What I Learned When I Was Dying

Edge of the Conodoguinet Creek, Still Waters Retreat, Carlisle, PA

“Don’t forget, you’re going to die.” – WeCroak.com

I had been keeping an eye on the spot for weeks.  I thought it was a bug bite.  I thought it would go away.  But it didn’t.  Finally, on the first free morning I had, the morning I was set to go on silent retreat, I googled my symptoms and found out I was dying.

Well, I’m not dying (I repeat: NOT DYING), but that morning, based on what I read online, death suddenly seemed like a plausible possibility.  Not only was my symptom a possible sign of something bad, it was a symptom of something very bad.  I called my Dr and made an appointment for the following day.  I called back again and said I’d be more than happy to come in that very day if they happened to have a cancellation. 

Then, with nothing more to do, I left for my scheduled retreat, for six hours of silence and solitude with the news of my own impending death tagging along, an unwelcome, nagging companion. 

//

My husband and I recently learned about an app called WeCroak which sends users a text, five times a day, with a simple reminder, “Don’t forget, you’re going to die.”  The text arrives at random intervals (like death) and keeps things simple, clear, and direct.  

My husband learned about it through a counselor, discussing humanity’s fear of death as a source of generalized anxiety.  I heard about it from my Spiritual Director after sharing about my silent retreat.  “These kinds of experiences can help us wake up,” she said.

//

One would think a silent retreat, with death as your companion, would be The. Worst.  But, it wasn’t.

After driving to the tiny house in the woods, I sat in the kitchenette drinking tea.  Surrounded by windows, I watched bees flitting from plant to plant.  Upstairs, later, I rocked in a cushioned chair, reading Richard Foster’s, “Freedom of Simplicity.”  When reading grew tiresome, I stared out another set of windows and watched witless carpenter bees droning in lazy, senseless circles.  I took a nap, half-wrapped in a downy quilt, while the sun shone down on me.  I woke to a stink bug landing too near my face. 

Don’t get me wrong, I was distracted.  I fought back tears from time to time and found it nearly impossible to focus on my original intentions for the day.  I spiraled into moments of worry and anxiety.  

I thought about my kids and what would happen to them if something happened to me.  I want to say my concerns were selfless, but they weren’t.  I mourned my loss of influence in their lives, the things I would not get to see.  I realized, I will not last the test of time.  Which is to say, I will die, and the world will go on without me.   There isn’t really a single thing I can invest in that will last; as Theresa of Avila said in her famous bookmark prayer, “All things are passing away.”

Except, that is, for love.

//

Later in the day, I ate my lunch sitting in an old Adirondack chair near a wide and lazy creek.  The surface of the water hardly seemed to move at all.  If I shifted my focus, I could see long fish swimming loops along the muddy floor.  Dandelions, with heads gone white like old lady’s hair, stood along the edge of the water, bearing witness, I thought, to its passage.

Those dandelions are, I’m sure, gone today.  But the creek remains. 

It seems to me, that love must be something like that stream – constant, slow, enduring, and we are like those fading flowers on the shore.  In which case, the only sane thing to do is cast ourselves, wholeheartedly, into love’s great stream, to become – with heart, soul, and mind – part of the love that never fails. 

//

This is what death told me last week, when I allowed it to draw near via a googled symptom and online self-diagnosis.  Maybe others might learn the same by answering death’s texts five times a day for months on end.  The apostle Paul, who had his own travels with death as a companion, tells us the same, “now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.” (I Cor 13:13)

Death’s message was clarifying and simple.  It put my world, which I thought had been tipped on its head, right-side-up again.  It brought my feet closer to solid ground, which is to say, it gave me level footing in the land of acceptance.  

I did not make peace with death over the course of six silent hours spent in the woods on a sunny Wednesday in early May.  I’m not that naive.  But I did catch a glimmer of a gift hiding in death’s hand, enough to make me understand what we lose living in a time and place where death is treated as an inconvenient truth, a reality best avoided at all costs.  

You can read more about the WeCroak App in this article in The Atlantic.  Let me know if you try it out! 

The Voice of Love

Prayer . . . is listening to the voice that calls us "My Beloved." - Henri Nouwen

My husband wakes, alone, in the early morning dark.  While the rest of us sleep, he lets the dog out, rekindles a fire in the wood stove, and turns on the coffee pot.  By the time I stumble down, he's often sitting, cross-legged, in the arm chair closest to the stove, with his eyes closed.  With a timer set on his phone, he endeavors to start the day in silent prayer.

But, he is no monk in a cell alone.

I wander through, on the way to the bathroom, then back again with a full cup of coffee in hand.  Then, my daughter’s alarm clock goes off and she staggers blindly into the living room as well.  The dog, of course, leaves her seat and clatters around, needing a greeting from every new entrant into the room.  

His morning prayer is rarely silent, often interrupted, even though his eyes remain closed.

The other morning, before the lights were on, my husband sat in his quietening chair and I sat near the base of the stairs, scrolling on my phone.  Then, out of the darkness, six-year-old Levi yelled from the top of the stairs, “Dad? Dad?”

Wanting to preserve my husband's silence, I answered for him, “What Levi?”

“Where’s Dad?  Is he still home?  Is he going to work today?” Levi belted his questions, like a winter storm flinging hail. 

“Yes,” I said, stealing a glance at my husband, whose eyes were now open. “It’s early.  Daddy’s still home, but he’s going to work in a little while.  What do you need?”

“I want to say goodbye to him,” he called.

I looked again at my husband, seated by the stove, and he nodded his head. 

“What Levi?” he called.

“Goodbye Dad, I love you!  I’ll see you tonight!” Levi said, “Thanks for helping with my Valentines.”

“Goodbye, Levi.  I love you too.  I’ll see you tonight, sweetie,” my husband replied.

Then, from the shadows, came Levi’s twin brother's voice, “Goodbye Dad, I love you!  I’ll see you tonight!”

“Goodbye, Isaiah.  I love you too.  I’ll see you tonight, sweetie.” my husband replied.

All semblance of prayer was lost as they scampered back to their beds.  As my husband turned off his timer and prepared to leave for work, it occurred to me that, despite numerous interruptions, his time of silence was also exactly how prayer should be.  Not the absence of sound, but a listening quietly in the dark for the presence, the voice of love.  How very lucky we are when that voice descends not once, but twice, clothed in the voice of a six-year-old child.

May you find the voice of Love descending on you today in unexpected ways.  

It Was Good

Photo credit: Damien Taylor - 

Novelist Billy Coffey gave a great talk and reading Saturday evening.

This past weekend, three writers gathered two dozen more behind barn walls.  In a square room, wrapped in wood, floored in concrete, we sat around white plastic tables in folding chairs while a fresh breeze blew in through barn doors thrown open wide. 

We held space.

We held silence.

We honored words – ours and others’ and others’ still.

Then we held more silence, listened, and held space for words unspoken and words yet unheard. 

We pruned words – ours and others.  We trimmed back the dead, exposed new shoots, sank small sleeping seeds deep in darkness and watered them with attention and simple care.  We plotted out the landscape of our days, made plans to fence in empty spaces right in the middle of our back home, work-a-day, noisy, crowded lives.  We envisioned fertile ground, held apart, separate, where words and silence might wed, like water and sun, and bring forth bright blooms, arching vines, gnarled roots.     

Blue sky, rolling hills, and passing clouds wove mountain magic around us and we believed, again, in ourselves, in each other, and in the truth that “what we need is here.”  We found ourselves both hungry and fed, both giving and receiving; and it was good.  

//

Friends, I am just back from helping to lead the annual God's Whisper Writers' Retreat in Radiant, VA.  We've already set the date (June 22-24) for next year's retreat and will have the website up and running soon.  Meanwhile, you might want to nurture your writer's heart, by signing up for Andi's Discover Your Writing Self course which begins July 1st. 

Fish Fudge and the Quality of Silence (#SmallWonder Link-up)

My husband loves seafood - shrimp, scallops, crabs - you name it, he loves it.  But he absolutely adores Salmon.  He calls it "Fish Fudge."  

I don't love seafood.  At best, I tolerate it.  The idea of Fish Fudge, just the very idea, makes me want to vomit a little bit in my mouth.  But he says it's smooth and rich like fudge and since he likes fudge and fish, the image works for him.  

I visited the Still Waters this week in anticipation of a writing retreat Shawn Smucker and I will be leading there on October 15.  Still Waters is a privately owned retreat house located outside of Carlisle, PA along the Conodoguinet creek.  

Although I've attended numerous day events there and overnighted once, it had been more than a year since I was last there.  The moment I walked in, I thought, "Ah, it's been too long."  

There's a quality of silence at Still Waters that's absolutely stunning.  It's as though the silence has meat to it, a fullness of body, something like Silence Fudge maybe.  I'm very grateful to the owners, the late Sanford Alwine and his wife Lois, who left me a lovely note of greeting, for envisioning and sharing this space with the local community.  

Monday afternoon I made a hot cup of tea, sat for awhile, prayed and worked on some editing.  Mostly, though, I enjoyed the velvety silence of the air around me and gave thanks for the opportunity to be there.  I took some pictures of the beautiful space to share with you too.  Enjoy!    

*   *   *

Author, Shawn Smucker and I are offering a one-day retreat this coming October 15 in Carlisle, PA.  Titled, Writing As Witness, we will explore the ways writing can position us to witness the presence of God in our own lives and in the world.  Visit link to learn more.  

*   *   *

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!  

How All Our Salvation Begins (#SmallWonder Link-up)

(For the past several months, I've participated in a group organized by Oasis Ministries that meets for monthly silent retreat days.  We meet one Saturday a month at an old farm turned retreat center near Elizabethown, PA.)

I arrive in the nick of time, lugging a bag of books, my purse and a packed lunch.  Inside the old farm door I exchange greetings with a few and make my way to the bathroom.  Then I throw back a quick cup of coffee – I’m not fully awake yet – and head in to join the circle of silence. 

After a period of silent prayer and some brief reflection, the nine of us split off in different directions.  I make a beeline for more coffee and then head upstairs to a bedroom alone.  I journal briefly before doing what I know cannot be put off any longer.  Tipping to my side, I curl up with an ugly blanket on an even uglier couch and, in seconds, I drift off to sleep.

I wake to lunch time.  In the cold dining room, I eat around a long table with women who are mostly twenty to thirty years older than me.  I crunch red peppers and carrot sticks and crack my hard boiled egg too loudly on the table before realizing I can crush it gently with my fingers.  I drink hot tea at lunch, a follow-up to my hot coffee, because I’m cold and can’t seem to get warm. 

After lunch I find a sunny spot by a window and pile out my books and journals.  I thumb through a Birds and Blooms magazine cutting pictures and words that strike my eye with scissors I stole from my three-year-old’s office.  Then we gather again at the circle, for more silence and sharing around our reading for the month. 

During afternoon retreat time I head outside with more coffee and sit briefly on a bench watching bees buzz happy among the clover.  Then, still cold, I remember the black bed-liner in my husband’s old, red, pickup truck.  The black bed draws the sun like a magnet and climbing in I’m greeted by warmth and the smell of gasoline.  I unpack again, books and journal, in the bed of the truck, my back tucked into the corner.  I run inside one more time briefly for my sunglasses and trade my cup of coffee for a plastic cup of water.

In the truck, I read a bit and try to write poems that wilt, listless on the page.  I eat the perfect orange, slowly, beneath the blue sky of spring.  In all of this I wonder, what am I doing here?  I’m deliberately unproductive on these days, deliberately leaving behind the laptop, setting no firm expectation for the day.  There’s prayer, yes, but most of the day feels decidedly unremarkable, strikingly unholy. 

There are no angel choirs, no visions from heaven.  I do spy a pileated woodpecker outside the whirled glass window at lunch, but if he’s meant to deliver a message from God, I fail on the receiving end.  It isn’t until the closing of the day that I remember again a bit of reading, a quote from Thomas Merton, “. . . all our salvation begins on the level of common and natural and ordinary things.”

The word “all” is what gets me, sticks like taffy in my soul’s teeth. 

I marvel at how unholy, how unremarkable these days apart seem most months and, on the whole, they’re filled with “common and natural and ordinary things.”  This much I cannot deny – food and rest, silence and small chatter, an ugly blanket, the warm black bed of a pickup truck. 

But Merton, sly fox, tips things up-side-down in one short sentence.  These things, he whispers, these. 

Carrots and coffee and sliced red pepper, quiet moments flipping pages soaked in sun, that orange, the smell of gasoline, the happy bees drinking life one blossom at a time.  

These things, he whispers, these. 

It’s then, at the end of the day, that I accept again the invitation to surrender to God’s backward ways of transformation.  God’s proclivity for infusing the material with divine.  

The door is everywhere.  All our salvation begins.   

*   *   *   *

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.   

The Animals on Christmas Eve (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Legend claims 

at midnight 

Christmas Eve

animals received 

the gift of speech,

but I imagine 

it was the other way around

that first starlight night.  

Animals didn’t gain

but humans lost, 

for once, 

their words.

Speechless, 

they welcomed 

the Word in silence,

led by the animals 

in a chorus of mute wonder. 

*   *   *

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.  

Still (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Friends, I waited and watched and listened yesterday but by the time I slipped between the sheets last night, I had no words to offer you.  Instead, this morning, as I am recovering from a long, intense week, I want to offer you the stillness of Psalm 131.  May you find yourself be blessed with some small moment of wonder this week.

"O Lord, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high; 
I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.  

But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.  

O Israel, hope in the Lord from this time on and forever more." 

*   *   *   

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.  

Snow Days

But Sarah's heart was full.  It was as full as when the sounds of her own children had filled her house. - in "The Mitten Tree" by Candace Christiansen

Everywhere I look people are writing about the silence, the quiet hush of these snow-covered days.  Upstairs alone for a few brief moments, the fluffy, white duvet on our bed fills me with longing to be covered also, to lay down under a blanket of white.  Two full walls of windows fill the room with sunlight so inviting, but I turn and head downstairs to the kitchen, the heart of our home. 

Snow brings silence, peace, stillness, they say, but our house hums like a hive on these winter days.  School is canceled or delayed and four little bodies fill every corner with motion and noise, the steady, spinning, thriving sound of energy bottled for a time. 

A whole beautiful day of giant fluffy flakes passes without a moment to pause. 

No sitting quietly by the window with a steaming mug. 

No time to marvel much as the setting sun paints the landscape pink with long steady strokes.   

We twirl through these days like so many snowflakes falling, carried along by the weight of who we are.  It would be a lie if I were to claim an unwavering contentment about this – about the noise and motion, the constant clutter and chaos.  

But I’m learning to love what is rather than longing for what is not and that in itself offers a silence of sorts, a settling-in to the falling, swirling journey of these days.  I know now that this too shall pass.

Piled on the couch with my boys, reading "The Mitten Tree," it comes to me: the silence and the sound, the stillness and the humming hive, they are but two sides of an ever-changing coin.  In welcoming one, I prepare myself to welcome - embrace - the other; the key to contentment and joy is hidden in the surrender to what is, rather than in the longing for some preferred alternative.  

Linking with Jennifer Dukes Lee.  Photo credit: Here.

Quiet Lights: Advent Wonder in Your Inbox

 

Dinner time at our house is often insane, well, make that always insane. 

But every once in awhile, when I've had it up-to-here with the volume and intensity, I set a few small candles in the center of the table and turn off the overhead lights.  The darkness brings a momentary quiet, which is no small feat with four young children gathered around.  

We all hear the striking of the match and watch as light bursts into being.  Lighting candles at dinner instills, for a few moments at least, a sense of awe and wonder in the middle of what's otherwise a hectic, frantic, free-for-all.
 
Walking through a store a few weeks ago, I found myself surrounded by the stuff of Christmas.  As I thought of the season ahead, I realized my deepest desire is to be present to this precious season - to slow down and be re-awakened to awe and wonder.
 
Maybe this is your desire too?
 
This Advent season I'd like to offer you a series of Quiet Lights in your inbox.  Think of these emails as me lighting a candle for you.  

Each email will contain a simple poem or quote as well as a few links to good reads from around the web aimed at deepening your capacity for presence, stillness and wonder during advent.  

This isn't one more thing to do, no one needs that this time of year, it's simply an opportunity to be - to be present, to be aware, to be awakened. 

These free emails will begin December 1st and continue through the Christmas season.  Interested?  Click on the link below to enter your email address and subscribe or visit the Field of Wild Flowers facebook page and send me a private message and I'll add you myself.  

I'd be grateful if you'd share this post (via facebook or email) with both your friends at large and two or three close friends who you believe would be blessed by receiving Quiet Lights in their inbox.  The more, the merrier!

Click here to subscribe to Quiet Lights.

Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day
is the rest we take between two deep breaths,
or the turning inwards in prayer
for five short minutes.
—Etty Hillesum

Linking today with Playdates With God and Unforced Rhythms. 

The Night Will Hold You

(This picture was taken by my husband - the night sky over the corn field 
across the street from us - isn't he amazing?) 

When the grief you carry 
wears your face into a thousand 
heavy lines, when the sadness 
feels like a knife splitting 
your very body in two, 
night will come at last. 

With the children tucked safe 
in their beds, you will stand 
in the doorway of your own 
darkened room and the night 
will welcome you with its wide, 
and gentle embrace.  

How can I explain that this 
is what you need, what you 
have waited for, this knowing 
that the darkness is nothing 
to fear?  You will lie down 
on your bed, half curled 
around the old, old wound, 
with your face turned toward 
the windows.  Weeping, 
your eyes will search 
outlines of trees, the few 
bright stars captured in your 
window’s frame.  

Now that you are no longer afraid, 
the night will hold you with its velvet 
love, the emptiness of the darkness 
sidling up against you as the well 
of grief pours out. 

“There's something comforting 
about the darkness,” you will tell 
your husband when he finds you there. 
Instinctively, like the night, he will curl 
himself around you offering not words, 
but himself to hold you, his flesh 
echoing in physicality the sweet 
silent night that draws you close.   

This post is linked with Playdates with God and Unforced Rhythms.

When Speaking Life Requires Silence

I met Kimberly Ann Coyle though an online (in) courage discussion group for writers.  She and a host of other writers are in the long haul of blogging for 31 days straight through the month of October.  Every blogger chooses a topic of focus and digs in.  This year, Kimberly is writing on the topic of Speaking Life. 

I've grown to appreciate Kimberly's writing for its honesty and humor.  Although painfully honest writing is en vogue right now, Kimberly's writing draws me because her honesty is not merely for the thrill of self-revelation; within, beneath and behind her honesty I get the sense of a heart that is drawn toward and always seeking the more.  This is what keeps me coming back to her posts.  I was grateful when Kimberly asked me to help fill some space in her 31 day journey by writing about the practice of Speaking Life from the perspective of Spiritual Direction.  You can start reading the post here and then pop over to Kimberly's blog to read the rest.  To learn more about the ministry of spiritual companioning, click on the Spiritual Direction tab at the top of this page. 
 

 * * *

After a few simple pleasantries, the offering of a cup of hot tea or cool water, we begin, almost always, with silence. Sitting in chairs not quite facing each other, we sit quietly waiting, shedding the many moments, worries and demands of the day until a space opens within and around us and we are together at home in ourselves, in the moment, in God.

Then the sharing begins and I listen and work hard to continue to hold open the space between words, between questions and answers, to hold open the silence that surrounds. This is quiet work, gentle and slow, drawing out the many questions that lead, most often, to a deeper place of longing and need. When, at last, that place is reached and the question of one’s heart’s desire rises, I have a choice – what now?

Too often the temptation arises in me to play the expert, advice-giver, wise counsel, or to speak conspiratorially of my own similar experiences, in order to draw an allegiance between the directee and myself. Often there’s pressure (spoken or unspoken) to do just that – the directee arrives in need, wanting answers and too often I’m tempted to give them.

But here’s the truth . . . 

Won't you follow me over to  Kimberly Ann Coyle's place. to continue reading?  And, while you're there, check out some other other posts in her 31 days series and, if you have a moment, leave me a little comment love (it's awfully quiet over there!) . . . 

Silence (of headaches, libraries and boats)

 (one of the reading rooms at Dickinson College Library)

Today I'm re-posting this piece from the "archives" which was written back in 2012, right when I first began blogging.  The twins were not quite one then and my older two were four and six. It's helpful for me sometimes to look back and see how very hard those days were, to see how far we've come even though there's so much that still feels the same.  Enjoy!  

//

“There is a castle on a cloud, I like to go there in my sleep . . . 

Nobody shouts or talks too loud, not in my castle on a cloud.” 

from Les Miserables

Today is a headache day.   

 

It’s there from the moment I wake up - pressure in my forehead and sinuses that extends around to the back of my head into my neck and shoulders. 

When the babysitter comes I’m sitting on the floor surrounded by wiggling people.  I’m trying to wrestle a onesie onto a baby as my pre-schooler performs gymnastics half-on/ half-off of the couch.  The oldest is bopping back and forth on the rocking chair as another baby teeters trying to hold onto it.  My head's pounding and I can’t think straight, can’t make a plan. 

When someone asks where I’m going, I have no reply because I haven’t thought that far ahead.  I only have about an hour and a half before I need to round everyone up for swim lessons.  I grab the laptop and my journal and make a quick exit, stammering instructions as I leave.  No one even gets a hug.  Mommy has got to go, NOW. 

I picture neighbors or the drivers of passing cars looking up to see me flying out the door, hair frizzed-out from the heat, clutching my gear as the twins crawl after me and Solomon stands at the screen door calling a cheery, “Bye bye Mamma.  Bye!”  I imagine I look like someone fleeing a burning building as I throw my things into the van, pop it into drive and squeal-out not yet knowing where I’m going. 

I head to the local college library, not more than a few blocks from our house.  I can maximize my time this way, by not driving across town to Panera or a local coffee shop.  Every second counts. 

I find a nice parking spot right in front of the library.  It’s beautiful here.  Tall, old trees, fully leafed out for summer.  A fresh green lawn and the beautiful library full of windows and light and silence. 

I feel better even as I open the door to walk in.  It’s cool and quiet with the humming of the air conditioner providing a steady pulse under it all.  I head past the café where a sign explains that turning left will lead to a “semi-quiet” area, while turning right leads to pure silence.  I turn right and follow signs toward the quiet area like a starving person follows a path of crumbs. 

The headache is still there, but the effect of the silence is immediate.  It’s like aloe on sunburn, cool and smooth, calming.  It’s as though some part of me that’s been holding its breath relaxes and lets out a long, heavy sigh. 

 

//

 

I’ve always needed this sort of retreat, always felt this way about libraries, academia and books, using them as a refuge from the intensity and volume of life.  I remember meeting with a professor when I was in graduate school.  His office was on the top floor of an old brick home on the edge of campus that was used for faculty offices.  I climbed narrow stairs covered by faded and decidedly un-prestigious old carpet to a large attic-like room.  Two more stairs and through the door and there sat his desk with a large window behind it filled with the leafy green branches of a tree.  I imagined myself sitting there – reading, writing, pausing to peer out at the world below – and I loved it. 

Not long ago a seminar revealed that my personality type uses cognitive activity as a way to recharge and regroup.  An observant friend noted the same thing after listening to my life story, “You retreat into your mind when life gets overwhelming.”  Suddenly I saw the Sudoku and crossword puzzles, the endless reading, the love of libraries and their contents in a new light. 

I used to feel very torn between academia and the nitty-gritty of everyday life.  The ivory tower is much maligned by those working in the trenches and I’ve often found myself vacillating between the two.  I don’t believe in the value of what some would call pure academia cut off from the ebb and flow, the flux and tumult of everyday life.  I refuse to climb the staircase of my mind expecting to find there the answer to all life’s questions.  And yet, I love, enjoy, crave the retreat it offers.  The space it gives to look at life, to sort through the onslaught of thoughts and feelings that accumulate as I race along through the day. 

I’ve often felt guilty about this, even ashamed.  I was teased as a child about “hiding my nose in a book” and my need to spend long hours quietly making order of my little room in our house on a hill in the leafy woods.  But more than all of that, somewhere along the way I believed the lie that to be holy meant to be busy, to be fully immersed in the hustle and bustle, the suffering and relief of life without flinching or pausing to look away for even a second. 

I can see now that I will constantly straddle two worlds.  I’m not content to sit in my tower day in and day out thinking deep thoughts – too many people need me in more ways than I can count.  But I’m also beginning to understand that times of retreat are essential to my ability to provide a real presence when I engage with the “crowds,” whoever they may be.   

Jesus did this, of course.  Retreating to a garden or hill or even, if need be, to a small boat in the middle of a lake.  Luke tells us that “Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed (5:16).”  Surely no one’s time and presence has been or ever will be more in demand than the son of God. 

//
 

It occurs to me that I cannot steer my little ship full of children safely or wisely when I’m constantly drowning.  So, with much grace, I re-imagine my departure from the house.   

 

I’m not a woman fleeing in desperation, shaking off children and tripping on scattered toys as I lunge for the door.  Instead I try to see myself as Christ, edging his way toward the shore and stepping with purpose into a small fishing boat.  Pushing off even as the crowd presses in, hardly waiting for Thomas or Peter to climb in as the bottom of the boat breaks free from the sand.  Leaving the chaos of the crowds for the chaos of the sea, but finding in the tiny boat the space to simultaneously disconnect and reconnect. 

The van is my boat and the curb is the shore.  The library is my “secluded place” and this writing is my prayer.  This retreat takes me not out of the world, but deeper into it to the place beneath the wave tossed surface where love and joy and grace reside.  I paddle out deeper into the cool dark waters to the place where I might find, we all might find, the one thing that’s needed. 

 

I wonder, where do you go to retreat, where do you find the space to both disconnect and reconnect?

 

This post is linked with Playdates with God and the Unforced Rhythms community.

Two times Two (an introverted mother of twins tells it like it is)

The second my body ceases its motion, they fly to me on winged feet, stampeding down the runway that stretches from one end of this dirty old apartment to the other.  The center of their world has just plopped down on the couch and sensing the gravitational shift, they’re drawn to me like magnets. 

Then the climbing begins.  

They stand on my bare feet, the hard plastic of their shoes digging and twisting into the thin skin while they pull and push at my arms, my legs, my clothing.

“Up, up,” they say, with wide, focused eyes. 

“Ma-ma.”

“Ma-ma.”

“Ma-ma?”

“Ma-ma!”

They hunt and peck with an incessant stream of monosyllabic words, each one falling with precision and persistence.  Their words, their hands, wear away at me like water dripping on a stone, like a hail storm aimed at me and only, always, me. 

Every day it feels like I am sinking, like the swirling eddy of children at my feet – the one who clutches my skirt and follows trippingly along and the other who flings himself toward me from across the room – is going to pull me under. 

I tread water until nap-time, when precious silence falls on us all and I wrap it ‘round me like a cloak and sit huddled in its calm.  I drink it in, breathe it as it wields its restorative powers.

When they wake, crying, or smiling, calling “Ma-ma, ma-ma” I’m mostly ready again with juice and snacks and a welcoming lap.  I relish their sleepy-headed stillness, the way the one sits against me, his unmoving weight carrying the same calming effect as the silence of his absence. 

In these first few moments after wakefulness, life is enough for them, enough for us all and I soak up the contentment as they lift squat plastic cups of juice to hungry chugging lips.  I adore the pleasure with which they consume one after another of a bowl of sticky, yellow raisins. 

Then we’re off again. 

Sailing, bobbing, floating along the long and winding stretch of time that careens through the afternoon, toward the exhausting rapids and treacherous rocks of the pre-dinner-time hour.    

In Silence, they Whisper

Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake.  After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.  I Kings 19:11-12

Gather any group

together in silence
and before you know it
bodies will start talking.

The strange, “gallump”
of a stomach, not hungry,
but vocal.
The clicking of an ankle
every time he takes a step.

Or share a meal ,

break bread,
in the absence of words
and notice how a swallow sounds
and the great,
grinding work of teeth.

In the volume of everyday

we hear nothing
above the roar
save the most incessant shouts
of “More!” and “Comfort, now!”

But, in the absence of noise,

our bodies whisper,
“Live! Breathe!”
and we are tuned to their
subtle motions.

Linking with dVerse Poets Pub and Love Dare.