There is a white-breasted blue jay out my window. Not a scrub jay, stellar jay, or grey jay—a blue jay. They were common enough where I grew up, but in Colorado, "regular old" blue jays are a special treat. He looks bright against the clear sky and crisp snow.
Birds and trees draw me deeply into the joy of nature. The stillness of nature. The melancholy of nature. Like the flock of crows I stood silent under yesterday. The clouds were low and heavy, light snow was sifting down, and bird after black bird pressed his outline against the winter sky.
Today I am reminded of that throng of birds as I listen to Spiegel im Spiegel by Arvo Pärt. The piece begins with silence; it is somehow sparse and simultaneously spacious. Like the shades of white and grey and black yesterday. The limited light and colour pallet of the snowy day allowed for depth and detail one might miss on a bright day. It was solemn—grand and causing reflection—and expansive. The quiet of the fine, falling snow, the swish of wings—occasionally broken by the coarse cry of a crow, coming in wave after wave—and the weight of the clouds were all sparse and expansive in their own way. It was balm to my ragged, tired soul
The beginning of December feels like a marathon, trying to cram in long hours at work and with people in every free evening. There are plans, plans, plans—and though they are enjoyable, the amount of scheduling and coordinating is exhausting. To tell the truth, I get very grumpy at this time of year. I don't even want to go to the events. I just want to curl up in my own home, light candles, listen to quiet music, and read Adventy things. But I rarely do that, because the evenings are full.
Then, in creeps the resentment. I wrestle with this resentment of other people planning my schedule for me. What if I simply want to stay home and not rush, for once? I've tried this a few times, only to fill in the free nights with work or to have someone unexpectedly appear at my door. Indeed, I sabotage myself the most. Whether I stay home or go somewhere with a sigh and a "because I have to" feeling, it all comes from my perspective or perception. The reality is, I feel rushed because some part of me doesn't want to let others down or because I didn't employ good boundaries. I don't start with stopping, much of the time. And so, what should feel like a celebratory time feels like an exhausting rush.
The thing I've begun to see about time this year, as I consider the mo'edim (appointed times/seasons/days) is that I am not good at rhythms. I used to be. I used to have quiet time in the morning, used to go for walks before work, used to have margin. I began much more from stopping (Shabbat) and loved sacred celebrations (Sukkot). I also didn't work full time and knew fewer people in the area. . . which certainly meant there were more free hours in the week to employ contemplatively.
How did I fall out of step in the Great Dance? When did I begin trying to fill every crevice of the week days with work and people, leaving no room for quiet space with God? I feel like Moses in Exodus eighteen, hearing the people from morning till evening. Rather than evening and morning it is backwards: morning and evening—not the rhythm given by God in Genesis one. So, how do I begin the evening before? How do I begin with Shabbat, stopping? What do I need to leave (Pesach)? And what do I need to learn to receive (Shavuot)?
Perhaps I need to take lessons from Spiegel im Spiegel, to begin with silence. To not fill every crevice in the music of daily life with 'noise' as it were. I need more silent space in my days and weeks. There are always podcasts, books, music, conversations, and more to fill each hour with sound. But what if I chose silence in those spaces? Silence on my walks? What if I chose not to multi-task all of the time? Inside my mind is screaming out, "So much would be left undone!" And I don't mean in the task sense. What would end up "undone" is conversations with people. And I think people are the most important beings in the universe, in life. Or do I?
I know I'm unhealthy when I feel like there is no room for people. But who do I decide to connect with, and who do I need to move on from? I have realised that I cannot possibly stay in touch with everyone I've met or known. Not unless I quit my job, and I have to be able to feed people when connecting with them! What if I'm ready to move on and let some relationships drift apart and the people on the other end want to hang on?
Here is where I come back to resentment (a constant theme I've noticed in my adult life). When someone is trying to celebrate me specifically (or celebrate with me), but doesn't offer what I feel would be a greater gift (not having to get together yet another night), a wrestling match ensues within. I don't want to hurt someone's feelings (though I have, plenty of times!), but I also don't want to have to do something I don't feel like doing. At that point, I feel like I'm not appreciating the time and effort of another (definitely not okay in my value system), but I also feel like I'm not able to choose how I want to celebrate—so a boundary is broken and I feel stepped on or like my desires aren't respected.
Right about now anyone who might actually be reading this rambling of mine is probably thinking, "What the heck is your problem?! You have friends who want to spend time with you! That is a gift!" Well yes, it is. But sometimes what this actually feels like is: everyone wants a piece of me—to the point that I am so disintegrated that I don't exist anymore. I can't be me, I can't be a whole human, if I'm constantly pulled to pieces. I will be a snippy, snappy, no-good-to-anyone, resentful person if I keep getting pulled to pieces. And the older I get, the more people I know, and the more directions I feel pulled in.
Since you can't sort out friends like you sort out your closet and take some of it to Goodwill, what is a person supposed to do? Some old friends, like a favourite sweater, you want to keep close. They are comfortable (even when they tell you to shape up) and cosy and just right for any season. But some old friends are like your favourite pair of jeans that have holes in unseemly places. They were great for a time, but some good things have a shorter lifespan than others. You can't keep holding on to the jeans hoping you can keep wearing them. But people...people are intrinsically infinitely more valuable than jeans. If you have tried the slow fade (not answering calls and e-mails as quickly) and have mentioned that life is going a different direction for you and they still hang on, there is friction—which happens to be rather uncomfortable.
Discomfort isn't always a sign that you need to leave something or someone, it can be a sign of growth, too. But discerning between growth and death is difficult. A baby must grow in the womb to keep it safe, but if it stays too long, it will actually die. A snake must shed its skin to keep growing, and a butterfly must wrest its way out of the cocoon to strengthen and form its wings. Some relationships need to be grown out of, and some need to be adjusted. I often feel the snake reference when I am home with my parents. I love them dearly! But when I go home, I feel like I automatically am being stuffed back into that skin that is ten sizes too small for me now. I choose it; my parents sort of assume it; even family friends expect me to be that person I was. But I'm not that person. I don't fit in that skin. In fact, I am probably more like the caterpillar who has become the butterfly. Not only do I not fit in the cocoon, I'm a very different creature now! But I try to become a caterpillar again because I am back in the cocoon of my parents' home and their world/schedule. Yet I don't fit. And I don't fit in various friendships now, either. For some, I am ready to move on, even if the other people aren't.
On the flip side, there have been friendships I was loathe to lose. I wanted to go back to what we had (or continue it), even when they needed to move on and grow apart. I hated that! So I do have compassion for the friends I have moved away from and the ones I'd like to step away from. However, I won't continue to be myself or the person that any of my friends like if I keep getting pulled to bits. When close friends begin telling me, "You seem really out of sorts or not like yourself," I know I'm in the downward spiral of being overwhelmed in every area of life. And when I don't feel like celebrating what should be celebrated (or lamenting what should be lamented), I know I'm disintegrating. When I can't feel happiness or sadness, something is terribly wrong, I've been terribly "busy"—unable to connect with myself, but more, unable to connect with God, who puts me back together again when I've begun to splinter.
It is what feels like a lack of time that causes this decay in me. When I think of sacred time and the rhythms of the mo'edim, I feel envious when I see other people living in a place of sacred abundance or holy celebration. I want the quiet space to journal and read poetry and Scripture. That is part of the celebration of any season, but especially during Lent and Advent. I want to begin with stopping—re-creating and being re-created by God. I want to give of myself, my time, my creativity (of which there is none when I'm fractured), my finances, and my hospitality—but I can't give to everyone. And perhaps I un-discerningly choose the wrong people to give to, so that I have nothing left for my old friends... But I want to give to those on the fringes, who often feel unseen, how do I see them and also see my old friends?
I believe I need to leave my broken way of seeing. I begin to realise that I am seeing the land of abundance as if it were the land of lack. I am seeing the Promised Land as if it were Egypt. I'm seeing a blessing as if it were a curse—and so it becomes a curse to me. I want to receive the gifts God gives as though there were the good He intended—whether it is the gift of time, the gift of friendship, the gift of silence, the gift of space (all of which must be stewarded well); or the gift of lack (which leads me to need God), the gift of small spaces (that I might learn to be myself where I thought I had to be someone else), and the gift of noise (which makes me grateful for the silence and stillness when I am able to receive them).
And now I return to birds—the swift-flying crows, the brilliant blue jay, the cheery little nuthatches I often see on the scrub oaks. . . Birds are a sign of fecundity and a symbol of freedom. Perhaps I am drawn to them, inspired by them, because I long for life and liberty. Not the "liberty" that is really license (doing whatever I want), but of the true freedom that comed from breaking out of one skin to be contained in the next skin. Snakes don't stop being snakes when they shed their skin, they simply grow bigger. A caterpillar metamorphoses into a butterfly, but it would not be free to really be a butterfly if it continued to use only its legs (like a caterpillar) and never its wings. Likewise, I want to be free to be myself, the human God made me to be, which means I have limits and boundaries, but there is an expansive freedom within those boundaries... Like a doorway limits the size of what can go through it, but on the other side there may be rolling fields and open skies for those who can go through.
“Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien
