Be Still & Know

I wrote this two years ago after my summer living in Tennessee.  After a year and two weeks now of ups and downs teaching, these words again remind of the truth I so often and easily forget...stillness, Sabbath, rest, solitude all precede living and loving well.

“Come breath, go breath; I’m not going to pull any longer.”  ~ Nana Ruth Keith

If only we understood the deep wisdom of these words.  This kind of breathing is of the kind of living that overflows from the deep well of freedom.

Free from the desperate striving and agonized clutching that are the ladder climb to ‘success.’  Free from the anxious heartache of one who has lost control.  The metronome marking the rhythm of this breath is not heard among the ringing, dinging, clanking of our scurried lives.  It is the rhythm of the silence of the darkest hour of night, before the dawn, as the symphony of birds await their cue.  It is the rhythm of the rain as it tumbles down the leaves and pats upon the ground.  It is the rhythm of the lightening bugs as they paint their portraits in the sky.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

Stillness and ‘non-motion’ are hardly the same.  Rather, stillness invites the most elegant and vigorous dances of motion.  In stillness, all the world arrives at once.  The blackberries and raspberries are sweetest when they are left on the vine just one day longer.  The stillness of the harvester’s hand is not apathetic or lazy or ignorant as it waits.  It is moving in time with the movement already and always swirling through the pulse of life.  The same the moonflower and the wren’s eggs and the human heart.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

Oh the patience of stillness requires more endurance than a marathon!  To be still is an act of great humility…surrendering one’s self-importance, one’s assured autonomy, one’s skill, determination and strength.  Courage is not the absence of fear, but the absence of self.  And still illumines our deepest fears of self.

“Who am I?  Am I able?  What is the measure of my value?”

“Will the raspberries ripen for tomorrow?  Will the wren’s egg hatch?  Will the moonflowers open their blooms if the moon’s light is lost in the clouds?”

And yet, with each inhale the lungs relinquish the breath to be exhaled.  In stillness, we see and hear and smell and taste and feel the pulse of this rhythm calling us to open our selves, to open our hands and spread our arms wide in the embrace of freedom.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

And in this freedom, we stop looking for our own reflection in the people of our lives.  We stop chasing our own shadows.  Rather than seeking to shape people into our own image and squeeze every moment into our best laid plan, we begin to look into our own eyes and remember that the essence of our existence is the rhythm of our breath.  We are not ‘alive’ until our first cry or breath and our death is marked by our final exhale.  And then we begin to look into the eyes of the neighbor and the mother and the stranger and the friend and remember that the essence of their existence is the rhythm of the same breath.  We look at the food we eat grown from the plants which are nourished by our exhale and remember that they too have life by breath.  We see the mark of eternity within the breath of every person and in the heartbeats and roots of all living things.

And thus, in our stillness, we begin to know God.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

night snorkel

Just about a month ago, I was sitting under a cabana on the beach watching the blue Mexican water glimmer, the giant iguanas strut around the resort, and reading Harry Wong's "The First Days of School."  That seems like a lifetime ago.  Most days, I'm convinced those memories must have been a dream because my life here in Hazlehurst, Mississippi teaching kindergarten could not be more different from relaxing in Cozumel with my family.

The only memory that daily reverberates into my chaotic hours in the classroom, is of our night snorkel trip. 

In recent months—or maybe years—I’ve decided to try and make it a habit of doing things that scare me.  Sometimes those choices are as small as continually trying mustard on a sandwich even though I know the odds are it will make me gag.  Sometimes those choices are as a huge as moving across the country to teach in one of the poorest and roughest and lowest performing schools in Mississippi.  In Mexico, those choices included swimming with the sting-rays and going night snorkeling. 

Our day snorkel trip had been challenge in its own way.  I blame the time when I was two and was bit on the bottom by a crawdad in a lake in Tennessee—large bodies of water with lots of little creatures make me less than at home.  So the big blue ocean and me in the middle of it floating around looking at all the little creatures that could potentially bite me was a bit out of my comfort zone.  But I did it and loved it.  The reefs were incredible.  The fish were every color and beautiful.  And there was something deeply settling about hovering on top of this other world with only the sounds of my own breathing as a soundtrack.  Minus the sunburn to the back of my legs, I was so grateful to have gotten up the courage to jump off the boat.  Then, the friends we were traveling with suggested another snorkeling excursion—at night.

Yes, I had loved it in the daytime.  But in the ocean, in the dark, was a whole other set of worries and fear.  I tried to reason my way out of it with a few concocted excuses like how expensive it was or how fun the discoteca could maybe be (I already knew it was really lame…), but I’m always a sucker for “when else in your life will you have an opportunity like this” lines.  And, I knew if I was this scared of it, I probably needed to do it.

           

So we wandered to the snorkel shack, geared up and got on the boat.  The sun was just starting to set and the boat ride out to the Palancar reef was unbelievably breathtaking.  I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the sky that many colors at once.  Then the hum of the boat engine slowed and my little pounding heart raced nearly drowning out our guide’s instructions.  It was still light enough to see pretty clearly as we waddled to the back of the boat in our flippers.  I jumped in, looked around and turned on my flashlight.  We started our swim away from the boat and out into the endless black. 

           

It was amazing.  The colors of the coral and the fish are more true without the refractions of the sunlight during the day.  The sea turtles feed at night so it’s not hard to spot them ascending and descending in a slow but graceful dance.  The lobsters and crabs along the sides of the reef seemed oddly astute as they sauntered, ignorant of our presence.  And there was something magical about my little flashlight illuminating all these otherwise unseen worlds. 

The only moments of our hour long journey when my stomach turned and my chest tightened were when I shined my flash light away from the reef right below me and out across the water.  The little light was nearly instantly swallowed in the darkness, and I would suddenly remember how infinite and vast and unknown the ocean actually was.

And that is the feeling I face at the sound of my alarm clock every morning, in my most desperate moments between 7:25 a.m. and 3:00 p.m., in the numb melancholy of a lot of afternoons and evenings, and in the racing, anxious thoughts as I try to fall asleep each night.

Like the night snorkel, there are some really beautiful moments in my new life—both in the classroom and with these friends who are quickly becoming family.  But if I glance away from the immediate moment for even just a second, the impossibility of doing this for the next two years nearly instantly swallows my hope and strength.  This—living here, teaching here, praying here—is by far the hardest and maybe scariest thing I have ever done. 

Yes, my kiddos are only five and kindergarten could be all songs and stories and colors.  But I had not really thought through how much the battles of their little lives would storm into my classroom.  They don’t know how to “use their kind words” instead of their fists.  They haven’t yet learned that they are capable of learning.  They can’t yet articulate what “being good” means other than “not being so hardheaded.”  Many of them are already behind—not just academically, but socially and emotionally and developmentally too.  Not to mention how hard it is to watch and hear stories about their siblings and aunties and cousins who aren’t much older and are facing more adult life scenarios and coping with a harsher reality than any pre-teen should know.

So like the night snorkel, I’m trying to keep my little flashlight pointing straight down.  I’m trying to train my eyes to see into the little nooks and crannies of the reef to spot the beauty I know must be there.  I’m trying not to dread the lurking unknown or the infinite vastness.  I’m trying to pray for the vision to see the most true colors of patience and wisdom and hope and love for every moment of my day.  And I’m trying to remember to keep breathing slow, deep breaths in the rhythmic prayer “it is good.”

house of laughter

I wrote this last week in Cozumel, but didn't have Internet to post it...so here it is.  Much has happened since, but at the time, these were the thoughts/worries/hopes/prayers.

Friday, July 22^nd 

This morning I woke up with thoughts of furniture shopping and house decorating.  After a tumultuous week and a half of house-shopping, filled with more “grown-up” learning than I was ready for, Emily, Sarah and I paid the deposit on our three bedroom, two bath house 4 days before I left Mississippi for Cozumel.  The day before I left, we hauled all of our belongings into the office space, eagerly waiting for the remodels to be complete and the house ready for us to really move in.  When I left, we still didn’t have a fridge or washer or dryer or mattresses or furniture.  I’m under strict orders to “not worry about anything” while on vacation, but that has hardly stopped me from taking the mental tour of the house, trying to begin unpacking and settling my life rattled with transition.

As I was walking through the house, choosing to dream just a little longer than my alarm clock suggested, I had the awful realization that the house I’m preparing in my head is for friends who won’t be there.  Much like all the “professional dress” clothes shopping I did before moving to Mississippi—every time I purchased something, my first thoughts were “I can’t wait to show Stacey!” or “Bethany will definitely want to borrow this!”  Only to then remember that a) we don’t share a closet anymore, and b) they won’t see me dressed up for school.  In the same way, my sunny tour of my new house got a little cloudy when the faces around the kitchen table became a mirage and I remembered that I don’t know who my regular dinner guests will be.

I imagine this new house on Edgewood to be full of the laughter, naturally.  But my imagination hears the voices and chatter and laughs of all my closest friends…just like my first dorm room and first apartment in University Park, my favorite home in University Village and my last year in the Adams dorm.  Each of these homes holds so many wonderful memories of birthday parties and family dinners and slumber parties and all-nighters and Christmas parties and lazy Saturday mornings.  Those walls have many secrets and stories tacked up like proud family photos.  The couches and beds have many tears and triumphs woven into their fabrics.  And those kitchen tables have gathered some of the most sacred moments of hospitality and humility. 

As I imagine my new home, it’s hard not to see the faces of Stacey and Bethany and Amanda and J around the table.  Of Meghan and Brian and Stevie on the couches.  Of Jaclyn and Amber and Nemesia and Hilary on the porch.  It’s hard not to picture their cars lined up in the driveway or their purses and coats by the front door.  It’s hard not to imagine my refrigerator stocked with all of their favorite drinks and my cupboards with their snacks.  The dishes and pillows are the same, but the people and laughs are not.

So I continue to pray the same prayer that I’ve been praying—and seeing faithfully answered—for the last several months.  I pray for again.  I am so excited to live with Emily and Sarah.  I know that they, like my roommates before, will be so important in this next season of my life.  I know that we have much to learn from and teach to one another.  I am so excited for our kitchen table and for our couches.  I’m so excited to be a part of the Hazlehurst community and am eager to make this community a family.  I’m excited for the 2D grayscale names and faces to become 3D and colored with memories and stories.  I’m hopeful for the friendships that will come in these next two years…for the dinners and birthday parties and afternoon chats on the porch. 

I know that home is not an address or a building or a piece of furniture.  I know that it is people.  That means I have several homes…in Arvada and Azusa and Bristol and Seattle and San Francisco and Cincinnati and Minneapolis and Camden and Hungary and Cleveland and El Dorado and Fordyce and now, in Hazlehurst, Mississippi. 

So, to all of my family in all my other homes, consider this a formal invitation to visit my new home…I’d love to hear your laughter here.  And in the mean time, I’m still praying for the again of new friends and new family and new laughter.  

"I'll Go Where You Want Me to Go"

I have a lot to say about the last 4 weeks...but for now, this prayer from one my prayer books says all I'm learning quite well: 

"It may not be on the mountain's height,

Or over the stormy sea;

It may not be at the battle's front

My Lord will have need of me;

But if by a still, small voice he calls

To paths I do not know,

I'll answer dear Lord with my hand in thine,

I'll go where you want me to go.

I'll go where you want me to go, dear Lord,

O'er mountain or plain or sea;

I'll say what you want me to say, dear Lord.

I'll be what you want me to be.

Perhaps today there are loving words

Which Jesus would have me speak;

There may be now, in the paths of sin,

Some wanderer whom I should seek.

O Savior, if thou wilt be my Guide,

Tho' dark and rugged the way,

My voice shall echo the message sweet,

I'll say what you want me to say.

There's surely somewhere a lowly place

In earth's harvest fields so wide,

Where I may labor thro life's short day

For Jesus the Crucified.

So, trusting my all unto thy car,

I know thou lovest me!

I'll do thy will with a heart sincere,

I'll be what you want me to be."

-Mary Brown

oh hey Mississippi!

Not surprisingly, I had high ambitions of blogging frequently when I began this.  And not surprisingly, my expectations for myself weren't entirely realistic.  I mostly don't write as often as I plan to because I seldom find myself with the amount of time I think I will need to adequately say everything I think I have to say.  So I don't write at all...which only makes the problem worse.

So I'm writing.  I don't have very much time so it probably won't be as articulate as I'd like, but something is probably better than nothing.

With that said, I'm in M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I!!  My last few days and weeks at home were a whirlwind of studying and taking the Praxis licsensure exams, celebrating Christian's graduation with my family, shopping, packing and goodbye-ing.

Christian's graduation!!  Yeah yeah yeah!

Ice Cream date with my favorite non-family family...Isaac, Noelle, and Rosaline.

Oh heyo 2-0-1-1 graduates!!

My time at home was not nearly long enough--it never is--but certainly a refreshing transition time between the craziness of finals and graduation and the beginning of my Mississippi adventure.

On June 4th, Christian and I began our cross-country road trip and had a BLAST!  Oh gosh we had so much fun!  We stopped along the way to visit my friend Micah in Oklahoma City (who is also here in the Delta with TFA) and our family friends the Lewis' in Little Rock--both evenings were wonderful gifts of hospitality.  We also managed to eat at a Subway at least once a day, visit a traveling Giant Reptile Attraction, check out the Mississippi River (twice...we got a little lost for a while), drive through some beautiful parts of Arkansas and Louisiana, and listen to a lot of really great music.  Sweet, sweet Christian even drove almost the whole time so I could do my pre-Institute reading in the car.  Before I put him on the plane in Jackson, MS, we travelled down to Hazlehurst, where I've been placed as a Kindergarten teacher.  It's a small town for sure and Christian agreed that I will likely face all sorts of new challenges there, but it was so good to have him there with me that first time I explored my new home a little.  Without getting mushy, our time together was really special and I think solidified that more than siblings, we're pretty great friends too.  (Love you Trollther!)

Fazoli's!!  (Christian got me iPhone for graduation, which made documenting our trip super fun!)

Home of "Big Al" and "Thunder" in McGeehee, Arkansas in the Save-Mart parking lot.

We made it!

The time when we crossed the River too soon and had to back track almost an hour.  Oops!

Love love love already!

After leaving Christian at the airport in Jackson, I headed up to Cleveland, MS where I'm living for the next 6 weeks at Delta State University.  Within minutes on the campus, I found my dear friend Becca (also from APU) and Micah.  It was so sweet to be reunited again!  Our first days of "Induction" (maybe I'll post a list of terms and acronyms somewhere...) were spent in sessions learning about the Delta and getting our first sips of the TFA Kool-Aid as they call it.  The highlights for sure were making several new friends and having Emily arrive safely from the Ukraine.  Our little circle of four has grown and we've loved all of our adventures with new friends.

B.B. King "Homecoming Concert" in Indianola, MS with old and new friends

Noah (also going to Hazlehurst), Laura, Becca, Janie, Emily, Micah and Wes.

The only place we've found open on Sundays that has WI-FI is McDonalds...so Mickey D's is the new Starbs!

Monday, June 6th "Institute" began.  Long gone are the days of lazy morning and afternoon adventures...it's business time.  My days begin at 5am, when I cleverly pretend to be more grown up than I am with some business professional dress.  Then it's hopping on a bus for the twenty minute ride to Ruleville Central Elementary/Middle/High School--it is amazing just how sweaty you can get that fast on a bus with no AC!  We spent most of last week learning curriculum, behavior management strategies, and lesson planning.  The days were long, but it has been wonderful coming home to my "Delta family" to eat dinner together, run just about daily errands to Wal-Mart, spend time processing our days, and praying with our little group of girls.  So far, we've managed to keep our most of our weekends free for  play time.  Friday brought us a Catfish fry and movie night.  Saturday, Emily and I drove down to Jackson with Becca for her to take a Praxis test.  We found a Corner Bakery (I literally got teary when I saw it), a Target, and a Starbucks...big day!  After our lovely day and drive, we hit up the bowling alley with our favorite friends.  We found a Methodist church to visit Sunday morning and were so grateful for their truly Southern hospitality.  

Catfish fry!  (I think I might be a pescatarian...)

Corner Bakery...tastes like home!

And starting yesterday--Monday--the real crazy began:  teaching four weeks of summer school to entering-Kindergarten students.  I "taught" my first math lesson this morning on "identifying same and different."  Harder than it sounds, I promise.  Not only is remembering how to think those kind of things for the first time a little tricky, but I learned in the most humbling way today that it doesn't matter what your lesson is if you can't control your classroom.  All of our advisors in this process warned that the first day would be rough, and they were right.  The good news is that there are 17 more days of learning before it's just me in my own classroom with my students all day every day.  And for that, I am very grateful and hopeful.  And in the midst of having hard days, I am really grateful for the convictions that brought me here.  Somewhere in all the behavior management struggles and lesson plan writing and rewriting, I really believe that we are doing the work of the Kingdom.  (I may need to hear that again in a few days when I've forgotten...)

AND...great, great, best news...Emily found out yesterday that she has been placed in Hazlehurst teaching Middle School special ed!!  Needless to say, I was a mess of giggles and tears when she got the call.  God's grace through this whole process has been so apparent and continues to still amaze me.  The group of friends that I knew I would have here has been the "home" that I have so desperately needed at the end of these long, hard days.  And the new friends that God has allowed my path to intersect with have already become very dear.  And, I am absolutely certain that these things will only become more true in the next days and weeks.

Now, it's time to write a lesson on "sorting shapes"... "Super Smart Summer Scholars" here we come!

journals and eyeglasses.

I’m a very sentimental person and tend to attach deep meaning to all sorts of seemingly frivolous things.  As such, there are two “big” decisions that I always anticipate with great apprehension…new journals and new eyeglasses. 

After nearly a decade of relatively consistent journaling, I’ve got journal shopping down to a science.  I can estimate almost to the day how long it will be before I need a new journal, and I give myself at least a week to find a new one.  I know it shouldn’t be that hard, but it’s a big deal.  Some of it has to do with how particular I am…right size, right paper, right line width (although blank paper has been my most recent choice), and not to mention what the cover looks like.  I can confess that on more than one occasion, the deciding factor has come down to things like smell or the texture of the paper. 

I justify all this fuss because, in many ways, the words that each journal holds are an extension of my heart and soul.  Yes, many times the pages are filled with stories of my daily life.  But the reason I journal so diligently is to continue telling myself the story of God’s faithfulness.  Most of the words are prayers cried and prayers answered.  And so I imagine the journals I choose as prayers themselves.  A new journal is literally the beginning of a new book, a new volume, a new chapter of my life. (Only on two occasions have I bought a new journal without finishing the current one…both times it was because of a break-up.)  In a season of significant growth, the journal I chose looked like tree bark…praying for more growth to continue.  In a season of heartache, I chose a journal covered in small birds and fruit…praying that I would come to know the freedom of a bird not caged, and praying that I might be a fruit-bearing tree.  And in this most recent season of great uncertainty and transition, the blank white pages of my journal have spoken not only to my most vulnerable anxieties of the future, but also the infinite hope of possibility. (Sometime I’ll write more on blank white paper…)

So about once a year, my dear, dear mom oh so patiently ventures to Barnes and Noble with me and we stand before the wall of journals praying for the stories and memories and prayers that will fill one of those empty books.

Much like journal shopping, choosing new glasses presents about the same level of complexity.  Fortunately, I only shop for glasses every few years.  The last time was just before I started my first year of college.  The decision to choose the orange and purple frames proved a very decisive moment…in a deeply symbolic way, I was relinquishing the years of being known by my love for orange.  (Love is an understatement.  For several years, I insisted upon wearing something orange every day.  My walls were—and still are—orange.  My furniture was—and still is—orange.  Orange, orange, orange always and forever.)  Orange, of course, meant all sorts of things other than color.  I let it articulate my desire to be different, my acceptance of quirkiness, and it paired well with my nickname “Spunky.”  Purple, seemed like a little more subtle version of all those desires…still lively, but maybe a little more mature…or at least that’s how it all seemed when I was fresh out of high school and preparing to move all the way to California.

Today, it was time for new eyeglasses.  So my dear, dear mom oh so patiently ventured with me to pick out new frames.  I had to have tried on at least 30 or 40 pairs, which we slowly whittled down to 10 and then 4 and eventually there were only 2 left.  Again, I know full well that no other person will ever infer all the meaning that I see in any pair of glasses frames, but there was an extensive deliberation in choosing between those last two frames.  One said “past”; one said “future.”  One seemed like the perfect, funky, just-graduated-from-college-and-am-totally-confident-enough-to-wear-whatever-kind-of-glasses-I-want frames.  The other was the I-just-graduated-from-college-and-am-still-young-and-adventurous-but-also-ready-to-begin-my-life-as-a-somewhat-sophistacated-professional.  The first would be totally California fashionable.  The latter were more classic and surely acceptable anywhere—probably even Hazlehurst, Mississippi.  And so off and on each pair went.  This mirror, that mirror, hair up, hair down.  Walk around the store for a few minutes and try them again with fresh eyes.  And as I stood in front the 2^nd mirror from the left (the one with the best lighting), my mom started asking the questions to unravel all the tangled thoughts and anxieties that I had attached to this relatively insignificant decision. 

Looking into the mirror, I started praying the same prayer that I pray when looking for journals and the same prayer that I’ve prayed during all my “new teacher clothes-shopping.”  I realized that no set of glasses frames or new dress or new journal will really be able to tell me who I am, nor will they really shape who I become.  Yes, in some small way they are an articulation of my fashion or style or personality, and maybe even a little of my heart.  But on their own, they can’t say all that I’m asking them to say.  So stepping a little closer to the mirror, I tried to look beyond their plastic glass and ask my eyes what my heart and soul were saying.  And they again spoke of the terrible tension of this season…all the pain and heartache and excitement and hope that come with leaving and going.  They confessed again how desperately I wish I was going back to Azusa in three months, and how terrified I am of the world that lies on the other side of the River.  And then they begged me to let go just a little more, with the hope and promise of having more hand space for the good things to come.

After tearing up for just a second, I chose the pair of glasses that will give me new vision in my new life—hopefully new vision in more ways than one!

dirty hands.

Today, I finally got to "get my hands in the dirt."  And it was more lovely and wonderful than I'd remembered.  There is something about the smell of dirt and the feel of it between my fingers that just hits a place somewhere deep inside.  

My mom and I spent most of the morning and early afternoon planting flowers in front of our house.  Yesterday we spent hours planning and searching for our favorites...  The African marigolds are always tricky to find, but the Osteospermum were a fantastic discovery.  Every year, shaded flowers for the bed under the window and beneath the pine tree present quite a challenge, but our geraniums, lobelia, pansies and coral bells look really beautiful.  

Tomorrow we'll add some snapdragons to the mailbox corner, a few lavender to the lamb's ear along the back fence, and continue our search for a potentilla bush (my dad's favorite) for the front porch.  

We haven't bought any dianthus yet, but saw some really gorgeous ones today that will look great next to the peonies in the back.  

And I'm still trying to convince them that a few tomatoes would be perfect in the corner planter and that rhubarb would be fill in the area on the side of the house quite nicely.

It's been a year since I was in Tennessee planting flowers with my Aunt Susan, learning about cucumbers and tomatoes from Uncle Wayne and watching the moonflowers every night with Aunt Joan and Uncle Jim.  It was incredible how quickly all those memories flooded back today with the smells of the dirt and flowers.  And with those memories, stirred in my heart and soul so many of the beautiful things that have been buried beneath the clutter of the busy weeks and months of this year.  

There is a patience, a humility, a slowness and trust in gardening that most of my life rushes right past.  I remembered today that it takes days and weeks of patient watering and nurturing to see the little plants grow.  I remembered that the neatness and patterning of my planting has little to do with the beauty of the flowers--it's really not about my work to arrange them in some artistic way at all, their beauty is entirely their own. I remembered the trust required to hope that little seeds will turn into new plants that will bear their own seeds.

I think these were really important things to think about today, to be reminded of.  There is a lot of uncertainty on my horizon.  Yes, I know I'm going to Mississippi in 13 days.  Yes, I know I'll be teaching at Hazlehurst Elementary School.  But my imagination can hardly handle the questions and apprehensions and hopes held within those certainties.  And I know that right now, all I can do is wait, and pray.  I know that these next few days may offer the moments of Sabbath rest that I know my weary soul needs if I can slow down long enough to escape the anxiety and apathy that can so quickly suffocate and paralyze.  

So, I'm going to keep putting my hands in the dirt.  I'm excited to see how much my little flowers might grown in the next 2 weeks and I know they might not at all.  But there is something that happens out there in the dirt that quiets my heart and nourishes my soul in desperately needed way right now.

In all this thinking, I did some reading through my journals from last summer and found this little bit.  I really truly believed it then, and am praying for these truths to settle in again...

“Come breath, go breath; I’m not going to pull any longer.”  ~Nana

If only we understood the deep wisdom of these words.  This kind of breathing is of the kind of living that overflows from the deep well of freedom.

Free from the desperate striving and agonized clutching that are the ladder climb to ‘success.’  Free from the anxious heartache of one who has lost control.  The metronome marking the rhythm of this breath is not heard among the ringing, dinging, clanking of our scurried lives.  It is the rhythm of the silence of the darkest hour of night before the dawn as the symphony of birds await their cue.  It is the rhythm of the rain as it tumbles down the leaves and pats upon the ground.  It is the rhythm of the lightening bugs as they paint their portraits in the sky.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

Stillness and ‘non-motion’ are hardly the same.  Rather, stillness invites the most elegant and vigorous dances of motion.  In stillness, all the world arrives at once.  The blackberries and raspberries are sweetest when they are left on the vine just one day longer.  The stillness of the harvester’s hand is not apathetic or lazy or ignorant as it waits.  It is moving in time with the movement already and always swirling through the pulse of life.  The same the moonflower and the wren’s eggs and the human heart.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

Oh the patience of stillness requires more endurance than a marathon!  To be still is an act of great humility…surrendering one’s self-importance, one’s assured autonomy, one’s skill, determination and strength.  Courage is not the absence of fear, but the absence of self.  And still illumines our deepest fears of self.

“Who am I?  Am I able?  What is the measure of my value?”

“Will the raspberries ripen for tomorrow?  Will the wren’s egg hatch?  Will the moonflowers open their blooms if the moon’s light is lost in the clouds?”

And yet, with each inhale the lungs relinquish the breath to be exhaled.  In stillness, we see and hear and smell and taste and feel the pulse of this rhythm calling us to open our selves, to open our hands and spread our arms wide in the embrace of freedom.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

And in this freedom, we stop looking for our own reflection in the people of our lives.  We stop chasing our own shadows.  Rather than seeking to shape people into our own image and squeeze every moment into our best laid plan, we begin to look into our own eyes and remember that the essence of our existence is the rhythm of our breath.  We are not ‘alive’ until our first cry or breath and our death is marked by our final exhale.  And then we begin to look into the eyes of the neighbor and the mother and the stranger and the friend and remember that the essence of their existence is the rhythm of the same breath.  We look at the food we eat grown from the plants which are nourished by our exhale and remember that they too have life by breath.  We see the mark of eternity within the breath of every person and in the heartbeats and roots of all living things.

And thus, in our stillness, we begin to know God.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

Amen...again.