LENT

: the 40 weekdays from Ash Wednesday to Easter observed by the Roman Catholic, Eastern, and some Protestant churches as a period of penitence and fasting

If you don't come from a faith tradition that follows a liturgical calendar, the idea of church seasons might seem odd, useless or even suspicious to you.  (I once had a friend tell me she wouldn't consider observing Lent until someone could show her the Biblical precedent for it.) Yet the longer I participate in a spiritual life structured around the liturgical calendar, the more I realize how well it suits me.

Lent snuck up on me this year: this week is chock full with Shrove Tuesday today, Ash Wednesday tomorrow and Valentine's Day Thursday.  By the end of the week, we won't know whether to celebrate or contemplate.  Which is perhaps the very value that the church seasons bring us - reminders to pause and reflect on both the beauty and the pain of this life.

A friend posted an Abraham Lincoln quote on Facebook today.  It read, "Life is hard, but so very beautiful."  The same could be said of Lent.  I often find it hard from start to finish.  I want to choose the right discipline - one that is meaningful, one that will change me, one that is what I need, not what others are doing.  Once chosen, I want to embrace the discipline, however difficult that may be.  Last year, I committed to take a morning walk every day of Lent - and we promptly went to Green Bay, WI the second week of Lent.  So I bundled up and walked anyway.  The year before that, I gave up caffeine, which was even harder than a morning walk in Wisconsin.

I've had the most success with Lenten disciplines when I've prayed and asked God to show me what to give up or take on during Lent.  So when I realized ten days ago that Lent was fast approaching, I was worried.  I smile a bit at myself about that - do I think God can't answer quickly?  That I'm going to catch him asleep on the job?  That I must get my request in with a two week minimum? I think it's partly that I don't trust myself to hear well or quickly, but there is also an element of my faith that thinks I need to give God time to get around to answering me. 

My worry did not abate when I prayed about Lent and the first thing I heard was, "Write."  Write what?  Write everyday?  How?  When will I find the time?  

But as I explored this thought, I realized how bereft of creative outlets my life has become.  I don't blog as often as I'd like.  My journal is filled with white space.  I rarely take out my collage materials.  I haven't made anything at all since Advent projects with the girls.  More than just writing, I see in my life a need to create and to make the space for that to happen.  If my daughters will live what they see modeled, they aren't going to be taking very good care of themselves in two or three decades.  I need to put on my oxygen mask first if I want them to know, use and flex their creative muscles.

So I had the first piece of the puzzle: something creative.  As I thought and prayed and pondered some more, my mind kept circling all of the various pursuits I am currently neglecting.  Productive things like writing or art, but also restorative things reading and taking long baths.  As I thought about all my heart was aching to do, I realized that might be my discipline: to create space to fulfill my heart's desires.  The beauty and pain of this will be the need to constantly rely on God to show me my heart's desire for that day's allotted time.  Because while some of you may know immediately the desires of your heart, I have done an excellent job of burying those desires deep within me.  It's like an excavation project to get to them.  I can tell you what any of the immediate members of my family want, but when asked what I want, that requires a long and thoughtful pause before an answer emerges.

I am approaching tomorrow's start of the Lenten season with some trepidation.  Does my discipline sound more self-serving than God-honoring?  (My daughter B wanted to adopt a "Lenten discipline" of eating dessert after every meal.  I gently re-directed her.)  Am I willing to face my own desires with eyes open?  Can I bear the pain of seeing desires that will go unfulfilled (since this is why I hide them away in the first place)?  Most of all, will I emerge transformed at Easter?

Because that's what I want: transformation.  I want to listen and see with a willing heart, a heart willing to walk through pain for the beauty.

The word Lent comes from lengthen because it arrives at the time of year when the days are growing longer, stretching out to give us more light with each sunrise.  I want my heart to stretch and lengthen and be grown this Lent.

BEAUTY

1 : the quality or aggregate of qualities in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses or pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit : loveliness

Last Wednesday evening I was on my way to a gathering of moms.  We meet twice monthly to pray, share some silence and encourage one another.  This particular evening was a lovely one.  The weather was nice.  I was driving J's car, so I had the sun roof open and the windows rolled down.  Even though I knew it would make me a few minutes late, I couldn't bring myself to get on the interstate.  Instead, I took the slower, but more enjoyable, ride.  When I explained my late arrival to my friends, one of them said, "You are so aware of aesthetics - even on something like a car ride!"  I had never thought of it that way, but she's right.  I appreciate beauty, in all its various forms.

This weekend, we traveled to East Tennessee for some time away from home.  It was good for my soul, not the least because of the beautiful surroundings.  I marveled at the lush greens,

the budding pine cones,

the side-of-the-road wildflowers,

the soaring mountains,

the roaring rivers.

As we were sitting riverside having a picnic, B pondered aloud, "I wonder what Nashville would look like without roads, without people, without buildings.  I wonder what it looked like before all of that." 

That's worth thinking about, isn't it?  What would this world look like without all of our roads, buildings, businesses, power lines and on and on?  Because I can tell you that I think left unchecked, nature tends towards beauty.

God's world, His creation - all of that rushes headlong towards loveliness.  The stuff of man?  Not so much.  In sharp contrast to the natural world, our efforts to make our lives easier with paved roads, running water and constantly available electricity and technology often serve to rob our lives of beauty instead of adding it.

I'm not a Luddite.  In fact, today I read an article about the low ownership of dishwashers amongst the English and thought, "Well, that's one strike against living in England."  I am fond of creature comforts, but surrounded by evidence that mankind knows little self-restraint.  We keep building and buying when we should stop, look and breathe deeply.

I'm not saying we should all move to shacks in the woods.  I am saying we should make more of an effort to find and embrace beauty in our everyday lives.  Because our souls long for it, whether we hear them or not.

APPETITE

1 : any of the instinctive desires necessary to keep up organic life; especially : the desire to eat
2 a : an inherent craving

What are you hungry for right now?  Do you even know?

On Saturday, A danced at a funeral.  No, I'm not joking.  Technically it was a memorial service, but the sentiment is the same.  She danced to celebrate the life of a 92 year old woman who lived a long, full life of service.  She served in ordinary ways - she was a mom to three and was known for baking cookies.  Lots and lots of cookies.  Cookies that melted in your mouth and made your hand involuntarily reach out for one more.  In the last years of her life, she often baked for the dancers at Rejoice, a ministry started by her daughter.  At her memorial service, those same dancers who ate her cookies honored her memory with beautiful dance, glowing faces and a few tears.  And as we remembered her life, we ate cookies.  Like Jesus, Grandma Hove fed the masses.  She just fed them cookies instead of bread.

After the memorial service, I sat at a table (eating cookies) talking with one of A's dance teachers.  She's a joy of a person to be around, exactly the kind of woman I am thankful to have teach dance to my daughters - because I'd love for them to learn about not just dance, but about life, from her.  She has two young children and a few months ago we were chatting about eating habits and children.  I'm not sure how the conversation started, but I think I mentioned that our girls aren't allowed to watch TV on weekdays.  This is as much about setting expectations as it is about managing our time and household.  Because there's no TV on Tuesdays, it feels like a treat when I bend the rule and let them watch an episode of Phineas and Ferb.  But if post-school TV were the norm, there would be less joy, more demanding.  They would feel entitled to TV time.  (And I hate entitlement.)  These thoughts led us to a discussion of dessert and children's appetites.  Dessert after every meal?  Only dinner?  Only certain days of the week?  There's no right or wrong answer here, but it is a minefield to navigate, especially when parenting daughters.

My friend shared that she noticed when her daughter was very hungry, it was unsettling, but when her son ate a lot, she just thought, "Oh, look.  He has a healthy appetite."  Each of my three daughters has a completely different body type.  Consequently, they have different appetites.  My approach has been to not only offer them healthy food choices, but to explain why certain choices are healthier than others.  But I don't try to control their appetites.

By the time I was the age of my eldest daughter, I was (futilely) trying to curb my appetite.  By 6th grade, I was dieting with a friend.  I remember trying to stay under 500 (!) calories per day for a while (without much success, I might add).  I made terrible food choices.  My daily high school lunch consisted of a Coke and a bag of chips.  I've learned slowly but surely a better way to eat, a better way to approach my appetite.  Over time, I've found the best cure for an unhealthy appetite is exercise.  I'm not only less hungry when I work out regularly, I crave foods that are better for me.  Moderate exercise and healthy foods are a far better choice for satisfying an appetite than empty calories, dieting and pretending an appetite doesn't exist.

I've held these beliefs and practices about food for a while, but the recent memorial service made me realize another truth: our appetites are God-given.  I have seen for myself that my daughters eat when they are hungry and stop when they are full.  They know to listen to their bodies and respond accordingly.  And it's wrong of me, of our family, of our world, to tell them to stop listening to these appetites.  God has planted in them a desire for things that are good for them.  And when we start tampering with how to listen to and satisfy those desires, things go awry.

If we can help our children - and ourselves - learn to recognize our God-given appetites, it will be easier for them to distinguish which appetites should be satisfied and which should be ignored.  (And some appetites should be ignored, especially the things the world tells us we should want - things our hearts don't care about at all, but that keep our economy afloat.)  I fear that if I discourage my girls from listening for, understanding and meeting their desires, they will become unable to know what they truly want.  They'll hunger and not know what they hunger for.  They'll long to do something - but not quite know what to do.

This has far broader applications than just food.  My daughter A knew she wanted to dance from the time she was three.  God planted that desire in her.  Had I stifled it, discouraged it or told her to ignore it, she would still have an unsettled place inside her that longs for that outlet.  Barring wise choices for satisfying that desire, she might have ultimately chosen a more destructive way to scratch the itch that dance is for her soul.

I taught myself to not only ignore what my body longed for, but to ignore some things that my soul craved.  I'm inept at drawing and for years equated that with a lack of creativity.  I am creative.  I just needed to understand myself better instead of stifling my appetite.

What are you hungry for?  Do you even know?

WORK

1 : activity in which one exerts strength or faculties to do or perform something: 

It's been a busy, if interesting, few weeks.  A and K danced in their annual spring recital last night.  For the third year in a row, I organized the volunteers for the recital and helped with planning, scheduling, set-up and other assorted jobs.  After a few days of working on spreadsheets to get every dancer a chaperone, a seating assignment, a rehearsal time and more, I noticed something surprising: it was addictive.  Sure, it took time, energy and focus.  But I was good at this.  I copied, I pasted, I formatted.  And I got a satisfaction from it that has been missing from my life for several years.  Excel didn't complain when I asked it to alphabetize my dancers.  The computer didn't roll its eyes when I needed help organizing more than two dozen volunteers.  And no one came behind me to undo the work I had just done.

I mentioned this to a friend who works part-time in addition to parenting four daughters and homeschooling.  She immediately understood.  It's exhilarating to use your skills, especially when they've laid dormant for weeks, months or years.  I had planned to write an entire post on the word addictive, but as the week went on, I found a few other qualities about work that paint a fuller picture.  Work can be addictive, but it also promotes a false sense of self-reliance, inhibits my creativity and yields a disaster zone of a home.

To say that I've not had a lot of time this week is an understatement.  The time not consumed by recital preparations has been devoted to teaching A, keeping my children fed and getting us all where we need to be.  The effect of that on my home?  It's not pretty.  This morning started with a sink full of dirty dishes, a dishwasher full of clean dishes, a living room overrun with books, dirty laundry waiting to be washed and clean laundry waiting to be folded.  In fact, it still pretty much looks that way (although the kitchen looks considerably better because J unloaded and loaded the dishwasher while I watched Toy Story 3 with the girls over breakfast).  The recital - and any event - does require a big time commitment as the event nears.  I know not all work is like this, but I was completely ineffective this week at maintaining our home and getting my work done.

I also failed miserably at making time to do anything creative.  While this was partly due to time constraints, I think the bigger issue is that I am unable to use both sides of my brains in quick succession.  When working on a project that requires organization, linear thinking and problem solving, I find it nearly impossible to switch over to a more creative, open ended, peaceful mode of thought.  This is why I haven't written a blog post in over a week, fully completed my Bible Study or made a collage of any sort.  The most frustrating part of this side-effect of work is that I have wanted to write, study and create.  I've been thinking about this post for ten days, but haven't been able to string together coherent thoughts until now.  I want to make cards for two of A's teachers who are leaving Nashville.  I want to be able to think again.  

My thinking has deteriorated not just creatively, but linearly as well.  I chalk this up to the exhaustion brought on by trying to work, homeschool, parent and manage our home over the last two weeks.  Yesterday, I took A to the library for a quick trip.  We were mainly there to pick up some books on hold for our curriculum for next week, but we made a quick trip to the stacks as well.  While there, I was so tired, so exhausted, so completely drained, that I struggled to properly alphabetize in my mind as I looked for books from a specific author.  When my brain is so tired that I can't function well in the library, it's a sign that I need some serious rest.


Earlier in this cycle, when I was enjoying the short-lived high of work, I felt capable.  It felt good to stretch my mental muscles.  But as the work wore on and the recital drew nearer, I was aware of the less desirable results of work.  I saw how work robbed me of some of the things I have come to value in my day to day life.  A few days ago, I read this in one of my favorite devotional books:

Although self-sufficiency is acclaimed in the world, reliance on Me produces abundant living in My kingdom.  Thank Me for the difficulties in your life, since they provide protection from the idolatry of self-reliance.

 As I read this, I knew these words were for me.  I can look back on my life and see how one of the gifts of my career path has been a gradual loosening of my grip on the idol of self-reliance.  While I left the full time workforce almost nine years ago, it took nearly seven of those years for me to stop mourning the loss of a job and celebrate what I've been offered instead.  I liked my work.  I was good at it.  It allowed me to travel and see dozens of cities.  It let me use my mind, hone my skills and feel capable and self-reliant.  Some of this was a gift, some of it was not.  After leaving full time work, I transitioned into part time work for several years.  When I left my most recent job, I thought of it as a sabbatical.  I'd always imagined I would, at a minimum, return to work when K started kindergarten.  But God had a different path in mind for me.  One that involves work with my mind (I love the teaching component of homeschooling), work with my hands (I don't love the housekeeping part as much) and work with my heart (parenting, writing, creating).

This journey is a gift.  I don't know where I'd be had I continued to follow my own path for my life.  Surely not where I am now.  I don't regret the work I've been given.  Last night's recital was beautiful.  I cried nearly all the way through it as I noticed how dancers have grown and matured from one year to the next, how my own daughters were beautiful and radiant on stage and how the organization has given children and parents the chance to see the fruits of working hard toward a goal.  I'm thankful for the work I did over the last two weeks - for the yield of the work and, more importantly, for what it taught me about myself.

SEQUENTIALLY

2: following; subsequent; consequent

 

I've found that there are projects I can not complete concurrently.  Things that demand I do them sequentially.  These things are most often creative projects.  Sunday after church, J and the girls dropped me off at Michael's while they made a quick trip to Trader Joe's to stock up on roasted seaweed (my favorite snack!) and a few other items.  Since I was at Michael's, I thought I'd collect supplies for two or three projects that I hope to complete in the coming weeks.  But as I walked the aisles, I got more and more muddled as I tried to determine my vision for not one, not two, but three, projects.

 

Feeling somewhat disappointed in this limitation, I nevertheless gave in to it.  I  walked back down the aisles, returning the few odds and ends for projects #2 and 3.  With my cart - and mind - clear, I was able to determine the items I needed for the task at hand.  This project - and the others - involve the participation of my family, even if I'm the Wizard of Oz lurking behind the curtain.  It's my job to decide on the project, collect the requisite materials and then corral my family into helping.  Project #1 went smoothly - walking those aisles paid off.  And when it was put in the mail, my mind felt free.

Within hours of finishing the first project, I was able to make significant progress on the next one.  I trimmed, I wrote, I showed samples to J.  It felt like the floodgates had opened.  Just hours before, I stood paralyzed in the stationery aisle, unable to envision any of the materials I needed.  But now I could see it.

I'll confess that some of this drives me crazy.  Mothers, perhaps more than any other category on the planet, need to be able to complete things concurrently.  If I wait until the laundry is finished to start dinner, we will all starve to death.  If I don't start the laundry until the house is clean, we'll need to move to a nudist colony.  If I don't help K learn to use a kind tone of voice until I've finished teaching B how to control her emotions... You get my point.  Very little in my world allows me to completely finish one thing before starting another.  

 

Maybe I've hit upon a hidden blessing in my creativity's demand for sequential completion.  That would be the completion.  As a recovering perfectionist, I have a tendency to leave some things undone.  (If it's not finished, it can't be judged imperfect.)  Often the things I am inclined to leave undone are the most important things, the things I care the very most about.  So maybe my heart and mind have conspired to train me out of this.  My brain's refusal to work on a new project until the old one is complete does ensure I finish first things first.

OK - there's the bright side.  Now, can I please have my old brain back?  I have a lot to do!

HABIT

6 : a settled tendency or usual manner of behavior

At 7 this morning, my eyes fluttered open, found the clock, listened for voices downstairs and heard nothing. Satisfied, my eyes drifted shut and sleep settled back over me. An hour later, J and I were stretching under the sheets, marveling that our daughters had let us sleep this late. What a Memorial Day treat from our daughters, who were surely exhausted from last night's cookout and fun with friends - this was a habit I could easily form!

A few hours later, after coffee and breakfast, I called the girls into the living room and asked them to each bring their craft box and journal. A few weeks ago, I ordered journals for the girls like one I've been working on. It is my intention that we form a habit of working in our journals every Monday morning. I've found that making time on Monday to create helps me ready myself for the week - mentally, spiritually, maybe even physically. Because it helps me do something for me before the obligations of the week take over. I had beautiful images in my mind of the four of us sitting around, clipping photos, gluing images, writing ideas, stories and scraps of thoughts. Today was the first Monday of summer break, so I thought it was the perfect time to start forming our summer journal habit.

It didn't take long for the real world to collide with my imaginary one. B was unhappy to join us. She was re-reading a good book and didn't want to leave her room, much less join us in doing something I was suggesting. Being who she is, B did not hesitate to let me know exactly how she felt about my idealistic plan for us to spend time creating together. She told me through tears that she didn't want summer to be like school and that this felt like school. I persevered and asked her to please just try it. I explained that I wouldn't require her to stay for long and that it wasn't like school. She could choose to clip images, write in her journal or to collage. Our time together ended up going well. I found an image or two of a dog in a magazine and B ran with that theme, clipping several dogs and cats to use later. But this first attempt at forming a habit I desire for us reminded me that habits take work, effort and time.

In another part of my life, I'm being constantly reminded that habits not only take time to form, but to break. I'm on day 22 of a fast from fiction and I want to read a good novel now more than ever. I am learning from this experience and have spent far more time in creative efforts in the last 22 days, have spent more time not just praying, but listening and have been reminded that I should be far more disciplined in writing - not just for this blog, for for my Fun Jar blog, which I hope to one day turn into a book. I have felt the urge to write a book about this topic for a year, but until recently didn't know exactly how to approach it.

Writing non-fiction is tough for someone who loves to immerse herself in fiction, as I do. But it recently occurred to me that the missing component in my efforts thus far has been my analytical, non-fiction approach to telling the Fun Jar story. Instead of simply sharing what we do, I should talk about why we do it. In short, I should include what I'm thinking, feeling and hoping as I walk through our summer. Because maybe that's the piece that might encourage another mom who feels intimidated by the long expanse of summer stretched out before her.

Hopefully, I'll use our time this summer to form some good habits that will serve me well in the future and break some old habits whose time is past.

ALONE

1: separated from others : isolated

I've been feeling pretty alone lately. Not literally. My daughters are home from their time with one set of grandparents and they leave in eight days for a week with the other set of grandparents. With the intense heat the weather has provided and the heated arguments they have provided, I look forward to a few days of quiet during their absence.

But I am feeling "separated from others and isolated". I looked up a few words in Merrriam-Webster before starting this post, to find the right word to describe how I'm feeling. I've already used "misfit" which came to mind and "belong" didn't seem to quite get it. But "alone's" definition is dead-on.

Even in groups of people, I sit there feeling isolated. I have friends and we share fun times, but as I read the final chapter in Waking Up Grey, it encouraged the participant to have a party celebrating this journey. I realized that I don't know who would celebrate this with me. My closest friends aren't on similar journeys and while I don't think they scoff at my journey, I also don't feel a lot of interest on their part or a real understanding of why this has been important to me.

J pointed out that we're in a transition period right now. We're visiting another church over the summer to try to find community where our children can really connect. I'm in a different Bible study group with a lot of women I don't know and doing a different type of study than I've done in years. All of this adds up to me feeling adrift.

So when the ending of Waking Up Grey urged the importance of community and the need to celebrate, I was left wondering whether God wants me to be alone right now. Maybe there is something to be learned from the isolation.

POWERPOINT

:a presentation program developed by Microsoft

I spent most of my time at work on Monday creating a PowerPoint presentation. In my previous life (i.e. before quitting work to stay at home), creating presentations was a large chunk of my job. In fact, other than writing proposals, it was my favorite part of my job. So it was fun to use the newer version of PowerPoint (which has changed since I left the full-time workforce nearly seven years ago) and it was interesting to think about my old job, who I was then and who I am now.

It's pretty evident to me in hindsight why I enjoyed writing proposals. I like to write. Until recently, I would have told you I liked to write "with a purpose." By that I meant that I had something concrete that needed to be communicated in a clear and concise way. Essentially, I liked business writing. I carried that enjoyment with me to the non-profit world and used it to write grants.

But along the way, I found that wasn't enough for me. Saying what my company or my organization needed me to say wasn't satisfying. I wanted to write for myself. My own thoughts, my own ponderings, my own musings. Often for no other reason than to write them. Hence the creation of this blog.

PowerPoint appeals to a similar side of me, I believe. It does require writing, but in a succinct fashion. I like thinking and writing in bullet points. I like finding the right colors and images to complement the text.

I like the discipline that I impose on myself in this blog of choosing one word as the title for each (non-fiction) post. It forces me to find one word that best sums up what I want to say. Sometimes, the word comes to me first. I hear a word and think "I should write about that." Other times, I have something I want to say and I have to decide what one word encapsulates my thoughts.

It's interesting to look back on who I was years ago and realize some of the things I liked reflected gifts I didn't even know I had. I knew I could write reasonably well, but I didn't know I was a writer. I still struggle sometimes to acknowledge that the way I am made is OK. I struggle to reconcile how to humbly acknowledge the unique gifts I have. But it's affirming to see those same gifts woven throughout my life, even when I wasn't aware they were there.

The Cliff

The sounds I heard earlier sharpen as we approach. I can hear metal strike metal, hammer drive nail into wood and the whoosh of fire being stoked. I try to focus on these sounds rather than those that accompany them: voices, voices, and more voices. Some singing, some talking, some rising and falling in heated conversation.
What will these people think of me? Will they know I don’t belong? Will they be able to see on my face that I have no gift worth sharing? Should I just turn back the way I came and not face the rejection that surely awaits me?

The stream of questions my mind throws at me grind to a screeching halt as the woods end and I find myself standing on a cliff. The height of this cliff and the distance from one side to the other make my journeys from the crevice to the meadow seem like a walk in the park compared to the high wire marathon that awaits me. And I do mean high wire.

A literal high wire stretches tautly from one side of the cliff to the other. My body and mind stop at the edge of the cliff and I look around.

A huge Greek style amphora sits over to my right, filled with long poles. Trying hard to keep my eyes away from the cliff and what awaits me, I walk over to the amphora. It is the largest vase of its kind I’ve ever seen. The top of it comes to just above my waist and the designs are intricate. Someone studied Greek pottery very closely to be able to create a replica this authentic. Looking closer, I wonder whether this is actually a replica – the scene encircling the amphora’s neck is classic Greek subject matter and even the slip is faded, as it surely would be after centuries of use. Where exactly am I?

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Irene says quietly as I continue to crouch by the vase to examine it.

“Yes, I love pottery. I took a class in it years ago and fell in love with the fact that beauty is only part of the reason for pots. I think the blend of beauty and utility strikes a chord with me. There's no question of whether it's art worth making since it can be used immediately. And it’s amazing what people were able to make, long before electric wheels, gas fired kilns and metallic glazes. What are these poles in it?”

“They help you balance on the high wire. There’s always an assortment, so every traveler can choose the one that feels best. Does one look appealing to you?”

Wondering whether there is another vase somewhere containing safety harnesses instead of guide poles, I lift a pole out. I immediately know this is not the pole for me. Even standing on solid ground, I nearly topple over as I try to compensate for the heavy weight on the left and extreme lightness on the right. I try a few others that range from too heavy to insubstantial until I find one that feels just right. It sits perfectly in my hands and seems to anchor me to the ground.

Having found my guide, I walk to the edge of the cliff and look at the high wire. I thought the plank was thin, but that was nothing compared to this.

The Stream

I meander down the trail, trying to clear my mind of the fear that clouds my very vision. My jumbled mind jumps from one image to another, brimming to overflowing with questions. But I know deep down that it is not my mind that I need to listen to right now.

Seeking a place to still my body and soul, I come upon a quiet stream bordered by rocks worn smooth over time as if in preparation for my need for rest.

Irene is right that I am stronger than I acknowledge. I would never have believed I could have faced my fears – and seen others face them – and walked right out of that room. And I still get a bit queasy when I think about the thin plank that kept me from crashing into the cleft below. So I can do things that are hard.

But do I really believe I have a gift? What could possibly be special about me? And could I honestly expect a group of gifted people to welcome me as one of them?

Sighing, I look down into the stream and let my focus move beyond myself. The rocks lining the river bed are multihued, no two exactly the same color. But this is only apparent when I look closely. From a distance of even a few feet, the riverbed looks grey, the individual rocks merging into a seamless whole. But up close, each rock shines its cobalt, jade, mauve, amber, and yes, grey.

Maybe the people Irene wants to take me to are like these rocks – similar from a distance, but unique in their shape, in their hue, in their gifts. What’s one more rock in the river bed?

Knowing that my decision has been made, I decide it’s best to go straight back to Irene. The longer I hesitate, the more I will question what I know to be the right path.

As I walk to rejoin Irene, I savor the quiet of the woods. I’m definitely not surrounded by silence, but the crunch of the leaves under my feet, the high pitched avian communications and the rustling of small animals is soothing rather than jarring. I see Irene ahead, sitting quietly where I left her. Her eyes are closed and her face is thoughtful. As I approach, I see small changes in her face – a fleeting smile, a wrinkled forehead that smoothes, a tensing and relaxing of facial muscles – and I know she is not alone. Her prayers are almost visible as they leave her and soar up to the trees and beyond.

Saying my own silent prayer for boldness, I sit down beside Irene and wait.

I don’t have to wait for long. With a satisfied sigh, Irene opens her eyes and looks straight into my own.

“Well?”

“Let’s go.” I say as I stand.

The Copse

We leave the exposure of the meadow and enter the copse of trees, walking slowly, comfortably silent. I find it easy to walk with Irene. Her stride matches my own and the silence between us is not fraught with tension, like a rubber band waiting to snap. Instead, the silence weaves threads between us, linking us in experience, if not words.

While the grove is the furthest out on this journey that I have been, it feels like a middle ground. There is little of the stark hardness of the crevice and the greens, while monochromatic, are not monotonous. I find myself relaxing after the daunting traversal of the gulch and the subsequent meadow. Perhaps a walk through the wood is what I need to detox after my time alone and ready myself to carry on.

But even as I feel my breathing slow and my gait relax, I hear sounds up ahead. Muted whacks. Sharp pings. Low, deep voices and light, higher ones meld in conversation. The sounds are not threatening, but clearly indicate there are people ahead. My stride constricts, my pace slows and eventually becomes a near tip-toe. In my desire to prepare myself, I have forgotten there is someone with me.

“Shannon? What’s wrong?” Irene says calmly.

“Oh. I was just surprised to hear people. Where are we going? I was enjoying the quiet calm of the woods when I realized there’s more than trees here.”

“Well, yes. There are more than trees. What you hear ahead is what I wanted to show you. Do you want to sit and eat before we carry on? I’ve brought lunch in my backpack. While we eat, I can tell you a bit about what’s ahead.”

Thinking I would like to prolong my stay in the leafy shadows, I quickly agree to lunch. Breakfast’s bread and water in the crevice seem a distant memory at this point.

Sitting together on dappled ground, we lunch and I ask Irene about the voices and noises I heard up ahead.

“As a mom, you’ve seen firsthand how we all have different gifts, right? Well, up ahead is a group of people who are all working together and as individuals to find, understand and use their gifts. It generates some noise, especially in contrast to the forest’s quiet.”

“How did they all get here? Do they all know each other? Do they live here?”

“They got here in much the same way you did: they chose to leave some things behind and walk into an unknown place. Most of them didn’t know each other before they got here and some live here, some come and go. There’s really only one rule: everyone’s gift is valuable and no one, not even the gift’s owner, can disparage a gift.” Irene says the last with a tone of gentle urgency and waits for my reaction.

Thinking to myself that this place sounds as scary and as thrilling as Shangri-La, I ask, “Why are we going there?”

“I think you already know the answer to that, Shannon.”

“How do you know I’m supposed to go there? How do you know I even have a gift?” I sputter.

“You do have a gift. Why else would you have come all this way? You have given birth to children. You can birth your gift as well. All birth brings pain, but it is pain worth bearing.”

“You don’t even know me. How can you know where I belong? What if I fail? What if I really set out to seek my gift and come up empty? That seems far worse than not knowing the outcome for certain.”

“Shannon, you can do this. You are strong. You are whole. You’re being made whole even as we speak. The holes inside that only you can see and feel will be no more. You believe this. Examine your heart and your mind and you will know it to be true.”

Sensing immediately the truth of her words, but hesitant to just jump in, I say, “Could I have a few minutes alone before we head on?”

“Take all the time you need,” Irene says as she clears lunch away and watches me wander down a trail towards quiet.

The Meadow

Waiting for me on the other side is the owner of the calm voice who encouraged me during the crossing. Smiling, I hold my hand out to her.

“Boy, am I glad that’s over. I’m Shannon. I know we’ve met before, but I was too shaken to properly introduce myself. I’m glad to see you again and have the opportunity to set things right.”

“I’m Irene. It’s nice to have you here. No need to apologize about before, I’ve been through some rooms like the ones you walked through and I think I emerged feeling much the way you did. You seemed to need food, drink and rest more than conversation, so I was happy to oblige.”

“Yes, that was exactly how I was feeling. Thanks for understanding that. Is this where you live? I’d love to have a backyard like this!” I say as I gesture to the lush meadow surrounding us.

Irene smiles and says, “No, this isn’t my home, but I do enjoy it here. Would you like to look around? There’s something I think you’d enjoy seeing, if you’re in no rush to move on.”

Assuring her that I am in no rush at all, we begin to walk through the meadow. It’s the best time of year to do so: the wildflowers are a riot of color, the wind is cool without chill and the sun bathes everything in a glow of light. Winter’s greys, browns and whites are nowhere to be found. Just color, color and more color. It’s hard to believe this awaited me around the corner from my crevice, which was day upon day of grey. Yet I find the rampage of color leaving me dazed. After days of being safely enclosed, the meadow’s lack of confinement is startling. The variety of colors and flowers excites, but also exhausts. I find my attention flitting from place to place, with nowhere to settle and stay for a moment. While I know this is not a battlefield, I am relieved to reach the safety of the woods.

The Abyss

Feeling calmer, I crawl out of the crevice and move towards the abyss.

I stop at the edge of the plank and look towards the other side. The meadow is the size of an urban back yard with an irregular border of trees enclosing it. Wild blueberry bushes can be seen even from across the chasm and my steady diet of bread and water in the crevice pales in comparison to the imagined taste of these plump blue orbs.

I look back, past my recent abode in the crevice, and see the heavy oak door and beyond it, the table. But there is room for nothing else here, so I steady myself mentally and physically and take the first step onto the plank.

After I’ve taken about three steps, I hear a voice say, “You know, you’re never going to be able to do this. You’ve never been good at balancing. You’re going to fall. And think about how much that is going to hurt.”

I recognize this voice. I've spent days, weeks, months trying to quiet my inner saboteur, but that doesn’t make it any easier to not listen. Her voice is so quick to target my weaknesses in the most sensitive spot. I focus my eyes a few steps ahead of me and try to clear my mind. The plank wobbles slightly and fear creeps under my skin, throwing tentacles outward with chilling quickness. Afraid to stop, afraid to turn back, I take another hesitant step and risk a look at the other side.

Standing there, I see the woman who prepared the table for me. The one who waited on the other side of fear. In a voice so different from the one in my head, she says, “You can do this. You’re almost halfway here. And if you can leave behind the comforts of home, the busy-ness of life, what you think you know and even your fears, you can walk a few more steps to get here. Think of what you've already done to remember what you can do.”

For some reason, the confidence in her voice seems stronger than the desperation of the voice inside my head. While my inner voice continues to insist I will fail, a hint of hysteria creeps in as the voice realizes I do not believe what it is saying. In fact, the inner saboteur doesn’t believe her own words. Like me, she’s heard the complete certainty in the woman’s voice and knows the outcome of the halting steps I have already taken.

And then, the board stills and I advance confidently to the other side, hardly noticing the narrow width my feet traverse.

The Crevice

Tired from the journey so far, I roll onto my stomach and fall asleep without giving the new ledge and meadow a second thought.


I wake in the morning to find a jug of lukewarm water and some bread. I read as I breakfast, having brought last night’s offering from the table with me when I headed for rest. The book is not great art, but it is an easy read and, more to the point, it keeps my mind off of yesterday’s rooms, what I left behind and what might await me.

I read.

And read.

And read.

Stopping occasionally to drink a bit more water, nap for a few minutes or stretch my legs.

But mostly, I stay in the crevice that seems made just for me and I read.

And then, after a few days of reading, eating and sleeping… I finish the book.

“What now?” I think to myself. Peering out of the crevice, I look back towards the table that once held food and a companion who had waited to meet me. Then I look towards the meadow that drew me in this direction a few days hence.

In the light of day, the plank to get to the meadow doesn’t seem as narrow as I remember– it seems even thinner, maybe impossibly so and the gap between the ledges seems cavernous. But what awaits me if I go back? A door that holds a room with all I fear most and a table whose offerings, while lovely, are not all that I want from this trip.

So I close my eyes for a moment, thinking slowly and deliberately. I picture myself straightening up on the ledge and confidently, slowly, successfully navigating my way to the meadow. Feeling calmer, I crawl out of the crevice and move towards the abyss.

The Table

Trembling slightly, I leave fear's darkness behind and step into blinding light and onto the precipice.

I take a deep breath. Closing my eyes, I exhale slowly and lean back against the closed door. Even with the door firmly shut, I can feel the fearful images crowding against the other side, trying to break through and swirl around me. But I was strong enough to go through the door and I will not let the fear come crashing through. I open my eyes to find I am not alone.

A small woman, with close cropped white hair watches me through serious, but gentle eyes. While I do not know her, there is something familiar about her. She’s an age my grandmother never reached, but seems so full of life it’s hard to believe her own life is mostly behind her. As I am processing the fact that someone else is on the precipice with me, she speaks.

“Shannon, I am so proud of you. I know that wasn’t easy to do. Those rooms are hard to walk through and even harder to leave. But you did it. You followed your gift. I’m here to help you take the next steps.”

Feeling like I couldn’t take another step, I blurt, “You mean I don’t get to rest here for a while?” The shortness of my answer takes me somewhat by surprise – I don’t even know this woman. She is unruffled and unsurprised by my reaction.

I apologize for my shortness and catch a look from her that makes me ask her, “Do I know you?”

“No, not really,” she says with a smile. “But I’ve watched you for quite a while and I couldn’t be happier that you’re here. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. And you do get to rest before moving on. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Here, have a seat.”

This time, my mind is quicker than my tongue so I don’t demand to know why she’s waiting for me if we’ve never met. I’ve never been to the precipice before and I’m finding it a strange place thus far.

As I make my way to a table nestled on the ledge’s deepest spot, I realize what makes the woman familiar. It’s not really the way she looks, so much as the way she looks at me. It’s the way I look at my daughters when they’ve done something completely unexpected that gives a flash of who they are at the core of their being – a celebratory dance, a new way of seeing something, a smile that splits her face open. Why on earth would she look at me that way?

The table she leads me to is mirage-like. As I slide into the only chair at the table and take a sip of clean, cold water, I turn to ask my hostess if she’s sure all of this is for me. But she’s gone. I’m frankly too tired to go find her and just thankful to be alone after feeling crowded, bombarded, and hemmed in by my fears. Finishing my water, I sip a glass of room temperature red wine and nibble on a plate filled to overflowing with cheese, fruit and nuts. Reaching to refill my glass, I find a book sitting under the bottle. Several chapters later, I realize my eyes are tired and my mind is drifting. After re-reading the same passage three times without comprehending the meaning, I place a leaf between the pages, close the book and look around.

The table sits on the widest part of the ledge, to the right of the heavy oak door guarding my deepest fears and grandest hopes. To the left of the door, the ridge thins dramatically, curves and ends altogether. Just before it ends lies a rough hewn plank, about the width of my two hands together. The plank bridges a gap between the precipice I stand on and another, wider ledge surrounded by a verdant meadow. It looks much more accommodating than my current locale, but as I move towards the plank, I see it spans a chasm so deep I can’t see its bottom.

Having begun to replenish both body and soul, I know I need sleep, so I head towards the plank. I certainly can’t sleep on the table which fills the only available space on my side of the rift. I inch along the tight ridge. As I approach the section right before the plank, I see a crevice that appears almost carved to fit my body exactly.

I crouch down to peer into the crevice.

Inside, the stone floor holds a rough pallet. Crawling in, I find I can lie down fully, if not comfortably. Tired from the journey so far, I roll onto my stomach and fall asleep without giving the new ledge and meadow a second thought.

AUTHOR

1 a: one that originates or creates : source authors> authors> author of this crime> b capitalized : god
2: the writer of a literary work (as a book)

Recently, J and I separately described me as a stay-at-home-mom. Shortly after I did this (in a work context, no less), I thought to myself - wait a minute, I work - I'm working right now! When J did it, I didn't correct him, but it was interesting to hear him describe me that way. As it happened, J described me as a SAHM at a dinner where I didn't know the woman sitting beside me very well. Over the course of the evening, she and I started chatting and found out we are both writers. She's at work on a novel that her daughter is editing along the way and I'm trying slowly but surely to explore a fiction character. As we talked, we touched briefly on what constitutes being a writer.

Am I a writer? Am I an author? What is the difference between the two? A song we sing at church describes God as the Author of Salvation, which always prompts me to think about what, if anything, I am author of. If God writes to save, why do I write?

I write for many reasons: because I enjoy it, in order to communicate my thoughts, to stretch myself, to leave something behind, because I feel compelled to do so.

Another question I've spent some time asking myself is what I have to say as a writer. So many people write, for such varied reasons, that I sometimes wonder whether I have anything unique to say or anything worthwhile to say. But when I look back at the reasons I write, the first one is that I write because I enjoy it. That in and of itself should be enough reason to keep doing it.

I'm not sure I'll really consider myself an author until (if ever) I have something published. In the meantime, I'm going to settle for being "one that originates or creates."

NOURISHMENT

1 a: nutriment: something that nourishes or promotes growth, provides energy, repairs body tissues, and maintains life

Even more so than usual, it's been a week for thinking. This week has brought more than its share of heartache, sadness and questions for me. I noticed a few weeks ago how much I enjoy just sitting and thinking. While it might be seen as daydreaming, it feeds my soul to have quiet, contemplative time. The problem is that "quiet, contemplative time" can be hard to come by as a mom of three young girls who works part-time. But I have found this time is essential for me. It may be hard to come by, but it is worth the effort.

My lesson this week in Waking Up Grey is about self-care and our assignment is to create a collage that shows the things that nourish us. Part of the reason we do this is "If you want to do good for others, you must not be a stranger to what good feels like." I believe women have an especially difficult time nourishing our souls. This is ironic, since many of us spend countless hours nourishing the bodies and souls of our families. How can I offer my children what they need if I don't take time to satiate my own needs? How can I give them what "promotes growth and provide energy" if I can't recognize those things?

So what nourishes you? Is it time laughing with friends over shared experiences? A cup of hot tea on a cold day? A light scone that crumbles in your mouth? A gentle breeze off the lake? The smell of salt in the air? An early morning run? A few hours spent screaming with fellow fans at a ball game?

If you don't know, find out. I know what nourishes me: quiet, a good book, a cup of hot tea or coffee, sunshine of my face, a piece of great chocolate, art, art and more art. And only when I make the time for these seemingly frivolous things will I be nourished. Only then can I maintain a life worth living.

The Inner Saboteur

A bit of fiction:

Dear Inner Saboteur,

It’s a little odd to address you so directly, since I normally try to ignore you, tell you to shut up, or just listen in silent acceptance. It’s especially difficult to address you in a civil, conciliatory tone, but that’s what I’d like to do. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about you and why you talk to me the way you do.

The way I see it, you’re not like Athena. You didn’t spring fully formed from my mind. You’ve evolved over time and are more likely a product of my insecurities, my fears and my failure to recognize lies I have been told as lies and not truths. I imagine the seed of your voice was planted when I was a little girl and I can picture you then, trying to build walls that words would not penetrate. You worked just as hard as you could, but the lies came pummeling through anyway, so you gave up and started hurling words back.

If you were an animal, you would be a porcupine. You prickle at the slightest provocation and are likely to sting any who approach you, including me. But unlike a porcupine, you don’t sting with quills but with words. Of course you sting with words. You are me, after all. And words have always been my greatest strength and worst weakness. Over time, I have curbed my tendency to attack others with words, but you, my saboteur, have not shown me the same courtesy. You continue to berate me with keen insights, cutting observations and subtle lies that I sometimes mistake for the truth.

I’ve tried this lent to ignore your voice and while it works sometimes, it is truly a battle. While I’ve tried to attack head on, you have retreated from frontal attacks and moved over to subtle sabotage. I have decided the best way to silence you is to listen to my Spirit instead of you. When I hear something unkind, it’s not my Spirit, it’s you. And while my Spirit wants the best for me, you do not. You want what is safest, what leaves me alone, what keeps me exactly the way I am.

So I guess you can keep talking and I’ll just stop listening. You see, I don’t need you anymore. I don’t need a porcupine to defend me because I have a Shield. My Shield listens to my Spirit and does a much better job than a porcupine of knowing the truth from a lie and of allowing the former through while blocking the latter. If you’d like to join me here behind my Shield, you’ll find a safer, more loving place than you’ve ever been.

Written In Love, WordGirl

SABOTAGE

3 a: an act or process tending to hamper or hurt b: deliberate subversion

What types of things do you say to yourself during the day? When you're alone with your thoughts, are you kind or unkind? Do you encourage yourself as you attempt something new or do you sabotage your efforts even as you begin?

I've been trying to give up negative self-talk for lent. I gave up chocolate for lent several years ago and, let me tell you, this is much, much harder. When I catch myself saying awful, hateful things in my head, I tell myself to stop. It comes at the expected times (when I lose my temper with my girls) and at unexpected times (while mopping). It's getting a bit easier to identify and quiet the voice. At least I've made myself aware of when and how often I do this to myself.

But today I realized my inner saboteur is getting sneaky. Since I quiet the outright insults, I now hear subtle lies that have the same result - a less confident, more doubtful me. Today I saw an acquaintance. Instead of just talking to her, I was hesitant because I was tired and didn't feel like talking. There wasn't anything inherently wrong with this choice. But my inner voice told me as I observed this acquaintance chatting with some other women, "See, she has plenty of friends already." Instead of coming right out and telling me that this person didn't want to talk to me, my inner voice made a snide observation aimed to hamper potential future friendship. Only later did I realize this was a moment of sabotage.

As a part of my creativity group, we're examining where our creativity has been bruised in the past. It's been incredibly difficult to come up with specific instances because I self-sabotaged any creative efforts for decades. But where did I learn to talk to myself this way? Where do the voices of others merge with my own voice? When did I start telling myself the things I thought other people were thinking? Are my daughters (ages 9, 7 and 4) already telling themselves lies?

Our assignment this week is to write a letter to that inner voice that tell us lies. I think I'll start mine "Dear Saboteur..."

FED

past tense of FEED:
2 a: to furnish something essential to the development, sustenance, maintenance, or operation of (reading feeds the mind) b: to supply (material to be operated on) to a machine
4 a: satisfy , gratify b: support , encourage

My retreat this weekend left me feeling fed - like I had received something "essential to my development." I felt satisfied, gratified, supported and encouraged by my time. For me, the weekend was the perfect mix of solitude and fellowship. My time of quiet reflection, listening, writing and introspection left me ready to hike, chat and laugh with friends. God used this time to talk with me about an insecurity that has plagued me for as long as I can remember and I believe healing started.

I've been on retreats in the past that were just one night, but this experience left me convinced that two nights is perfect. I had plenty of time to unwind, relax and enjoy myself, but I was ready to come back to my family and hear how their weekend had been. My only question for myself at the end was how to sustain this sense of spiritual satiation when I was back in the real world.

I'm not sure I have the answer to that, but I think a first step is to buy a set of ear plugs. While several friends talked about the need to find a spot for their solitude where they wouldn't be distracted by other people, I had no problem seeing past visual distractions to look inward. But noise. That is another story. While I've been blessed with an ability to still my mind pretty easily, noise is something I can't block out. I can't get quiet inside if there is noise seeping in. So perhaps I need to buy some earplugs to use in my haven to block out the harmless sounds of dogs barking, cars driving by and birds chirping. I have nothing against any of these sounds, but perhaps being able to filter them out momentarily will aid me in feeding myself day by day, not just when I'm on a retreat.