Those Five Days - Reflections on Summer Solitude 2017

Waking to stillness.

                No wind yet moves the water, the trees.  Just silent golden  sunrise tipping over so slowly 

                 into the bay.  My soul smiles itself awake, stretching.

Then the birds.

                So glad, always, for a new day.  The jenny wren lets me know how beautiful this one is      

                already.

Maybe a beaver.

By now I am outside, trying to pretend I’m not intruding.  As if I was invited.  Making no sound.  On the deck, drinking my tea.  Drinking the hush and holy of this moment.  But one movement, ever so slight, and down he goes, slapping.  

Dawn gives way to full out morning.

And the breeze flirts with the water’s surface, and on my skin.  And nothing’s pressing.  I can stay here, like this, all day.  And I know it in the morning, and that true thing shapes everything all day.  And mostly, because it’s still season-early, the only noises made by a human are made by me.  And I’m careful about things like that.  And so much rest and grace can be breathed in when it’s quiet like that.

Joy-Work is what you call it.

When it’s meaningful and fascinating, and it still counts somewhere (back in that other life).  Reading and considering and writing things down and ideas and a mapping out of those ideas.  Joy-Work is what you call it when it can’t be interrupted, and when, upon it becoming even the least bit tedious or when the ideas stop flowing, you just put it away.  But if they don’t you can be engrossed – for a long time – and it’s okay.  Like that.

Humility is what you call it.

When the nap is taken seriously, as something holy.  And upon waking the needs of a ‘seasoned’ body are also addressed with the on-purpose engagement of muscle and beating heart; in the water, on the water.  And oh the luxury of the late afternoon shower.  And the ritual of meals easily observed in the privacy of this little table beside my chair, where there’s no convenient drive-through or awkward luncheon or forgotten salad to sabotage my good intentions.

And stillness circles back.

The sun in no hurry, hangs low above the trees.  The bullfrogs are all for it now, and the loon, haunting and beautiful, declares the day a huge success without having checked off one thing on a list.

Enough-ness is what you call it.

When in the cycle of days, maybe five in a row, that begin and end with stillness, there is the awareness of a Presence that makes everything enough again.  Every failure, emptiness, disappointment, criticism, dismissive conversation, real or imagined --  every way the whole wide world does not seem to want to accommodate my ‘agenda’ to be validated – it’s still there, it still happened, but it doesn’t matter anymore.  .

Because in this kind of stillness I can hear another Voice at last,

whispering divine affirmations, and a longing for this time, as much as I have longed for it too.

And He is Enough.

Scrapings

 ‘Search me, God, and know my heart,

Test me and know my anxious thoughts.

See if there is any offensive way in me,

And lead me in the way everlasting.”

Psalm 139:23-24 

It is a perfect day for this; cool and breezy.   I am unbothered by either too much sun or even just one biting bug.   For the first time in fourteen days I have actually put on socks and shoes, long pants and long sleeves.  I am out to the south side of our cottage, setting myself to the task of scraping off the last layers of paint so a new fresh coat can be applied when Ken comes back next weekend. 

“It doesn’t have to be perfect”, he said before leaving today.  But I find as I scrape the flat tool along all that’s been blistered and lifted by the elements, more and more of the bare wood is exposed.  And telling a perfectionist that it doesn’t have to be perfect comes across as more of a challenge than anything else.  So there is vigour and precision and great effort put to the wood.   With varying results.

And this is me.

Peeling back the layers is an annual ritual of what otherwise would be my activity-protected soul.  It’s what the ‘away-ness’ is for.  It’s what the solitude accomplishes.  A time for resting in nothing but being a beloved daughter, and letting that be the way all the paint comes off, flying free and gone in the wind, revealing, for better or for worse, what lays beneath.

It’s a messy, highly unattractive process, to be honest.  I wish I could say that the original wood, when I can get down to it, is all smooth and warm and lovely to look at.  But the plain unvarnished truth is that, during this stage, it’s all quite a mess.    Resentments revealed, jealousies uncovered, sin exposed, like knot holes rotted through, plugged with putty that doesn’t stay put. 

Remarkably, this is not as harsh as it sounds.  This is a safe place, encircled by breath-snatching love and grace that amazes again and again, often communicated in an excruciatingly beautiful sunset, or a close encounter with a blue heron.  Yes, there is weeping.  Always there is weeping.  But it’s the kind that brings cleansing, and makes you feel stronger when it’s done. 

And anyways, it doesn’t have to be perfect.

For two hours I scrape, losing all sense of time, only being disturbed in my task by an increasing awareness that I’m hungry, and my arm is getting really tired.  It’s hard work, but engrossing, and rewarding.

 And of course, badly needed.

What Really Matters: Reflections on Turning 60

I’ve made it no secret that turning 60 has been a big deal for me.  To be clear, I was more than adequately celebrated, and I had loads of freedom, on that day, to spend it in ways that were fun and meaningful and happy.  

The big deal, then, has been more about the opportunity to reflect on my life and recognize, with excited anticipation, how everything up until now will most definitely define everything that happens next.

Because, I am just getting started!   

Are you kidding?  What a gift sixty years of living can bring in terms of focus and clarity for what’s important.  Maybe it’s just taken me this long and other folks ‘get it’ way sooner than this, but in earlier years I was still figuring myself out, still trying things out, still sorting it all out.  Now, with still so much more to learn, of course , I am quietly certain of what really matters.  At least, what really matters to me.

As an imperfect follower of Jesus who also happens to be, among other things, a leader of a spiritual community, a cross-cultural partner in work with at-risk children, a woman, wife, mom and gramma, here’s what I would say really matters to me now, as I embrace this next decade.

First, it matters that I am a good steward of myself.  This has taken me a long time to believe and then practice, but it matters more now than ever because everything else will hinge on this.  Being a good steward of myself includes a way of looking after my physical body that is different than before, more like the kind of extra TLC required to keep a classic car running.  I find I have to be patient with what my body needs, how I respond to stress, and what kind of fuel I can run on.  Being a good steward of myself also has a lot to do with emotional energy.  At this point in my life I am not so quick to spend myself recklessly.  That doesn’t mean I don’t recklessly love, only that I refuse to invest in relationships or situations when it becomes obvious my emotional outlay is not helpful to the other and perhaps even damaging to myself, taking away energies better spent on family and those who can benefit.  Being a good steward also means that I pay attention to the abilities and gifts I've been given, and channel my energies accordingly.  And all of this requires the hard but necessary work of self awareness. 

Second, it matters that I find and maintain that delicate space that holds in balance equal measures of firm conviction, earnest curiosity, and humble possibility to be wrong.  I believe what I believe very strongly, and I have studied and explored and lived out my beliefs to the best of my ability.  My faith is of paramount importance to my life, and has brought goodness and stability and strength all through my lifetime.  But I have experienced within and outside the circles of my own faith, a kind of dogma that prevents an openness to new ideas and experiences.  I don’t want that.   And as sure as I am about some things, I want to hold on to the understanding that I might be wrong.  How arrogant for me to get to a place where I think I know everything and know it perfectly. 

Third, it matters to welcome and embrace ‘the other’ and let that, not other seductive metrics, guide my desire for leadership or personal success.  According to Jesus’ criteria for success as laid out in Matthew 25, ‘the other’ is anyone unlike ourselves and who is often initially perceived as having nothing to offer, but always seem to surprise us otherwise.  Usually ‘the other’ is not in our ‘demographic’; someone we would not have naturally sat with at the same table in our high school cafeteria.  Most often ‘the other’ needs something we have in excess, for which they will never be able to repay in kind, but will in actuality repay in ways that enrich us beyond our imagining. I tie this concept of ‘the other’ with my reflections on turning 60 because, as the leader of a community of faith looking back on a lifetime of ministry, I am subject to  severe and relentless temptations to measure my success quite differently.   In this, both Matthew 25 and Isaiah 58 have become guiding texts.

Fourth and finally, it matters that I be the person my grandchildren apparently believe me to be.  By the sheer enthusiasm with which I’m greeted every time, it would seem that my grandchildren think I’m a superstar.  At least someone worthy of wild hugs and lavish kisses and being dragged up to their room to be shown the latest drawing or Lego creation.  To my great delight and honour, I am thoroughly invited into their lives.   I do not take this responsibility lightly.  With grandchildren comes the opportunity to influence another generation, one that will outlast me by decades.  What legacy can I leave these most precious of human beings?  What memories can we make that will benefit their lives long after I’m gone?  Turning 60 has given me a deeper desire to hone in on who these little Beloveds are growing to be, because it matters how I live out the rest of my life with them.

I guess Paul the Apostle summed it up very nicely in this letter to the church in Galatia.  

 “The only thing that counts is faith showing itself in love.”   

Galatians 5:5  

 Love this.  It’s been the banner text across this blog since the beginning, and I think it will stay there for quite some time.   

 Maybe even, Lord willing, until I’m reflecting on what matters at 70.

Daughter Knot

 

There’s something about being away from what you do that helps to remind you of who you are.

Like most of us, I find the roles of my life seductive.  As if what I am called by any group of folks on any given day actually defines the substance of my life.    As if the work that I do bears weight on my value and gains me permission to be on the planet.  As if the status and credibility I carry, by virtue of these roles or this work, in any way measures my soul.  As if.  It can’t. 

I know this but I am caught up in it all just the same.  And I don’t even sense it.  Until I am away.  And  then it’s just me sitting on the dock doing nothing much really.  Not checking things off a list or anything at all that would make anyone notice anything about me except maybe that I come down here every evening to just sit.  And for a little bit, I am uncomfortable with this.

Yes, I think it’s good to press myself into my work.  When I’ve found myself fully engaged in what I do, sometimes in formal paid positions, sometimes as the mom of young children, sometimes as a volunteer, sometimes in a faraway place, this is a good space to be.  Waking up each day anticipating the difference I can make is a gift.  And if there are titles or bits of status and credibility that some (not all) of this work brings with it, then okay.  I hope can carry that lightly.  Because it’s not who I am.

Right?

Then who am I?

I admit that in this first stage of holidays called ‘decompression’  the seduction of my roles can leave me feeling adrift.   And in this particular post-60^th-birthday era of my life, with some significant changes looming ahead, the absence of the illusion of being so very badly needed, even just for this short time while I’m away right now, for now, is more than just a little unnerving.

Yet ironically, it’s here by the water I come again and again to what seems to be the deepest sense of myself.  I recall the name I boil down to when everything else is stripped away and there’s nothing I’m expected to do in this moment of being.    The presence of a Father in the absence of my striving reminds me that beyond all good and true names I might be called, the one that can’t ever change or be taken away or be forgotten .... is Daughter.

I wrap myself around and tight to this sense of me.  I experience in ways unexplainable His wrapping tight around me.   And we sit to watch the setting sun together.   Because nothing in this moment is about what I do.  It’s not. It’s about who I am. 

And actually, more than that, it’s about Who He is.