Cornered.

Have you ever been backed into a corner by snarling dogs who were just trying to get a bit of you and you had to kick and punch to get out?

Yeah, me neither.

(Though there was that one time that two boxers attacked me on my bike a couple weeks back. But I digress.)

Now, have you ever felt backed into a corner? Emotionally? Spiritually? Relationally? Whatever-elsely?

This post is about to get real.

Going into the month of May, all I could think was, "I wish we didn't have to celebrate my birthday this month. Because this month is going to give me a metaphorical black eye." I have always had a tendency to bite off more than I can chew, and May was a prime example of that. I committed myself to too many events, too many relationships, too many jobs, too many causes. My sleep suffered. My relationships suffered. It was bad. When May was over, all I could think was "PHEW." I had survived and I waved my champion flag. But then June came. And I hadn't really cut back all that much. I think, and I'm just sorting this out really, that if May gave me the metaphorical black eye I was expecting, June metaphorically sucker-punched me in the stomach.

Back in the day when my little brother was still, well, littler, than me, he was chronically very sick. He would be quite pleasant with the doctors and then scream at my parents and me all the time. My parents once mentioned this to a wise nurse. She was unsurprised. "He feels safe with you," she explained. "With you, he can really express the way he feels inside, the pain he is feeling."

Bless you, wise nurse.

Isn't that true? When something is hurting us or bothering us deep down, the ones we snap at first are our family members, our best friends, our loved ones. And my poor love has been hearing a lot of my misdirected anger the past month.

I've been angry, you guys (and girls). That's a difficult emotion for me because it feels out of control and scary. I think, deep down in my heart, I am craving space. nature. beauty. slowness. ease. grace. peace. early bedtimes, slow morning routines. time alone. kairos. But that's not been happening.

So as June draws to a close (AND THERE'S ONLY TWO MORE MONTHS TO WAIT UNTIL I MARRY MY BESTIE AND MY LOVE), I am taking a deep breath.

And another.

And another.

Maybe one more.

I have been feeling backed into a corner. Because of that I have been fearful, irritable, and lashing out whenever something starts to encroach on my teeny weeny space. But guess what?

There's no corner. It's all open fields and grassy plains.

Open fields of July. And the sun is shining.

My dear friend Amanda recently stayed with me. She suggested that I sign up to receive the "ennea-thought of the day." The enneagram is a whole 'nother post in itself. That I probably will never write. It's sort of like a holistic personality assessment thing. Without going into more detail about it, let me share what it sent me for today:

 For real change to occur, you will always need awareness, dedication, and perseverance. How much are you really interested in these things?

And so, for this month, I rededicate myself to making space to ponder, pray, wonder, be slow, trust that the birds won't fall out of the sky if I stop worrying. It will require awareness, dedication, perseverance. But maybe, just maybe, if I allow my soul to rest, I can stop being so angry, And start being real.

Love and hope dear ones.

Is it just me, or do you run out of words too??

Sometimes when I've been talking
talking
talking
for days on end,
I run out
of words.

Just.like.that,
I have nothing to say.

And so I must read voraciously,
filling my mouth and my soul and my mind
then
be quiet to digest.

Then I find words to speak. 

On snow and spring flowers

I awoke with a start. I slid my head under the curtain and parted the mini blinds with my fingers. Still no snow. "We're definitely having work," I thought. By the time seven thirty rolled around, fluffy flakes were pelting the ground. As I pulled on my boots, I decided to use the bathroom before beginning what would certainly be a long, soggy journey. While I was washing my hands, Carolyn's phone rang. It was Caleb. "Don't go to work!" he exclaimed. "What?" I couldn't believe it. Work was cancelled and I had been so close to heading out in the blizzard. I flopped on the couch, grateful, but wondered what I was going to do next.

******************

The second time was less stressful. I had a working cell phone and work was called off a day in advance. I slept in and marveled again at the way the new snow laced the trees and softened the world around  us. Winter gives me life. The way that snow delicately covers even the finest leaf is a poetry more beautiful than I could ever explain. It would take an entire book to explore the beauty of looking out your window while the snow is still slowly falling. The softness nestles into my heart and changes me a little. 

*****************

I look out my window again. Snow is long melted. Rains have come that last for a week, let up mercifully for the weekend, then return again to start Monday off on an extra sleepy note. Where once there was snow, now there are flowers, delicately blooming against the grey sky. Trees are coated in blossoms. The temperature is unpredictable and as finicky as an old oven at Christmas time, but it doesn't matter because there is so much GREEN everywhere. Nourished by the snow days, spring has come again. I feel it in my heart too.

Poetry and Ferocious Termites

Life's been really busy lately.

Everybody says that. Including me. My tendency is to make the merry-go-round go faster and faster until I can't see straight and everything looks like a blur. When I was little, I only liked going on merry-go-rounds if the person promised to spin slowly. I've been trying to listen though, because I believe that life is poetry, but poetry isn't loud or invasive. Poetry is a quiet whisper that we can only hear when we slow down and listen for the breeze.

Recently, I've been feeling really empowered. Really strong. I wake up ready to face the day. I am not sure where this attitude came from, other than receiving a lovely compliment on Friday and the spring hinting at being somewhere close. I've been riding this wave, enjoying how strong I feel, how much I can get done.

Tonight I spent the evening with Caleb. When it was time to go home, I found myself inexplicably frustrated - at the time, at the fact that I had to go home (as I'd much rather just stay with Caleb), at the fact that I didn't bring my coat inside and I knew it would be cold out. My coat. It was the tipping point.

I got in the car and ate a bar of chocolate Caleb had shared with me. With my coat on. "What just happened?" I asked myself. "Why did not having your coat make you feel that way? Get it together. You're strong, remember?"

The anxiety surged. I think if anxiety could make noises, it would sound like if you magnified the sound of termites eating away at the strong wood "Numnimnemnumnem".

"What's your deal?" I said to the anxiety, this time a little less nicely. "Get out of here."

I remembered being quiet and how sometimes poetry is found in the most unlikely places. I stopped feeling sour at myself and tried a new question for the feelings inside. "I feel you. I see you. What do you need from me?"

In that moment, the anxiety ceased to make that termite feeling/sound. It was like it stepped out from behind the mask and said, "Thanks. I just needed to be seen."

We drove home, listening to the classical music they play sometimes at night on the radio. 

A Story

It was Sunday, and we'd just gone out to eat for Caleb's sister Marissa's birthday. We spent some quiet down time that afternoon at my house, then headed to the evening service at church. As we were walking inside, Caleb turned to me suddenly and whispered, "I love you." We say this to each other pretty frequently, but walking into church is not a typical moment for this to happen. It felt... extravagant and came as a surprise. Before I could respond, I had to catch my breath. Once inside, we sat in church, a few rows back from where we normally sit. As we proceeded with all the usual church activities, I had an arm linked through Caleb's arm. During a song, Caleb reached his other hand around and squeezed my arm that was linked through his. He smiled down at me, beaming with love. I felt my stomach whoosh upwards, and wondered what was going on.

Halfway through this sermon, Caleb leaned over and told me he wasn't feeling well and was going to step out. I had been craving some alone time and so I tried not to worry about him, focusing on the service and enjoying the space. After Communion, I went downstairs to find the restroom. I wondered where Caleb might be, or if he was okay. He sometimes goes downstairs to think or pray during a service. As I opened the door from the bathroom, I saw him slipping into the community room under the sanctuary. I thought about following him, but decided against it. "If he needed me, he would have texted," I reasoned, as this is the normal pattern. I made up my mind not to follow him, letting him have his space. I went back up and started composing a text on my phone, "Are you okay?" I typed. Before I clicked send, I got a text from him. I opened the message.

I smiled, and typed a quick reply, affirming that I would. I savored the rest of the service, but as I put away my phone and stood up to sing, my intuition whispered, "This could be it." I tried to brush it away, but my heart beat faster, my palms grew sweaty. I tried to shove my intuition in a closet in my mind - I wanted to be surprised, darn it! - but to no avail. After the last song finished, I burst out of there and clattered down the stairs. The doors to Banner Hall were closed.

I stepped inside and Caleb stood up quickly from his position near the door. I searched his face and saw joy and a little bit of nervousness. These are not the normal emotions I see when I meet him to pray after church. My intuition elbowed me in the stomach, causing me to unconsciously giggle nervously, though I didn't realize this until much later when Caleb recounted it to me. Caleb turned off the only light in the basement and led giggling and arm-gripping me to the stage where I had taught everything from Isaiah to Kids' Yoga.





As we passed through the parted curtains, we were transplanted to what felt like a magical forest grove. Caleb had set up candles, pillows, and blankets.  It was there, surrounded by trees and candles with pillows underfoot (and under bottom?), that he professed his deep love and asked me to marry him.

I obviously said yes. And then we hugged for about 5 minutes before Caleb showed me the ring, which was tiny and perfect and has a little white sapphire. We then proceeded to bask in the moment and take it all in. Caleb shared all the little white lies he'd told over the preceding days and I congratulated him on how sneaky and calm he'd been. Then he said, "Also, I have dinner warming in the oven." 

 BAM! Engagement paella, made lovingly by Caleb over his grill that morning:

We couldn't eat very much because we were too excited, so we ate a little, stayed in our magical forest land where a few weeks earlier, I'd showed elementary kids what frankincense smells like, and wondered at the gift of love.

Stability

Something I love about the church calendar is that it marches on regardless of how you feel. Something I don't really like about the church calendar is that it marches on regardless of how you feel.

The ecclesiastical year begins about a month before the calendar year, with Advent. The years go by in a three-count circle, creatively named year A, B, and C. Advent and Lent are remarkably similar times of waiting, preparation, and reflection.

For a number of years, I felt like I was in a perpetual Advent, always waiting, knowing that something good was at hand... but not here yet. Every year I wanted Advent to be longer, I sunk into it and knew I was at home. This year and last year, I waited with great anticipation for Advent, but it no longer felt like my season of life. It will probably come back around in the "year B" of my life and then again in "year C", whenever those start.

I'm not sure what liturgical season I feel connected to now. Maybe Pentecost, a time of fiery activity, rejoicing, confusion, general chaos and newness. I don't think it's an accident that a celebration like Pentecost marks the beginning of what, liturgically, is called Ordinary Time. Ordinary - you know, chaos, people eating things that were once forbidden, Jesus having left them, the disciples making a lot of messes and then beautiful things rising anyway.

Today is Good Friday. Three years ago, I spent all of Holy Week at a monastic community in France called Taize. Good Friday was the incredibly powerful climax of the week. I had questioned monks, been in dialogue with people my age from around the world, meditated and prayed.

At 3:00 pm, bells tolled around the grounds marking the hour of Jesus' death. Everyone stopped and was silent for five minutes. Hundreds and hundreds of people. Silent. Remembering the story that we are all connected to and contemplating it. And some of them were probably thinking normal thoughts like "Has it been five minutes? Is it okay if I sneeze? Gosh I have to use the bathroom. My leg itches."

I was silent though, letting the wind on the hill whisper through my open fingers.

I understood the mystery of this day in a way I hadn't before and haven't since. I wish I could feel that way every year, but emotions are pretty fickle. The church calendar brings us through Lent, Good Friday, Easter, and Pentecost no matter where we feel we are. And so today, I hold closely the memory of that day on a hillside in France and know that it is holy. 

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”  - Ralph Waldo Emerson

(P.S. This is a great blog. http://momastery.com/blog/ )