9:22

9:22 am -

Dishes waiting. Laundry sitting. Writing pressing. But all I hear is the blissful silence of solitude. It is such a welcome respite from the chaos of the weekend that I hardly dare to disrupt its peaceful invitation to just sit and bask in its presence.

Silence is a longed for guest in the home of my heart, but all to often its invitations get blown away in the gusty winds of driving ambition. It is difficult to sit in the silence when your inner voice automatically moves to the mode of chaos management, listing carefully off all of the tasks to accomplish before some arbitrarily placed deadline threatens to create an internal implosion.

Listen. I can hear the clock ticking in the background. I feel the rhythm move in my heart. Is it an indication of time squandered or time savored? In the push to forever get somewhere else, I am missing the moments. The now. The silence that surrounds me in the absence of the rush of the morning, the weekend, the pressing push of time.

What happens at 9:22 in the morning, when instead of washing or sorting or anything, I simply sit? I'll tell you what happens. Acknowledgement of my own simple existence. Understanding of my singular importance within the spinning world of wonder. Recognition that my quiet self, my simply beating heart, my breath in and out, are enough. I am a wondrous creation, excepting any accomplishment or lack thereof.

To sit is to simply be. To marvel at my eyes that can see beauty, my mind that can recognize truth, my heart than continues to bring life to every portion of my body without any conscious effort.

In the stillness.

May I seek your company more readily, welcome guest. You rarely come uninvited, unintended. Your presence brings calm and respite. You must visit more often.

It is 9:22. You have somehow found me this morning.

I softly open the door to my heart.

Please, come in.

Another Blog

For my readers who may be interested more in my faith, I will also be posting at www.praiseworthywords.blogspot.com.

Thanks for listening!

I Lost My Balance

I was careening through my living room with the vacuum cleaner blaring. I had a class to teach at my home in just twenty minutes, I was still in my pajamas and had assigned my five year old son to do the dusting. He was dutifully dusting the bottom of the end table when I turned quickly, knocking over the lamp. As I rushed to save it from its impending doom, I started to fall myself and accidentally stepped on my son's hand. He started to cry and as I tried to comfort him I said, "I'm so sorry, I lost my balance."

As soon as the words left my mouth I recognized the depth of them. Boy, had I lost my balance. I am getting ready to move - again. For those of you who have enjoyed the tranquility of stability, let me assure you that moving to a new place can be exciting, but it is also one of the most stressful things a family can experience. With it comes lists of minor repairs, projects, sorting, packing and decluttering. Last weekend we started with the garage, clearing out all the muck and dust and unused items, sending all the sneeze inducing offenders to goodwill or storage. I caught the bug that day, the 'muck it bug' I call it. I reach a point in every move that I see everything as clutter and want to get rid of or organize every item we own. It can do wonders for showing your home, but it can also wreak havoc on your sanity. I worked for hours and hours this week, clearing out closets, thinning out bookshelves and sorting through clothing. My house is a showpiece, my soul is a mess.

You see, I got so driven to accomplish this 'very important task' that I forgot about all the other things that are important to me. I didn't spend much quality time with my family, outside of loading or unloading boxes from the truck. I didn't go to my yoga class at all this week - my haven of physical and emotional balance. I didn't read. I didn't write. I didn't eat well. I didn't sleep well. But man, my closets are clean!

I'm convinced that I have to learn this lesson again and again and again. For whatever reason, my intrinsic drive often pummels over my internal voice of balance and contentment. In yoga when we practice our balance poses, we have to concentrate dutifully but in a relaxed state or we fall over. That's not fun when you are standing precariously on one foot or upside down in a headstand. We must remember to breathe or the tension creates imbalance which can lead to injury.

I keep coming back to balance - this art of learning what to let go of, what to hold onto, when to breathe and when to rest. My body is begging for it. My soul is requiring it. My sanity depends on it.

Maybe one day it won't take a frenzied household appliance and a careening light fixture for me to recognize it.

On Contemplating the Meditative State

I was recently on a cross country flight. I had three transfers and by the time I boarded my last plane I was already exhausted. I usually request an aisle seat to accommodate my gangly legs, but due to a weather rescheduling, I was seated near the window. I sat next to a fragrant, unkempt man and just behind an enamored couple who couldn’t seem to wait until they reached their final destination’s hotel room to express their affection. My long legs were crazily cramped and I was in the full state of crankiness before the plane even left the ground. As the elevation rose, so did my irritation. I couldn’t wait to get off the plane I had just boarded, but finally convinced myself that the flight was short and it would all be over soon enough. I buried myself in my magazine, grumbling.

After we had reached altitude, I briefly pried my eyes away from my mindless magazine so the flight attendant could hand me my drink. Before turning back to deepening distraction, I happened to glance out the window. I saw deep crevices that stretched out for miles. It was breathtaking. “Is that the Grand Canyon?” I asked incredulously. “Yes, it is,” he responded casually. He apparently sees this marvel every day, but the flight immediately changed for me. I stared out my window, my magazine sliding forgotten down my seat. Miles swept by as I sat slowly sipping my drink, savoring the grandeur of nature displayed below me. What I saw out of my tiny porthole to the universe was remarkable. I realized I was up in the air tens of thousands of feet and yet the canyon seemed to go on forever. I studied the flowing turns, the mighty crevices etched into the rock over eons of time by a mighty river that from my perspective looked like a simple, flowing stream. Grace. Beauty. Wonder. Truly a canyon that could be called nothing short of grand.

As the plane began its descent, my mind again became rooted in reality, but one that had become altered somehow. As soon as I had uttered the words, Grand Canyon, I became oblivious to all of my immediate surroundings once I was focused on beauty. In an instant, I experienced feelings of calm and childlike wonder. My immediate irritations fled and I felt gratitude for the privilege of witnessing one of nature’s mighty miracles from such a unique perspective.

In that moment I understood a little better the beauty of being in a constant meditative state. It is not found only by becoming completely disengaged from present surroundings. It does not always require one to ignore humanity and close the eyes in a quiet, darkened room. In many instances the meditative state is one of choosing to be truly aware. As I sat on a soaring plane, I chose to fully observe my present circumstances. I could have become so entangled in my irritability that I would have missed the view of a lifetime.

The irony is that the canyon would have been there the whole time, whether I had chosen to see it or not.

On Humility

So, how do you graciously give a reading of a poem you have written about pride without being prideful? Don't worry - God has it covered. First, He'll be sure to schedule your reading at the same time as the Winter Olympics and a Billy Joel concert and in the same venue as a world famous dance performance. Then He'll send you a zit the size of Texas right in the middle of your forehead that refuses to be concealed with makeup. Lastly he'll make sure that your husband is sitting firmly on your skirt so that as you go to stand up in front of a room full of people, you have a split second where you are certain the entire audience will know whether or not you remembered to put a slip on that morning.

How to effectively teach a lesson on how to not be prideful? Never fear - He has it all under control.

The Business of Busy-ness

Life sure seems to get in the way sometimes. I heard once that I should be grateful for all the experiences I have in life that distract me from my writing because they give me something to write about. I wonder if that means when I am eighty I will finally find some quiet time to work on the projects that keep haunting me. You see, I have all these ideas floating around in my mind. They speak to me at random times, while I'm rinsing dishes or stirring soup or folding laundry, and I worry that if I don't capture them now while they are dancing freshly in my mind that they will wander off into the dark and scrambled recesses of my mind and disappear forever.

So I keep my laptop handy. I try to carve out a couple of hours here and there when I can. But mostly I hope - I hope that when the chaos of everyday life settles to the point where I find myself without busy children and schedules running amok the glimmers of light and inspiration will still be there.

Off to fold the laundry. Pirouette anyone?

Violence is...Violence

The clock read 12:43. The screaming outside my window had woken me up out of a dead sleep. My heart started pounding and I felt the familiar fear return. The elevated, angry voices of men and the desperate, pleading voice of a woman reverberated through the windows and sent panic into my soul. I didn't know what to do, again.

My mind raced back to my childhood home. I was eight or nine years old and had the singular privilege in my home of having my own room for a while. I had been soundly asleep when I heard the screaming, the voices raised in anger and hatred outside my window. My eyes popped open, and I checked to feel my racing pulse. I felt frozen. I don't know how long I stared at my ceiling, willing the voices to stop their horrible tirades, but at some point I slipped quietly out of my bed onto the floor next to the window. I peeked quietly through the metal blinds on my bedroom window, only to see a woman waving a gun crazily at a man. It was the neighbors two houses down, whose house I instinctively avoided. Whatever courage I had found to crawl out of my bed instantly failed me at the sight of the gun and I slumped to the floor in horror. The noise was so deafening to my childlike ears that I couldn't believe it hadn't awakened anyone else in my home. I wanted to run as quickly as I could to my parents room that was just across the hall, but my body felt covered in thick ice. Somehow my young mind told me that they had seen me look out the window and if I moved, I would be shot. I was paralyzed with fear. I don't remember how long I lay crumpled next to my window, freezing, but that memory is etched with precision on my psyche.

The clock read 1:04. The anger was escalating. I got up to call the police, but neither of my cordless phones were in their chargers. I was afraid to turn on any lights, unsure if the police arrived and emotions escalated any further they would somehow be able to determine the source of the caller and direct the anger to my home. I checked on my sleeping children, my husband was snoring soundly, even my dog was oblivious to the chaos nearby. So I went back to my room to pray. It seemed the only logical solution at that point. I needed to feel comfort, so I turned to the only Source of comfort that has never failed me. The pleading girl finally convinced the tirade to return indoors. The voices became more muffled, but no less violent.

My mind fled to our apartment in a huge city. My husband was attending graduate school and we had rented a place in the nicest area we could afford. It had its drawbacks, but in general I felt safe at home with our little daughter and newborn son as long as I had all the doors and windows locked. I was constantly aware of my surroundings and learned to live on the edge of fear most times. It was one of the things I disliked about city life as compared to my simple, small town upbringing. It was the middle of the night again, this time the challenge of a shared wall brought the violence right into my home. I could hear the woman screaming, pleading for the man not to hurt her. I heard his rough, bellowing voice threatening with hatred and horrible intentions. This time I had a husband laying next to me. I woke him up and we listened to the terror, again unsure of what to do. Surely we weren't the only ones hearing this. Surely someone else would call the police. If we did call, would we be safe? Would the situation escalate further? I didn't doubt the malice of his intent or the sincerity of his demands. My babies were sleeping in the next room. As the glass started shattering through the wall, I couldn't stand my proximity. The fear so enveloping, I grabbed my pillow and escaped to the furthest end of my little apartment away from the anger. The next day as I was leaving to take our daughter to preschool, the woman was outside her door waving a gun, a policeman there told me to go back inside immediately. I watched through cracked blinds again until the situation was under control. I went outside to ask the officer what was going on and he told me not to worry. Not to worry? The woman was evicted shortly after, but the fear lingered. I felt so relieved to move away from that place.

I guess somehow I thought that if we finally lived in a certain zip code or obtained a certain income level that those haunting voices could finally be put behind me. As I lay in my bed listening to the violent screams coming from the home next door, the home with a swimming pool and hardwood floors, I realized the universality of pain and anger. I wonder what had happened so many times before in that home, for it to finally reach the point it did last night. The moment where the anger and pain spewed outside of the walls and into the proximity of public perspective. I wonder why such terrifying displays are referred to as 'domestic violence'. The word domestic to me invokes visions of June Cleaver, freshly baked bread and white linens blowing crisply on a backyard clothesline. It doesn't bear any relation to what I heard outside my bedroom window last night. It should just be called violence.

I never know what I should do in those moments. Succumb to the fear that permeates my soul, race to the phone to call authorities to stop the horror for the people I'm hearing, drop to my knees for comfort and plead for everyone's safety. In that moment of now all too familiar terror, I found myself in mourning that I was there again - amidst the anger, too near to the violence, too close to danger. When will it ever stop?

I guess you never really know what people are dealing with. Tread lightly. Walk softly. Speak kindly. You never know what the voices were saying or what hearts were hearing the night before.