Earlier this week, I felt as if someone or something had diluted most of my strength and energy. When I could no longer push through the lethargy to keep working, I allowed the depletion to lead me to a coping tool that can sometimes support me in feeling better. I found Jason Stephenson on YouTube some months ago. He has a soothing voice, and guides the listener through deep breathing and guided imagery. This is what happened...
During the meditation, I envisioned myself in a warmly lit room surrounded by walls of eclectic drawers--blue, turquoise, rose,white, teal and red. Orange. When I opened a drawer, it contained an element of my life--a memory or a photo or an event. There was no judgment or anxiety on my part toward any object or memory I discovered in the drawers. The multitude of remembrances and memory created an alchemy that yielded a valuable whole.
A chair was positioned in the middle of the room, facing a new set of drawers that I'd not yet examined or opened. I sat on the chair's soft and expansive cushions and fell silent in my solitude. I could hear my breath. I relaxed. I sensed that one of the drawers contained an object. I rose from the chair, pulled open the drawer and found a folded sheet of paper. This ended the meditation, and I felt curious about what might be written on that sheet of paper.
In my study I have decorative containers with lids. I hide scraps of paper with quotes, ideas, and Scripture written on the strips that I want to remember. After the meditation, I lifted the lid from one of my vases and pulled out the first piece of paper my fingers touched. I unfolded the paper to read:
But I will sing of your mighty strength and power; yes, I will sing aloud of your mercy and loving-kindness in the morning; for You have been to me a defense (a fortress and a high tower) and a refuge in the day of distress.~Psalm 59:16.
That morning, I'd read Psalm 59 as a means to help me start the day. And while I always love the Psalms, the beauty and poetry of the Word did not refuel the emptiness that I felt.
But then God in His mercy, kept pursuing me, even in my fatigue. He led me to the meditation and the room of drawers, helping me to embrace the beauty and alchemy of my life and encouraging me that there were more drawers to fill as I move forward. I asked myself, "What do I want to fill my drawers with now as I move forward into a 'new normal'?" "What will I create?" "What will I let go?"
Perhaps you'd like to sit in your metaphorical room of drawers and rest a bit. To pause and slow your pace. To gather your courage and anchor into peace. Listen to your life and breath. God's grace and strength be with you.
I am tired now of the responsibilities. Fatigue comforts my weary bones;
Too tired to long, too tired to desire,
I rest in the surety of your strength,
Cradled.~Kari Kristina Reeves (From Canyon Road, A Book of Prayers)
The word came to me. Landed softly in my brain. Maybe I needed that little word that meant big, immense. Vast was the word. I hung onto it, and the word led to a memory. A remembrance that emerged as a photograph, like paper sloshed in solution in the sanctuary of a darkroom.
I was five and stood with my father near the edge of the Grand Canyon. He held my hand, but we didn't speak. Just gazed at the grandeur. I remember the "vastness." I didn't have that word in my vocabulary at age five, yet I witnessed the definition. I remembered, too, the feeling of wonder and the feeling that I was the loved child of my father. As a five-year-old, I'm certain that I felt no obligation or duty to make sense of anything other than the moment of love with my dad and the enjoyment of the resplendent view.
Can I do that now?
It's hard. I'm ambivalent about going back to work, fear singeing the edges of my emotions. So many more potential contact points for COVID. And all the supplies I'll need to think about. Disinfecting surfaces. Lysol. Gloves. Masks. All of it seems like too much.
Perhaps I can recall the moment at the Grand Canyon. Can I revel in the closeness and strength of my heavenly father, trusting in the vastness of His love? Can I hide in the expanse of His glory and radiance? Shelter in His rest, knowing that I'm seated with Jesus at the Father's right hand?
My striving only causes burn out.
Let me inhabit the vastness, the surety of His strength. Cradled.
...what we wish for most, even more than paradise, is to be recognized.~Hisham Matar (From A Month in Siena)
How could this be happening? I watched as hundreds of caskets were covered with dirt, the unclaimed bodies of the dead in New York buried at a mass gravesite. The announcer on BBC World News America said something like, "One of the most well-loved cities in the world, in the richest country in the world has resorted to mass graves during the COVID-19 pandemic." The darkness of the reality matched my feelings of despair on Good Friday, of all days. I couldn't quite believe that so many people had died, not only in the United States, but all over the world.
I have questions. I ask God, "What good can come of this?" While my faith quivers in light of this world trauma, I still believe that God can work things out for good. Like He did after Good Friday. The cross was a way that He saw us, saw that we needed a savior. But when that good man, that good shepherd died, it was hard to believe that anything positive could come of it. And then Easter. The day life came back. The miracle that gives us hope now.
In these unlit times, my sisters and I have been exchanging YouTube videos that help restore hope. I include a twelve-minute video that one of my sisters shared here that may bring you encouragement, dear readers. The God Who Sees
God's peace. He is risen! He is risen indeed!
I feel exhausted. It takes energy to be intentional, to carry on, to maintain the basics. Please, though, let me not despise the manna.~Journal entry during the COVID-19 Pandemic
My coffee cup sits on the table by my reading chair. I note the lipstick mark that encircles the white rim. Why do I bother with lipstick when I'm at home? Yet I cling to that tube of ginger spice that I bought at the Dollar General a few days before the shelter in place mandates took effect. Little did I know then when I browsed the aisles of the store for lipstick and cheap sunglasses, that day would mark an ending to life as I knew it. Maybe that's why I smooth ginger spice over my lips in the morning, the gesture like a ritual, the bright color like a badge of assurance that all will be well.
But then the news.
Giovanni's mother, Emma, tested positive for COVID-19.
The news is a shock. Emma lives in a care home in Italy--the country where thousands have died of the deadly and silent killer. We learn that she is asymptomatic, and this is good news, that she is not physically suffering. But like so many people all over the world, she is without the physical presence of her family. This is hard on Emma, hard on everyone who loves and cares for her. Emma is 95. Overall, she is healthy and cognitively alert. She has eyes the color of the sea. They shine with light and intelligence from her face. She loves God. She calls me "cara" (dear in Italian). You would like her. You would love her.
I boldly ask your prayers for Emma. Pray for her peace. Pray that she would experience the presence of Jesus, His tenderness, His love. His protection. Pray that she would live. That we would see her again.
I put on more lipstick, my hand over my heart, as I pray for Emma, perhaps the brightness of the ginger spice another gesture, like an emblem of faith that she will be well.
Dr. Pauline Boss coined the phrase "ambiguous loss" in the 1970s to describe two types of loss; the first is physical absence with psychological presence (anything from a loved one being lost at sea to experiencing a divorce or adoption). The second is physical presence with psychological absence (a loved one with dementia, for example). These are complicated, confusing kinds of losses that resist closure or resolution.~Rachel Friedman (From And Then We Grew Up--On Creativity, Potential, And The Imperfect Art Of Adulthood)
I've vacillated between these two types of losses during the Pandemic. Some days I've felt the absence of all I knew pre COVID-19--coming and going as I pleased, taking for granted the self-checkout at the library without a thought of asking myself, "Who's been touching this screen before me?" Seeing in person and hugging my children, grandchildren and friends. Then other days I've been a physical presence to my husband, yet exhibited psychologically distant behaviors, detachment a go-to. Not saying much.
Perhaps I practice the discipline of grieving that Henri Nouwen, late theologian, speaks of in his writings. Grief and lament can be a current to take me where I need to go. I've asked myself, "What am I to learn from this experience? What am I to do? What are new thought patterns that can emerge from moving forward through this lock down?"
Embracing stillness is one of my lessons. On weekends, I feel subtle pressure to permit only a certain amount of time to read and record findings. I force myself to pack up my notebooks and sigh, "If only I had another couple of hours." Yet I feel too guilty to indulge, thinking, "I've got to do the laundry or run errands or do the filing or, or or...Yesterday I found myself in an entirely different mode. I sat for hours, with no deadline, underlining discoveries in a new book with yellow highlighter, then wrote out my observations. It was as if I'd found a bench at sunset, and allowed myself to sit and watch the sun depart, the sky turn velvet, waiting for the stars to appear. Shining friends to keep me company.
Stillness led me to another lesson where I asked myself who I wanted to be as a result of this increased solitude. I wrote:
There is an amalgamation formulating during the Pandemic--a cystallization of my own ideals--leading me to think about the type of person I want to be, the kind of qualities I want to exhibit to others, the legacy I want to leave behind for my family. The formation coming together feels somewhat fragmented. The only word that I can think to describe what I'm trying to piece together is love. The particles beginning to solidify include generosity, mercy, vulnerability, rest, gratitude, listening, kindness, acceptance, compassion, empathy, forgiveness, joy, strength, wholeness, peace, beauty and light. I know these fragments are all attributes of God. I can only demonstrate them by the power of His grace.
Perhaps I'm feeling in synch with the earth. She's exhaling in relief, not having to contend with so many people in her wake. It's as if she's resting on the bench of contemplation, catching her breath, embracing the stillness, praying we people will be good students.