His fingernails appeared ravaged, bitten down to the quick, like he'd seen a decade of panic. I stood at the counter while the man pecked on his keyboard, typing up the service bill for my car. I was only about a foot from those terrible-looking nails, and there was part of me that wanted to reach out and grasp his hand and ask him what was so bad in his life. "What happened, sir?" Yet we don't do those kinds of things. Maybe we should. And, I'm ashamed to admit, my compassion for him began to evaporate when he tried to sell me services my car did not need. Maybe therein contains the anxiety. All that hard sell. He was a nice man. Why should he have to do that for his job? Couldn't he just be real and say, "I think an oil change is all you need." And so it goes...life churning and moving, with all its dailiness and ever-changing cultural fears that surface for everyone.
My boss sat in our weekly meeting and looked around the table--the nurse practitioners, the counselors, the peer support specialists, the social workers. "You guys look tapped out. Let's end the meeting. Go do some self-care." Surely we'd all had a rough week at the clinic, more and more patients homeless, overdosing, almost dying. Helping people reduce harm and getting support had taken its toll, like the man and his chewed-up nails. We were weary, like a spigot with a scant stream, the water supply almost dry.
The week had seen my spirit tattered, not only with work, but also with the knowledge of the Corona Virus and the stock market crash. All my husband's family lives in northern Italy. I'm on the cusp of retirement. Would his family be safe? Would all my savings vaporize right before my eyes?
I hadn't worked out in a week. I had to get outside. Had to breathe. Had to heed my manager's admonition to get some self-care.
At sunrise, I headed for the tidal creek, hoping to see the marsh birds. When I arrived, the sun shone orange and bright-tempered, the creek at lowtide. I stood on the shore and peered through a curtain of Spanish Moss hanging from the ancient oak. No birds in sight. But then, as if they sensed my need to see them, the birds began to arrive. The egrets and ibis and ducks congregated on the exposed land, long beaks spearing fish, white feathers catching the sunlight. Seagulls called and screeched, but not unpleasantly. I loved to hear their cries, see them soar in the pink-tinged sky. The blue heron bowed its curved neck to drink. Did the marsh birds know? Did they realize they were my mentors? These resilient and persistent creatures were not worried. Not fretting. Not overcome with panic. I would stay awhile longer. Learn from them.
Look at all the birds--do you think they worry about their existence? They don't plant or reap or store up food, yet your Heavenly Father provides them each with food. Aren't you much more valuable to your Father than they? So, which one of you by worrying could add anything to your life?~Matthew 6: 26-27 (From The Passion Translation)
I turned and found a bench tucked away, facing the landscape. It had the last of the sun and an unusual aspect, one private but yet with an open, panoramic view of the country. A good place from which to look out, I thought; a good pace to hide; a good place to cry. I sat down and hoped no one would remove this bench; that it would remain there till the end of time.~Hisham Matar (From A Month In Siena)
I kept going back to the dream. A man I did not recognize came to me and said, "The baby is yours." He held in his arms a little girl, maybe about three months old, dressed in green and pink. Barefoot, her infant feet plump and soft. Blue eyes gazed at me, serene. The man gently placed her in my arms, and without any fretting, the baby relaxed on my shoulder and promptly fell asleep. I ran my hand over her vulnerable head. At her temple, I could see faint blue veins under the surface of her perfect skin. I bent to kiss her forehead, inhaling her fragrance. Her newness. Her warmth.
When I awakened, I felt as if the child was still in my arms. What could I make of this, other than the sheer pleasure it brought to me? I remembered my own children, when they'd sleep on my shoulder. When I could have gone on rocking them for days, just to listen to the surrender of their gentle breathing. I could remember thinking how nice it was to take a break and simply hold them. Let the list of to dos fall away. Allow the stillness. And then, after a while, they'd raise their heads, rub their eyes and scurry down from my lap. I could remember those brief moments of relaxation and how the peacefulness made a difference in the day. Calmed me.
I wondered if my dream was about receiving from God. Perhaps He wanted me to experience more of His grace, like I'd hold a baby, allowing time for Him to minister His peace and love to me. What if I could receive His kindness in the midst of this time in our culture that can leave one feeling unanchored and bewildered? What if I was a more skillful receiver of His comfort and goodness?
A few years ago, Giovanni and I traveled to Barcelona, and I took a photo of an elderly woman sitting on a secluded bench holding a small dog. The two sat looking out over a park. And still they sat when we returned from our lunch. Maybe they'd been there an hour or more. Enjoying each other's warmth and company. I envied them a bit.
It can be counter-culture now--to be still when we've lost so much control. It feels counterintuitive to expect God's grace, to surrender to it. Yet I can choose to. I have that control. I can hold the baby close. Allow the pause. Allow the warmth. Find the bench tucked away. Receiving grace seems an important tool during these uncertain days.
The tiny heartbreaking commonplace, yes indeed.~Patti Callahan from Becoming Mrs. Lewis, The Improbable Love Story of Joy Davidman and C.S. Lewis
Sometimes I feel the weight of my history. Time stacked up, rising upward. Day by day. Hour after hour. Time moving, coursing so rapidly that even if I wanted to slow it, I couldn't. It is more beneficial to focus on the present rather than placing my hand on my brow, shielding my eyes and looking up at that accumulated mound of time. When Joy Davidman died, her husband, C.S. Lewis, wrote in A Grief Observed, "I know that the thing I want is exactly the thing I can never get. The old life, the jokes, the drinks, the arguments, the lovemaking, the tiny, heartbreaking commonplace." Yes, these are the things I want as well. So let me focus on them while they still exist.
I open the cupboard to fetch a cup for my coffee. On the top shelf sits a jar of instant coffee that Giovanni and I resort to during the hurricanes here in South Carolina. When we have no power and can't make a hot cup of Hazelnut or French Vanilla. Giovanni heats the water on the side burner of the gas grill, and we pour boiling water over the brown crystals. We welcome the surge of caffeine, the taste bitter, even with massive amounts of sugar and cream kept cold in a cooler with the last of the ice. Daily, I see that jar with the yellow label that states, "Every Morning Essentials." I have a secret wish that we never have need of its contents again. But its presence is a reminder, too, that we have survived multiple storms over the years in this extravagant and peculiar coastal territory, sitting in the dark, the candles burning, drinking that hot, acrid brew. Safe together.
Then the end of the week draws near, the duty and responsibility of work weighty too. I lay on my husband's chest, my palm resting over his heart. The comfort of that rhythmic pulse and the warmth of his body brings me comfort, grace at the end of the day. I kiss him goodnight, relieved that God created the night watches so that I can sleep and be restored for the next day. In this rushing flow of time, I pray, "God, open my awareness to the place where the sacred and secular intersect. The tiny, heartbreaking commonplace that is so wildly poignant. So dear."
Clue: the next right thing is tiny, nonthreatening, and right in front of you. Do that thing.~From It's Never Too Late To Begin Again by Julia Cameron
I'll never forgot who taught me the expression, "The Next Right Thing." The woman sat in my office, a colleague, and said, "I'm not sure what to do about taking the job in California. It's a great opportunity, and I'm scared to leave Charleston. My family is here, my recovery community is here. Overall, I like my job." She paused, her forehead wrinkling, lips pressed together. She placed her hands on the chair cushion, elbows locked, and leaned forward. She smiled. "Guess I'll just do the next right thing."
The slogan made sense, and I borrowed it from that lovely woman who eventually made it to California by following the stepping stones of "the next right thing."
I used the phrase this weekend when I awakened feeling pressured to get things done. Be productive. "It won't be so overwhelming if you just take the next step, Priscilla. The next right thing. What's next?"
The day unfolded...
I kept my appointment at the beauty salon and got my hair cut. I was relieved that I had not cancelled. The head massage and freshened look relieved some of the pressure.
Next I filled my gas tank. The light signaling that I was running on fumes was no longer blinking red on the dashboard. The full tank heartened me. "Such a simple thing to get gas, " I thought. I began to feel my motivation increasing.
And then...
I arrived home and sorted the laundry. The fragrance of the laundry soap and bleach commingled. The smell seemed to buoy my spirits. It was only 10 a.m. and already the melancholy had lifted.
But the house! The realtor was coming the next day to give us feedback on what upgrades we'd need to do before selling. I looked around and witnessed the essence of my procrastination over the weeks--dust and crumbs--surfaces stacked with the stuff of everyday life. "Okay, just do the next thing," I said to myself. For encouragment, I turned on a movie I'd been wanting to watch. "For every task you complete, you can watch fifteen minutes of the movie." I emptied the dishwasher and put the dirty dishes inside, then bleached the sink. Movie. I cleared, then bleached the counter surfaces. Movie. I folded the warm, now bright-white towels and put them away. Movie. And on and on and on until the house shone. "The next right thing" a tool as handy as my dust cloth and can of "Pledge."
My husband mopped and created a flower arrangement from his garden. Made the outside gleam. The realtor stated, "You've staged this house beautifully."
And today? I haven't been able to leave the Psalms lately when reading the Bible. "Is this the right path?" I asked. "Should I stay in one book?" I thought, "The poetry is so beautiful. I love this place. Just read the next Psalm." And that's what I did.
My mountain of hiding, my pathway of escape, my tower of rescue where none can reach me. My secret strength and shield around me.~From Psalm 18:2 (The Passion Translation)
Once upon a time, you had it all beautifully sorted out. Then you didn't.~Sarah Bessey (From Out of Sorts)
The week felt long, even though it was four days of work instead of five. I'd meant to be extra productive on the MLK holiday--feedback to the artist regarding the website, a vigorous walk, recording quotes I'd discovered from the books I've read, emails to loved ones, researching potential submissions...I did none of it. I had such good intentions, and I'd started out well. I'd gone to Lab Corps to have my blood drawn for a physical later in the week. I'd fasted prior to the labwork, my growling stomach acting as some sort of gold medal that I was doing all the right things that morning. Yet when I got home, I felt exhausted, even after eating my healthy flaxseed muffin that I make almost every day. It was as if that blood draw had sucked out more than blood, draining my energy and psychological resilience as well. "Okay," I said to myself, "Let me sit in this sunny corner of my house and read--just two articles from the Paris Review (I'd bought the subscription for a personal Christmas present). Two articles, then two more, and then I picked up a new library book. I'd meant to get up from that chair and begin my list, the "tik-tok" of my clock like a calming presence there in the sunlit corner. I didn't want to get up. So I stayed until the sun set, until it was time for bed. Then I moved three feet and crawled under the covers and slept, warding off feelings of guilt that I'd gotten nothing done.
That next day I analyzed the guilt. I've learned not to dwell in that negative space too long. What was the emotion trying to articulate?
I thought I'd decided on a plan for the future, a paradigm for retirement--had it all laid out. But over the last several months, I'd decided on some major changes about where I'd live. I felt as if I was standing near a precipice. I'd backed away from the edge to gain a running start, garnering strength and courage to make the leap to the other side. Could I really do it? It felt like a gallon of adrenaline surged through my limbs. I felt the fear. The doubt. Was it no wonder that I spent the entire day avoiding the enormity of my ambivalence regarding this decision? My silent prayer, "Oh, God how will I ever make that leap on my own? How will I ever do it?"
Then a peaceful realization. An answer. Comfort. "You won't need to make the leap. I've created a bridge. I'll walk beside you. There will be pauses and time for reflection amidst the steps you'll take. No guilt. No shame. A passage to the other side."