

is a necessary magic

no

draws a circle around you

with chalk

and says

i have given enough

- boundaries

(anonymous)

//

I was walking down to the garden the other morning, when a line from Maurice Sendak’s, Where the Wild Things Are ran through my mind. A friend had texted, asking if I might bring flowers in to work. I had paused before replying – I didn’t know if we had flowers left in the garden or not.  More importantly, though, I didn’t know if I had it in me to bring flowers or not.

I texted back, “Lemme see . . .”

After the boys got on the bus, I did a quick internal scan. Did I have it in me to bring in flowers? Yes, I did. Plus, the act of walking through the early morning dew, scanning stems for suitable blossoms, and arranging them in a vase would be good for me.

//

I am someone who grows and cuts flowers to bring into the office. I am someone who spreads poetry in the world, who writes, who tells jokes, and listens, and gives, and gives, and gives.

Most of the time, people like this about me. “We appreciate you,” they say. “You bring something we need.”

Most of the time, I like being liked.

Maybe you do too?

//

Liking being liked can be a problem.

Needing to be liked can be a more serious problem still.

It can lead to a giving that depletes so completely that the giver is left with an empty shell of self.

//

“. . . we’ll eat you up – we love you so!”

This the line I recalled from Sendak’s book. It’s what the wild things say to Max when he’s feeling lonely and longing for “someone who loves him best of all.”

I thought of that line and recognized something in it about the way church work can be; about the way parenting or teaching or any other form of service that involves deep self-giving and sacrifice can be. Caring for young children, tending a sick loved one, feeding a hungry church – all of these have the potential to eat us up, especially if we're looking to them to replace "someone who loves us best of all."

//

I went back and re-read Where the Wild Things Are a few days later.  I read how it’s Max’s realization of his loneliness and need for love that causes him to give up his position as “king” of where the wild things are. Aware of his own needs, Max prepares to leave. This is when the wild things cry, “Oh please don’t go – we’ll eat you up – we love you so!”

Then, a wonderful, magical thing happens in the story: Max says, ‘No!’

Of course, the wild things don’t like this one bit. In response, they “roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.

But Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-bye . . .”

//

I hope you know the power of the word ‘no.’

I hope you see how every ‘no’ is also a ‘yes’ and that choosing self care is sometimes the best gift you can give to the wild things who love you so.

I hope you don’t give in to the “terrible roars” and “gnashing teeth” and “terrible claws;” I hope you have the wisdom to see they love you so and they're just afraid you won’t return.

Go ahead, step into your boat and sail away, “in and out of weeks and through a day” and find yourself home, again, in “your own room” where Someone who loves you best can care for you for a while.

Don’t worry. We know you’ll be back. We know you’ll bring flowers and, probably, a poem or two. We know. Because that’s who you are. 

But that's only part of why we love you so. We love you also for your ability to say, and to help us to learn to say, that magic word, 'no.' 

Some Days, We Nap Together (What Tragedy Demands of Us)

Some days, after working in my office all morning and eating a quick lunch at my desk, my body grows heavy and slow and my thoughts turn to molasses.  With just an hour left before the first child arrives back home, before I leave to work an evening shift at the library, I close my laptop, grab my phone and head for my office door.  My dog, Coco, half-sleeping in her corner chair, lifts her head, then jumps down and follows me outside across the blacktop soaked with sunlight, up the back steps, and into the big house. 

Inside, I pause while we each get a drink of water – her at her metal bowl and me at the vintage water fountain near our kitchen door.  Then, I grab a blanket or beach towel – whichever is warm enough and near at hand – and head into the winter room where the wood stove sits heavy in the corner, squat and round, a cast iron Buddha.  Coco follows at my heels and watches patiently as I hunt one room, then another, in search of our sole throw pillow. 

Pillow in hand, I lay down in the same position, always.  Pressing the pillow into one end of our old, leather love seat, I lay down on my right side, curling my long legs to fit on the too-short sofa.  Coco watches with patience and focus as I spread the blanket or towel over myself, then stick my legs out straight off of the couch, offering a pathway to the pocket of empty space at the far end. 

I pat the leather with my hand, twice.  Coco pauses, very still, and looks me in the eye, double-checking her permission.  “Come on, Coco,” I say and up she jumps, then turns and settles in the corner.  I bend my legs again and tuck in around her, careful to keep from bumping her muzzle with my feet.  The warmth of her soft, sweet body adds to my own and we sleep, tucked together, her head resting on my ankles. 

Her presence, as I rest, is pure gift.  The gift of quiet, undemanding companionship; the gift of with-ness that cannot be measured save for the way it softens and steadies the human heart. 

She wakes, when I wake and shift.  Or, sometimes, too warm and close for comfort, she hops down before the nap gets under way.  Some days, if I'm lucky, our handsome black cat notices our napping nest and jumps down from his solitary leather chair and comes purring along into my arms.  On those days, the cat settles opposite the dog, in the space in front of my chest.  Together, we form a sort of yin-yang arrangement of fur and flesh, the cat in front of me, the dog behind.  

//

I experience a profound goodness during these naps, which may seem a small thing amidst all the world’s evils and sorrows, not to mention my own small entanglements.  But I am wondering whether tragedy really demands the trivializing of such moments of beauty, wonder, and grace – moments when the human soul stretches and softens, relaxed and at ease?

Perhaps tragedy and sorrow, worry and fear, require instead, that we linger and luxuriate in these moments.  Maybe Love itself invites us to spread them out wide for the world to see or to tuck them in somewhere safe, like a golden leaf in fall noticed, gathered, and pressed between the pages of a book where it can be rediscovered time and again in the long winter months ahead. 

I love these moments with the dog, the cat; they are precious to me and I cannot pass them off as something less than mercy and grace.  Evil is never defeat by casting what is precious aside.  Evil is defeated when we gently welcome, gather and share what is good and holy and true.  In this way light and life and love are born and borne and multiplied in our midst. 

The world is a heavy and troubled place.  It is also riddled through with mercy, grace and love.  In these days of naming darkness, let us remember also to gather and spread the Light we're given, casting it high and wide, like a million stars lighting up the night.

 Coco and I sharing a little pre-nap love. 

Where are you finding Mercy, Grace and Love these days??

Less Magic, More Tending (#SmallWonder Link-up)

“I think I was hoping today would be some kind of magical time of rest and renewal,” I said to the gathered circle of participants as we reflected together at the end of our day of silent retreat.  There were several smiles and at least one good snort as I paused. 

They all knew the kind of month I had.  Six trips to the pediatrician as one child after another fell ill with a viral fever that ran high for days before morphing into a bacterial infection.  Then another round of strep for my oldest boy and the pressure of hunting for an ENT to address big-picture concerns.  Plus, I was working full-time, stumbling through lectures I hadn’t so much as glanced at in seven years.  Is it any wonder I was sick too?

“It wasn’t,” I continued. 

I tried everything I could think of.  Settling into the quiet farm house, I read a little, prayed a little and drank hot tea in a sunlit window.  I even tried for an afternoon nap. 

It was a miracle I made it to the retreat at all. 

Secretly, though, I’d been hoping for more than a little magic, more than the miracle I got. 

I wanted to come home with some good writing, a poem or two to share here on the blog or, in the least, the beginnings of a post.  I didn’t just want rest, I wanted productivity in a different direction than the one I’d been running in all month long. 

But you can’t go from 90 mph to 0 in six hours flat.  An object in motion tends to stay in motion and the time and energy needed to slow down AND shift gears can’t be underestimated.  How could I be so naïve as to think I could unwind AND be productive in such a short period of time?

This is what I’ve been thinking about in the days since as I try to keep the fires burning at work and home, in heart and head.  I’ve longed to bear fruit here in my writing this month, it’s been painful to let it slide.  But a plant can’t bear fruit on command – the vine must be tended, each season endured.  And, for a few more days at least, I’ve committed my labor toward teaching and finishing strong and well.  

By Friday I pledge to be done with my J-term class, papers and tests graded and returned.  And next week I plan to begin the slow unwinding, the slow turning back again toward the many things I love.  The extra money from teaching has been a much needed relief this month, to not be anxiously watching the bank account for overdraft notices is a gift.  But I’m eager now and longing to return to tending my writing life, growing the deep roots and sturdy branches and, yes, bearing fruit. 

Thank you for sticking with me this month, #SmallWonder friends, as we celebrate one year of #SmallWonder posts!  Some of you have asked about a button for the link - I know there's been some buttons shared, but I've lost track of them.  If you have a #SmallWonder button we could use, could you share it in the comments, please?  Thanks!

*   *   *

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 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.  

Worn, Weary and Threadbare (#SmallWonder Link-up)

(Ah, friends.  Welcome.  It's still January, I have 7 more days of teaching to go.  My husband has manned five pediatric sick appointments in the last two weeks and today we return together with our oldest son who's illness doesn't appear to be responding to antibiotics.  So here I am, again, sharing something old, but entirely relevant to the now.  May we each find rest when and where we can.)

Come unto me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." - God 

I came into the retreat like our old cat Samson used to come into our house after a string of nights out on the town.  Samson would disappear and refuse to show up for nights on end as we leaned out the screen door, peering and calling his name into the darkness.  A few days later, he would come dragging in, thin and dirty, walking slowly with a limp. 

That’s how I felt that morning - I arrived completely exhausted.  Life with four young children is like drinking from a fire hose, all struggle and gasping and refreshment to the point of drowning.  The discipline of a monthly retreat has revealed the intensity of life lived between those moments of rest and I often arrive haggard, gasping for breath. 

The day opened with an opportunity for each participant to write on a scrap of paper three words that described how they arrived.  Then a large ceramic bowl was passed from hand to hand around the gathered circle as we named our words and laid our papers into the bowl. 

It felt to me that others had much nicer words, like “rested,” “eager,” and “waiting.”  But as I lifted the heavy bowl and dropped in my small scraps of paper three words escaped my lips like a cry,

worn, 

weary, 

and threadbare.

I passed the bowl quickly and sat quietly.  

I listened and prayed throughout the morning as the tears rolled down. 

Later, I found a sunlit window and sat curled in a chair soaking it in.  I ate a quiet lunch that settled in me like a bowl of warm milk, full of soothing comfort.  Then I returned to the retreat house and stretched out on a long cushioned bench.  I wrote a little, read a little too, but eventually I gave in and, leaning to the side, I curled up there in the lap of God and drifted my way off to sleep.

*   *   *

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 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.  

Slow Down

“Slow down.”

These words rise from heart to head each morning as I wake. 

I hear them walking away from a networking meeting at the small, brick café down the street. 

I hear them when the kids whirl around the kitchen like snowflakes in a blizzard and it’s all I can do to keep from blasting them into submission with a giant stomping shout. 

“Slow down,” the voice says.

//

In seminary we ran intellectual marathons – punishing races in pursuit of excellence.

In the hours when the kids are at school and I am my own boss, I feel myself pushing again in that old, familiar pattern. 

Run hard, run fast.  Do more.  Do it better.  Move, move, move.

//

And still, the small voice whispers, “Slow down.”

//

Last week we had the twins’ four-year-old well-visit at the pediatrician’s office.  John and I met at the office and the boys stripped down to their underwear and clambered around the room while we waited for the Dr.    

We asked about their speech, which the preschool seems to think needs fixing. We got caught up on necessary shots.      

With their birthdays falling in August, the appointment was well overdue. Between the well-visits, the eye dr. and the dentist we, it seems, are falling behind. 

“I can’t keep up,” I say to my husband, to myself, to anyone who is still long enough to listen. 

The thought of the dentist appointments needing to be scheduled and adding speech therapy for two into the mix?  It causes a panic in me, like water rising around someone who cannot swim. 

“Hurry, hurry,” life screams. 

//

Last year, coming off of a weekend of panic attacks, I took the twins to their well-visit by myself.  In the exam room panic rose around me.  My heart pounded, skin flashed hot and cold.  Two half-naked boys perched, one on each knee, was all that kept me from rising, running from the room. 

Maybe this is why the voice tells me, “Slow down.”  Because we can only spin so fast before we lose our balance and start to fall. 

Sometimes slow is the only way to be.  

Sometimes slow is the one necessary thing.  

//

Sitting with those words, "Slow down," and my markers, I found a few more words - maybe you need them too in this too often frenetic holiday season.

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.)

  

The Napping House (I Don't Have A War Room)

(Photo Source)

For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel:

In returning and rest you shall be saved;

    in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.  Isaiah 30:15

I sat in the little house with the oil lamp lit, computer in place.  Every coherent thought was echoed by an equally incoherent refrain of fatigue.

I’m so tired. I’m so tired.  I’m so tired. 

The words took on a rhythm, like breathing, while I struggled to work my way through Sunday’s sermon. 

Meanwhile, the dog, who technically isn’t allowed in my office, snoozed lightly on another chair.  The black cat lay in the sunshine just outside the office door, flirting with sleep, as cats do.

I have three hours of childcare this week.  Three hours to throw together a sermon, build a power point, harvest the word.  And I was only an hour in with nothing near an outline. 

But, come ten o’clock, instead of putting on a third pot of coffee, I pulled the cushion off of yet another chair and threw it on the floor.  A pillow followed, then a blanket and, with gentleness, my own body curled like a dog in its bed. 

The dog, whose eye’s slitted open at my commotion, hopped down, tail wagging.  Curious, she ambled over, sniffing at my back, as if to ask, “You ok?” Satisfied with what her nose replied, she hopped back into her chair with ease. 

I fell asleep in under five and woke a half hour later. 

//

An elderly friend of mine has operated a retreat house for the past twenty years.  People often speak in hushed tones about the holiness of that space, commenting in awe about its prayer-soaked walls.  And that’s what I envisioned for this little house of mine.  

But more than writing, praying or listening, this room has been filled with rest. 

I keep a pillow in the cupboard, not a prayer book.  Soft fleece blankets hang over the backs of my chairs, enough cushion and comfort to make a bed for one. 

If I can be honest, perhaps I thought this house would be a place where I would build my own kingdom out of words and prayers and God would bless it because of my effort. 

But the opposite is true. 

In my little house, I cast my efforts aside.  

I lay down on a mat on the floor, like a child at nap time.  

Here I'm vulnerable and weak, owning my need.  

I rest in the grace of God who doesn’t need my good deeds.  God who says, "Come you who are weary."  Here I enter into the kingdom of God, where the last is first and a little child leads the way.

//

With the hazy fog of sleep slowly dissipating around me, I sat again in my curved black chair.  The passage was there still, waiting.  But the chant of my fatigue, the undertow of exhaustion, had lifted.  The sermon came, slowly like a gift, like treasure at the end of a hunt. 

The dog watched, unfazed by my strange human ways.  When I left the little house to head inside again, the cat followed, meowing, as if to say, “Well, I thought you needed a nap!”

      

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.  

Canine Prayers

This isn't our dog, but you get the idea, right? Photo Source.

Be still, and know that I am God . . . Psalm 46:10

She’s nestled at my side right now, sleeping with great, heavy sighs, her long legs tucked and curled in a fetal position. 

I’m still learning the stillness of dogs.  They don’t purr when happy, don’t flap their tales angrily when the petting becomes too much.  Their language is altogether different. 

//

I wake up early every morning intending to ingest caffeine and find time to pray, journal and read.  Too often, though, once the computer’s on, I’m off and running - making lists, commenting, writing and, in the worst of circumstances, reading depressingly bizarre articles on Yahoo.  Sitting in an old wooden Adirondack chair by the wood stove, I hit the ground running, bolting into the day on a caffeine driven wave of activity. 

I notice the early morning darkness, the stillness and calm, but I don’t enter into it.

This dog, though, she sleeps curled on the worn, leather couch at the bottom of the stairs.  A blur of black and brown, she blends in and only her deep snores give her away. 

She is warm, she is still, she is calm. 

Walking over to say good morning with my tall cup of coffee in hand, she invites me, wordlessly, to sit and snuggle.  Settling on the couch, I pull her into my lap and she presses her head against my shoulder.  

Now I am still, warm and growing calm. 

There’s no room for the computer with a dog in my lap.  It’s too dark for a book, no room, no light for journaling.  So, I pray in a quiet, wordless way, settling in to Something More like that pup curled on the couch.  Slowly, the sun rises across the field, covering the landscape with its wordless, changing light.  

When my husband comes walking through the darkness to kiss me goodbye, I’m there still almost hidden on the couch.  And every morning now, I choose – to work by the fire or to enter into the quiet call to prayer that arises from the soft sounds of our silent, sleeping dog.   

//

Sometimes I find myself called to prayer in the most surprising ways - what calls your heart to prayer?

This post is linked with The High Calling for their series on Spiritual Disciplines. Click on the link to read more stories.