I am unmoored easily--drifting off into melancholy waters almost effortlessly. Mired in the sticks. I am improving, though, in extricating my vessel and rowing away from those dim shores. And that is accomplished so often by changing my mind. What am I emphasizing in my life: What's wrong? What's not been done? The what ifs? I'd surely be happier if this or that was different. If that person would just change their stupid ways. I know better than to get stuck in this opaque sea. I have the power to think differently. And so I asked, "What's making me happy?"
I could almost feel the immediate change as I began rowing in a different direction. At work I looked around the table during our weekly meeting. I noted the talented, kind, compassionate people that I have the privilege to collaborate with. I hear of a lot of people who despise their work. I don't have that problem. Most days I can say I enjoy getting up and going to work.
Then that afternoon, I drove over to the grocery store. It is December, and I had my windows down, the sun and fresh wind pouring into the car. I sang along to Christmas carols--the sky purely blue. I drive a dependable car and have money in my pocket to buy plenty of food.
The next day I found myself at a favorite spot in my neighborhood--the tidal creek at the end of my street. I walk with headphones listening to Pandora (usually the Steely Dan channel). It was twilight, almost dark, later than I usually walk. I looked up at the sky, streamers of lavender and turquoise mingling into the fading light. A seagull glided silently by, its wings seemed to touch a cresent moon just beginning to glow. I raised my arms in gladness and breathed deeply.
As I moved through the week, I stopped to appreciate a hedgerow of holly, the berries plump and red. I inhaled the lucious scent of my three-year-old granddaughter as she sat peacefully in my lap munching raisins and telling me about her life. She'd just danced to a ballet she had choreographed and entitled "A Different Girl."
I'd done the same thing--pointed my vessel toward different waters. I have a choice each day--stay unmoored in an ocean of shadows, or pick up my oars and row toward the light.
I looked at my calendar for December--not much white space--all the little boxes filled in with something. Commitments, parties, shopping, decorationg. I felt overwhelmed and caught off guard. I thought I had chosen carefully this year--built in margin to create a more relaxed and tranquil holiday season. Yet the configurations on my calendar did not promise peace.
So my task I realized was to cut through the pandemonium. "But how?" I asked. One of my truest ways to cope is writing pages every morning before I start my day. I got the idea from Julia Cameron and her classic book on recovering creativity, The Artist's Way. Often the Morning Pages offer answers to living my life more creatively and sanely. There in those pages I "practice the scales of life," so to speak. I write about daily events and my emotions. There are prayers on the page. I record ideas and dreams. I recall good books I've read--movies that make an impact. The pages are the keyboard, the words the scales, to help me fine tune the melodies of my life and heart. I went to the pages again and looked back. These are a few coping strategies that assist me in cutting through the pandemonium:
~monitor life intensity--not too much or too little
~setting aside time with Jesus, my prince of wholeness--receiving His comfort, wisdom, love, healing, favor, anointing and peace
~taking life one day at a time--embracing incremental change
~reading good literature and watching artistic movies; following artists whose images bring me joy
~walking and staying out in nature as much as possible (especially appreciating the splendor of the sky)
~honoring time for solitude and rest--some of my most creative ideas come when I allow time to think, meditate and reflect
~promoting, encouraging and validating others, no matter their behavior, or what I would like their responses to be
~refusing to feel sorry for myself, but rather ask myself "What can I do?" then trusting God for what I cannot do.
~loving the people in my life
~letting go of perfectionism and finding some treasure in each day, no matter how unideal
The pages did their magic. I mowed down the chaotic life entanglements as I exposed myself once again to the strategies that help me most. I do not have to be a slave to the calendar and holiday madness. I can regroup, say "no" and find ways to decrease the stress by practicing self care. Just now my charming husband came to my study holding a minature, live Christmas tree with one red ornament hanging from its boughs and dusted with glitter. "I thought you might like this tree for your office." And surely that pine scent and lovely gesture is a heavenly embrace from that prince who desires me whole.
I dream often. I attempt to record these parables that come in the night watches, but frequently they melt from my memory like a light snowfull on a sunny, wintry morning. But not this one. The dream stayed with me.
Someone left a dog on my porch. The dog was golden with soft fur--as soft as those throws that you can buy now at department stores--that if you lie down on the sofa and cover yourself with them, you'll never want to get up. He was gentle and looked up at me with soulful blue eyes. I couldn't imagine anyone not claiming this gorgeous creature. I thought, "Could I keep him?" I hesitated. He wasn't mine. I looked for someone he might belong to, but there was no one. And so I imagined that he could actually be mine. He could be my friend. Someone to walk with. I love talking walks. I became joyful believing he and I could walk the road by my house together. His name was Elliott.
I awakened. I beleive that God can provide messages in dreams. What might He be saying to me? Names can carry meaning in dreams, so I looked up the meaning of "Elliott." It means "Jehovah is God." A tear leaked from my eye as I thought of God's tenderness toward me. I can be so terribly self-reliant--depending on my own efforts to get me through--stressing myself out with anxiety trying to do enough, trying to be enough, trying to please. My mantra: "Do, do, do. Then do more." This tendency in me is self-defeating. God would have me increase my ability to receive from HIm. Just like this beautiful dog, He drops off gifts to me. They are meant for me. They are mine. Gifts of His grace, His friendship; His shelter; His strength; His provision; His mercy; His goodness. He wants me to fully own them. And He delights when I walk with Him down my life road. He and I together, just as I would take pleasure in loving companionship walking with a dog like Elliott. May I seek to be a better receiver-- walking my path with a loving God, worries and cares, self-effort and anxiety cast away to the shadows, joy encircling me.
Courage! Take heart! God is here, right here...(From Isaiah 35:3, The Message)
The day was mild and blue. A zephyr breeze gusted lightly over our faces. The sun caressed us. Burgandy sequins on my gown glinted in the tranquil light. We celebrated this day. A wedding. My daughter, the bride, was sequestered away in all her finery. The groom stood under the chuppah, smiling and trim, formal and handsome in his tux. Waiting.
I could hear the guests, their voices a melodic murmur as they took their seats in wooden chairs placed on the green. I looked out over the horizon and several boats sailed silently through the cobalt harbor waters. I was an observer in that moment--just listening and watching and feeling as if I might have landed in an enchanted geography--whispers of Narnia. This was a place that simultaneously contained a sense of pleasurable expectation and a delicate feeling of nostalgia.
There was a recognition of healing--my ex-husband and I proud of our precious daughter. No hard feelings--just grateful that we could be friends and celebrate the completion of parenting. We had helped bring our darling girl to a place of maturity and beauty--not perfectly, but certainly very, very well.
And then I sat watching my cherished husband--his profile silhouetted in the afternoon sun. I could hear his laughter, see the flash of his smile. One hand rested on his knee, a silver bracelet encompassing his sturdy wrist. We could celebrate too--our love intact and authentic over these years.
At last the shofar blew--its trumpeting, regal tone resounded over the landscape. The bride walked confidently to meet her beloved. And we feasted. We wept tears of gladness. We embraced. The flags flew. And we looked to the future--eternity refected in our gaze.
My mother had a penchant for the underdog. She could also look profoundly glamourous when she wanted to, but mostly she wore brown rubber flip flops and a pair of my father's green plaid shorts that hit her just above the knee. She said they were the most comfortable thing she owned. Often I'd come home from school, and there she sat swinging her slender, bare leg back and forth, the worn flip flop dangling off her bony but dainty foot. "Put your books down," she'd say. "We're going to see the couple who visited us at church last Sunday." At that point, even at eight, I'd feel ambivalent. My mother had a habit of just popping in on people. Sometimes I'd feel embarassed, because I could sense discomfort when they stood in their doorways trying to hide the fact that the living room was a trainwreck. But my mother in her shorts and bright smile would say, "We were just so happy to see you last week at church. So glad you came. Just wanted to welcome you and invite you back." And almost a hundred percent of the time, those surprised folks would invite us in and offer us a glass of iced tea. Maybe it was the fact that my mother looked so unassuming wearing men's shorts and holding her little girl's chubby hand.
But then my mother could be exasperating too. She often told me, "You need to do something with that hair." Or when I complained about not having new clothes, she'd say, "You can only wear one outfit at a time." She put Vienna Sausage and mayo sandwiches in my lunch. Spam was a staple in her cupboard. When I was a teenager, she'd shake her head and say wistfully, "Youth is wasted on the young." She yelled at my grandmother (her mother) and drank instant coffee. She watched As the World Turns every single day.
I'll never forget one Sunday, though, the Sunday after Thanksgiving--back in the sixties. Our family was staunchly Presbyterian, and we rarely missed a Sunday. We usually sat on the same pew each week. In those days, women and little girls wore white gloves. On Sundays my mother looked glamorous. No more plaid shorts. She'd brush her auburn hair until it shone. She wore bright lipstick and high heels. Her eyes were emerald-green slivers beneath sunglasses she slipped on as she drove the silver-blue Ford Fairlane to the church to give thanks for all our plenty during that holiday season.
As we sat down in the pew, a family my mother and I had visited a few weeks prior sat in front of us. I could remember that after we visited them I'd remarked to my mother that their house smelled really awful, and when the lady of the house kissed my cheek as we said good-bye, her breath was sour. My mother replied, "Well, sometimes you just don't know what people are going through; it's best we show them the love of God and overlook the smells." When I saw this family, I was not thrilled. And then to my shock, I noted a shiny cockroach crawl from underneath the husband's coat collar. My mother saw it too, because she leaned forward, put her gloved hand on the man's shoulder and casually brushed the insect off his coat. As she bent and whispered in his ear, "So happy you could join us today," I watched that vile creature scurry down the pew and into the shadows.
I will always love my late mother for that act of kindness. And I remember her this Thanksgiving. I can just see her stuffing the turkey dressed in my father's shorts. Then she'd say, "I'm off to change." And sure enough, she'd come back from the bedroom transformed, there in her shirtwaist dress, pearls at her neck, smiling. Like Donna Reed.