My husband suggested I give my bicycle to a neighbor who had no transportation. "Priscilla, you haven't ridden the bicycle for over a year. Our neighbor could really use it; I see him walking everywhere." I didn't have much of an argument. I kept thinking that I'd ride the bike someday. I would research the trails at a nearby park, and then I'd go on lots of adventures. I'd buy a helmet. I'd take the bike to the beach. Someday. I'd seen the neighbor too, carrying his back pack, every day walking up and down our street. And still the bike sat in the garage unused. I told my husband, "Give him the bicycle. I'm not going to use it." Every time I saw our neighbor on the bike, I felt good that he was getting some use out of it. But I had a feeling of regret that I'd never made a decision to go on those explorations I'd contemplated, that I'd never bought a helmet and set out to discover new trails.
I relegate ideas to the "someday" closet more often than I'd like to. Over these last months, managing medical treatments, I've been more prone to throwing things in that cupboard. The other night I sat on the couch watching television and eating crackers spread with Nutella. I looked out the window and observed that the blooms of our pink crepe myrtle tree were rinsed in afternoon light. I thought, "I used to take walks around this time of day, but I'm so weak, I probably can't make it very far. After these treatments, I'll start walking again." Then I thought, "But what if I didn't do that? What if I just walked a few yards. I don't really need to wait." I wiped the Nutella from my fingers and put on my walking shoes. Sprayed myself with insect repellent, donned my headphones. Even though the day was cooling off, it was still hot. I thought about turning back.
The seabreeze enticed me forward. I could feel the wind's freshness on my face long before I reached the edge of the tidal creek. I could hardly believe how much cooler it was down by the water, less than a mile away from my house. I noted how the wind gusts tousled the tidal waters as they flowed toward the ocean. I inhaled the tang of the muddy shoreline. Then I saw the bird's reflection hovering over the gray-green waters before I noticed him flying overhead. I'd come to refer to the pelican as my brother, I saw him so frequently at the creek hunting for fish. I raised my hand and called out softly, "Hello, brother pelican." My spirits lifted seeing him repeatedly dive for fish. I could tell he'd gotten a bite as I watched him gulp down his meal. Other birds fed at the tidal creek, the egrets and ibis ever hopeful of spearing a fish, the seagulls hovering and diving, discovering morsels to eat in the brackish waters.
As I stood watching the birds, I realized I'd almost missed coming this day--almost banished this walk into the closet of "someday," because I didn't move as fast as I usually did, because I was weaker than I'd ever been in my adult life. The birds were smarter than I. They came again and again, knowing they'd find nourishment and abundance at the creek's edge.
The sun glinted on the marsh grasses, like bright green arms reaching upward to show their gratitude of being in the afternoon beauty. I could feel stress leaking from my mind. I lifted my arms in gratitude as well, thankful for the cooling wind, for the sanctuary, for the revival that often comes from being in creation. A skein of peace now lay over my heart as I headed back home. Faster now.
Were I to proceed to tell you how much I enjoy...architecture, sculpture, painting, music I should want words.~Thomas Jefferson
Lately, I'm especially grateful for You Tube. I can find most anything I want there. I've been gravitating toward downloads of "best auditions" of people trying out for America's Got Talent or Britain's Got Talent or The Voice or X-Factor. What most fascinates me is the the look on peoples' faces when a little child begins belting out opera, or a disheveled man sits down at the piano and plays so beautifully you want to weep, or when a duo performs a magic act that leaves you gasping and asking, "How in the heck did they do that?" Or when dancers move with such grace and precision, you don't want the performance to end. The judges and audience just can't quite take it in, this drive of human beings to sing, to dance, to write songs and play instruments, to create...it's in our DNA, and I believe the great Creator placed it there in all of us, because he so loves to create and endowed us with the innate desire to make art. There's a slight catch, though. Creating takes patience. To create requires process.
When I scroll through the multitude of You Tube downloads and watch ten auditions in a row, thirsting for more, I forget something. I watched the two-minute audition. I got the finished product. I didn't see the hours and hours of that singer practicing in front of the mirror perfecting hand motions and body movement; I couldn't count the number of rejections the magicians received trying to get their act on the road. I probably have no earthly idea how long it to took the dancers to choreograph their piece--how many times they fell down and got back up. I can't measure the courage it took each person to try out. I probably can't fathom the number of times the artists must have felt like quitting.
But we don't quit. It's like walking along a solitary seahsore and finding a beach chair. There's no one around. We have the urge to sit down and look out over the horizon, take in the beauty and reflect on all that the geography entails--the silver waves, the thread of blue hugging the horizon, the feel of the wind in our hair. We keep looking for someone to join us, but we remain alone, just knowing somehow that we must record this moment, not let it get away. Remain patient. And a story emerges, or a song, or a dance, or a painting. Because we stopped. And then...
There's the process. Oh, the process of taking the inspiration to a finished product. Someitmes people ask me (and of course, I'm pleased when they do), "When is your next book coming out? Can't wait to see what you've got up your sleeve this time." But they are ready for the two-minute audition. A completed project, with all the editing completed, the grammar intact and a beautiful cover. "Well," I say, "The book's probably at least a year out." "That long, huh? Let me know when you publish." "Sure will. Thanks for asking." And I wonder to myself if I'll ever finish the rough draft. There are days and days and days and days in front of the computer. There are rounds of editing after the rough draft is finished. There's hiring out the cover art. There's a lot. Maybe I should just throw in the towel. I mean how many people are going to read the book anyway? Yet, I'm there at the beach. I can't let go of the story. Even though it's solitary at the seashore, there is something I must capture. I will let go of outcomes and engage with the beauty and repose of process. (Thought you might enjoy this download, a favorite audition of mine. Love this artist. My Funny Valentine is my favorite song.) Britain's Got Talent
Isn't it funny how you run across a message just when you need it? This week I was rummaging through my poetry file and found a poem I'd written in longhand after hearing it on NPR's, The Writer's Almanac. The poem is entitled, Lost, by David Wagoner. In part it goes like this...
Stand still.
The trees ahead and bushes beside you are not lost.
Wherever you are is called Here.
And you must trust it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers.
Then a kind friend (you know the type of friend who gently reminds you of what you already know?) sent an email reminding me of psychologist, Marsha Linehan's concept of radical acceptance. The construct includes these points:
Freedom from suffering requires acceptance from deep within of what is. Let yourself go completely with what is. Let go of fighting reality.
Acceptance is the only way out of hell.
Pain creates suffering only when you refuse to accept the pain.
Deciding to tolerate the moment is acceptance.
Acceptance is acknowledging what is.
To accept something is not the same thing as judging it good.
Between the poem and the reminder of radical acceptance I recalibrated my thinking--entered the "here." I have a terrible tendency to romanticize the past and think backward, allowing heady nostalgia to run amuck. "If only I could go back to 'what was,' then things would surely be better. I was young then and didn't appreciate my smooth skin and slender figure." Or just as bad, to run ahead of myself, "I'll certainly plan to get this done (fill in the blank here with any action step or goal) and all will be well. I will have finally arrived." Either kind of thinking is not helpful. So instead, this week I relished folding warm clothes just out of the dryer, appreciating my swift, instinctive movements and a stack of fresh-smelling t-shirts; when I held my grandson, I kissed the top of his head and breathed in his toddler fragrance, felt his soft palms on my arms; when I stepped on the scale, I accepted the number--"This is where I am today. All is well. I'm alive and in the here." Standing still. Listening. (The poem in its entirity.) Lost
Ease feels foreign--and suspicious.~Julia Cameron
In the dream I found myself driving hundreds of miles with no breaks. I drove so fast, I couldn't discern the territory I passed. I became exhausted and couldn't keep my foot on the accelerator. I nodded off, my chin slumping to my chest. Then I jerked awake, terrified to discover that I wasn't in my lane. I slapped my cheek and said, "You've got to keep driving. Go on." There was no thought of pulling over and resting. Onward I drove, confused and growing more desperate with each mile. Where was I headed? Finally, I followed a road that led to an expansive grove of trees and a sign that plainly announced my destination: "ROAD ENDS."
I awakened, only to drift back to sleep and dreamed again. This time I found myself in the crowded hallway of a hotel. People pushed and shoved each other attempting to get to their rooms. I didn't know where I was going. I simply allowed myself to be jostled along by the mass of people. Suddenly a tall man who stood well above the other people tapped me on the shoulder. He handed me a room key and said, "There is a room waiting for you on the fifth floor. Go there now. The room is yours for as long as you need it." I took the key and rode an elevator to floor five. When I unlocked the door to the room, I noted this was no ordinary lodging. As I walked through the suite, I discovered a sitting area with a comfortable chair and ottoman where I could relax and think. A study contained a desk that overlooked a balcony. A computer was there for my use. And a leather bound journal sat on the desk, filled with fresh, unlined pages for me to fill. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto a balcony enclosed with an ornate, wrought iron enclosure. One chair and a side table awaited my presence. I looked out over the wide expanse of ocean and breathed in the aromatic salty essence of the sea.
I woke suddenly, still enveloped in the beauty of that room. "God, what do these dreams mean?" I grabbed by journal to capture the details.
I believe that God was again tutoring me in the truth of grace and His thoughts toward me. The first dream captured the ugliness of self-effort and perfectionism--literally "driving" myself to the point of exhaustion--not giving myself a break to rest--self-effort that landed me in a destination that eneded in futility. All that effort for nothing. I often think this way. It's up to me to "just keep going." "Don't stop," I say. "If you stop, you'll lose out, you'll get behind and never catch up." This is often the voice of our culture that demands more and more and more. A dogmatic voice that insists on striving and perfectionism.
God's voice is not like this. His voice is encouraging, kind, loving, supportive. His voice invites rest and peace. In dream symbology, five is the number for grace. I sense this dream was intended as a message from Him that I step away from the road to nowhere and enter the luxury suite of the Grace Hotel. It is often in this unrepressed geography and latitude that we relax and begin to think more positively and regroup. As we take our ease, we gain strength and courage for the tasks He has called us to. Creativity and perspective is renewed. Joy returns. Our creator knows we need this opulent space, and invites us to stay as long as we need.
Another dream. I saw the number thirty. I've always been fascinated with dreams--believe that they can be messages from God. My husband thinks I'm slightly cracked, yet I am not put off by his doubts, and can understand his dubiousness, understand that my take is a bit weird--perhaps more than a bit. Dreams are mysteries. And I attempt to unravel them, first asking myself, "What might God be saying, what might He be hiding for me?"
My first avenue for decoding the number thirty included reading books of the Bible that have a thirtieth chapter. There really aren't many. I read things I didn't understand in Ezekiel and comforting words in Psalm 30, encouraging words in Deuteronomy, puzzling concepts in Leviticus. I recalled Rachel's and Jacob's love story in Genesis, the details God spoke to Moses in Exodus. Then in I Samuel I found the phrase I sense God hid for me: David strengthened himself with trust in his God (30:6, The Message).
The notion of strength intrigued me, because I am physically weak now, managing side effects of medication intended to make me well--eventually. How did David strengthen himself with trust in God? How do I accomphish this? A thought that came to me was remembering parenting my own children. When my girls were small, I'd put out my hand when we went about our errands, or when we were more adventurous and headed to amusement parks or to the zoo. They were rarely hesitant to grab hold of my hand. They trusted me to lead them, even when they weren't sure where we were headed. And I will never forget the sensation of their hands in mine. I could feel the dimpled flesh, the slightness. I relished that soft contact, glad to be their mother, happy that we could go places together. Delighted with their trust in me.
I thought of how God must enjoy it when I place my hand in His. Even when I don't know where the pathway leads, His firm grip is succor and strength, despite the uncertainty.
The thirtieh chapter of I Samuel goes on. David and his army had just been raided, their provisions, even their families stolen from them. David prays, Shall I go after these raiders? Can I catch them? The answer came, Go after them! Yes, you'll catch them! Yes, you'll make the rescue! (30:8, The Message). And surely, even when many of David's army grew too frightened to confront the enemy, their troop prevailed. All that had been stolen from him and his men was restored.
We are confronted with life's battles, whether it be vulnerabilities with health, not enough finances, relationship conflicts, loss of employment, loss of life, disappointments, broken commitments, unmet expectations. Things are stolen from us. What are our options when these battles and confrontations seem to overwhelm us? We can give up. Sometimes it does feel easier to select this option. "What difference does it make anyway if I fight; I'm probably going to lose; it's hopeless." When I was parenting my girls, I remember times when they would pull their hands from mine. They didn't know the dangers lurking about. And I would run after them, calling their names. I'd fear for their safety, pursuing them with all that was in me. And when once again, I felt their delicate palms in mine, relief flooded me. I only cared that they were safe again. I can only imagine that a loving heavenly Father feels that same way when we don't resist His pursuit, and hold out our hand to Him and say, "I trust you to keep me safe, to strengthen me, to restore the stolen things. I'll grab your hand and fight. I'm no good on my own."