I am not very familiar with stillness. In many ways, I have forgotten how to rest. Recently, I got reacquainted with this part of me. I went to a lecture at our church, and I went to this lecture, sick. I was fatigued and nauseous for whatever reason, but I felt compelled to see
Walter Brueggeman, a famous Old Testament scholar, speak. I thought it might be boring or way over my head. But what he shared ended up being very relevant and affirming to what I am experiencing in my life right now, particularly in relation to slowing down. My learnings did not only arise from what Brueggeman shared, but also from my experience during the time I was there. I am not alone in this unfamiliarity with stillness and solitude. It is a cultural, as well as personal, issue, I dare to say.
As I listened intently to Dr. Brueggeman, I became distracted at times by my body. My body was not well. And during the break, I rested my head on my black fleece cape and I stretched my legs out on the pew. I felt a tad awkward as I did this. The voice inside of me yelled, "You are not supposed to lay down in public! And for God's sakes, not at church in the pew! How disrespectful!" This voice got quieter as I softened and let my body sink into the red velvet cushion underneath me. I closed my eyes and began to rest. And then people began walking by me. One woman said, "Wake up!" and tapped my leg. And then another woman, graciously nudged me, "Maybe you should go home, honey." And then, bless his heart, another man that I love said, "Oh, I thought you were George, the homeless man." That made me laugh. And one woman, came by and stroked my head and put the back of her hand on my forehead, in a very motherly way, and said, "Do you have a fever, honey?" I noticed every voice outside of me that morning, was a voice that I have carried around within me for years. The minute I wish to rest, even if I am not sick, I hear inside of me, "Wake up!" Or, "Get out of here, don't let people see you
like this!" Or, "You are useless when you are not doing anything, Jenny!" And then there is a little care in me, the mother that touches me and says, "How can I help you, honey?" And now, my body, with all of the sickness it has been through this winter, is crying out for rest. And I am finally listening.
For the remainder of the morning at the church, I watched this storyteller/scholar weave us in
and out of the Old Testament, with grace. And it was at the end that he brought it all home for me. This white-haired wise man came out from behind the podium, and I felt as if he were speaking directly to me when he said something like this, "We have been told that to be the best person in this life, is to be the biggest, the fastest, the strongest, and the most productive person." And then he crouched down, with a sparkle in his eye, and in a whisper, he said, "And that my friends, is a lie."
The second after he finished, I tucked my black cape around me quickly, my face wet with tears, and I sneaked out of the church. I cried these tears, from deep down in my belly, all the way home. I know that I am slowly letting go of the lie. I can feel it. And I am holding on to life and my faith. Today I begin a sabbatical from many "doings", including this computer. I want to explore what it means to
live life. I want to swim, eat, garden, sing, dance and cry in truth. And to do that, I must slow it all WAY down. And, starting today, I intend to try. Please keep me in your prayers, as I extract myself from many of my doings, some of which I have defined myself by for what seems like forever, and sink myself into being in every moment. I long to reclaim the miracle of the ordinary; eating a strawberry, bathing my children, washing my floor. I want my body to feel this gift, not just know it in my head. I want every cell of my body to experience what it means to be alive. I want to give my Ego a break, always seeking Greatness. And I want my heart to show me that Greatness lives in every moment I am alive. Just the movement of of our fingertips is a miracle. I will be back with you in the fall. Until then, have a blessed summer.
