Outwardly. Inwardly I still bounce around with competing feelings of paranoia, angst, and resentment. I've learned to put these feelings aside, take a deep breath, and return again and again to centering prayer. The wisdom of our wounds is that our feelings are always telling us something, but it's usually to do the exact opposite of what we want to do in these moments. It isn't easy. Or simple. Or where my broken soul turns to first. But, over the years, I've learned that this is the better way. Be still and know is not just the name of my spiritual direction practice and FB work site. It is a commitment that brings nourishment and a measure of peace within. It is an acquired art - never perfect - but still salvific and satisfying.
Sadly, we don't live in a culture that honors waiting, patience, or silence. Especially in this weird semi-post covid era where expectations ache for normalcy in a time when normal is the last thing that's happening. We are in a season unlike any in modern history - and it is exhausting. Recently, the artist, poet, musician, Carrie Newcomer, wrote:
I remember sitting alone in a sidewalk cafe on a crisp autumn day. The sunlight was sparkling on the yellow leaves of a maple tree. The coffee cup was warm, the brew was strong and I’d taken out my notebook to write. Four beautifully bearded and tattooed young people were sitting at the next table. There was a lull in the conversation and everyone had gotten on their smart phones, checking texts and the weather, social media or the latest up to the second news. The image was common, people sitting side by side on a bus, airport gate, waiting room or cafe, all giving up the wide view of their individual attention to the small view of the device in their hands. It felt like a missed opportunity.A lull in the conversation is a moment to breathe, take in the autumn air, create the kind of connection that can only happen in quiet moments when nothing much (and yet everything) is happening. A lull is a time when something might spark a new idea or line of conversation. A lull is a open space that invites us into possibility, deeper connection, taking notice and just “being.” (But) we’ve become so used to information that comes rapid-fire and having our mental space so full its like any given moment of our lives have three news scrolls crawling along the bottom edge. A lull has started to feel unfamiliar, even uncomfortable in a culture that presses us to hurry-up-and-get-there- before…before…before what? Before the walls of the golden city are built? Before the polar bears are lost? Before the next thing we were suppose to do is already over?
+ First, the anxieties, dangers, and trauma of the pandemic have worn me out. Back in Tucson we used to say: I feel like I've been ridden hard and hung up wet to dry. In my part of Massachuessets the plague has returned to "high" levels of infection - and yet people are not masking, or practicing social distancing, or self-isolating. Of course we're tired of doing this but... such disregard is dangerous and disturbing. We're not out of the trouble no matter how weary, innoculated, or cocky we feel. So, as I prepare for the third autumn/winter of the pandemic, I'm feeling the wear and tear the pandemic has taken on my soul as well as heart, body, and mind.
+ Second, my sweet heart and I are trying to figure out what it means for us to care for her often precarious health. Without violating anyone's privacy, let's just say that there are a lot of days when all we can do is wait. And for two people used to lots of wandering, exploring new territory, and long walks without any clear goal or destination, this has been another layer of challenge. For a variety of reasons, the shopping, house cleaning, laundry, cooking, bookkeeping, and calendar-minding have become my domain. At first, it was just what was needed to be done on any given day. Now it's become part of our family's rhythm even as we try to understand how to do it over the long haul with a grace, humor, and intentionality.
+ And third, the combination of covid and illness - to say nothing of the political and social chaos of the past six years - has impelled us both to make very clear choices about how to use whatever little energy we still possess for love, beauty, and solidarity. There was once a time when I had the illusion that I could multi-task. I couldn't really, of course, but I could make a stab at juggling work, home, creativity, and family. Not any more. Now, the best I can muster is two tasks outside of my daily study, prayer, and house work. Anything more is exhausting. Troubling and frustrating, too. Consequently, almost everything except family, music, L'Arche, and gardening have fallen to the side of our lives. We still care, but no longer have the juice needed to give others the attention they desire. One spiritual director used to say: learning to say NO is a matter of sanity as you mature. She was right!
It's taken me 30 months to realize these truths: that's what I mean about being a slow learner! That's not denigrating myself, just owning the fact that while many speak about a return to normalcy, there's precious little that feels normal to me. So, here's to the lull. Here's to taking it slow. Here's to giving yourself lots of permission and time to rest because we're ALL doing the best we can with what we have to work with.
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