Of Whimsical Depth

I’m taking a new route home for my commute tonight. I think it will take 20-30 minutes longer than my normal route. Those of you who know me well are howling just at the moment. “She complains about the normal length of her commute, and now she’s making it longer?” Yes. I’m making it longer. Not permanently, just occasionally. I’m going to take a bus instead of the walk and two trains I’ve been previously taking.

Why, you ask? Well, because I find myself in desperate need of space to simply sit and read, simply sit and think, to simply be, without dozens of things staring me in the face and muttering under their breath about how I should really be doing that laundry, or washing those dishes, or reading something constructive. And I’ve always found the bus a brilliant place to create space. You pop your headphones in (whether you turn them on is up to you!) and avoid making too much eye contact with those nearby, and people pretty much leave you alone. You can people watch, eavesdrop, read, stare out a window and think, write in a journal, or simply be.

I feel like many things in my life have been swirling around me at breakneck speeds, and it’s affecting my mental clarity. So tonight, I’m going to take an hour and a half or thereabouts on the bus and simply sit. I’m going to slow down all those other things clamoring to be done because I can’t do them from the seat of the bus anyway, and I’m going to read a novel, and I’m going to breathe, and I’m going to reflect on the things that have been swirling at the edges of my consciousness that I wrote about this morning. I’m going to watch people, and let my mind wander in a restful sort of way. (See, when I put it like that, you all want to spend an hour and a half on the bus too, don’t you?)

When I get home, I’m going to make myself dinner – either soup, or nachos – depends on what my stomach thinks – I’ll ask it when we’re getting close to home. The conversation will go something like this. I’ll say “What would you like for dinner tonight?” And my stomach, which has been debating the two options all day today will say either, “I’d really like some more of that soup you made last night, with the green beans and carrots in it, and maybe you could add some peas tonight.” Or it will say, “You know, I think a plate of nachos sounds great – with maybe some green onion and red and yellow peppers if there are still some in the fridge.” And then my very talkative stomach will probably suggest (I’m guessing here, but it’s a guess based in experience) that I might like to round the meal out with either an oatmeal raisin cookie, baked by my grandma, and stored in my freezer, or with something containing copious amounts of chocolate (of which I have a few different options stashed away.)

After dinner, I have plans that include lighting some candles, folding laundry while watching some tv on dvd, possibly hanging some art in my bedroom (finally!), calling a good friend in another city for a catching up and praying together sort of chat, and paging through either some scrapbooking magazines or a cookbook that I got at the library, to find ideas for future evenings.

Have I mentioned that I find great beauty, joy and peace in the most mundane and whimsical things of life? In the errands, the quiet evenings at home, the little moments of accomplishment, the conversations with my stomach, the extended commute designed to create space to breathe?

At the edge of conciousness

I’ve been noticing a lot lately how topics of conversation, transitions in the physical realm, these sorts of things, can stir things in the spiritual realm. I’m not sure I understand this, but am becoming very aware of it in my own life. I had some conversations over the weekend that stirred some things I don’t understand, and the very physical transition of moving has also stirred a great number of things – some that I understand and some I don’t.

These days I feel like I’m floating a bit around the edges of some things. Not even exactly sure what those things are. Random things, poking and prodding, rattling at the edge of my consciousness. I’m dreaming every morning, just before I wake again, and am back to praying with some degree of vigilance before I fall asleep each night – warding off the onslaught of fears that come as I begin to drift towards sleep. The morning dreams are once again the frustrating kind – the ones where I wake unsettled, knowing something of importance was going on in the dreams, but was/is just beyond my reach. This morning was particularly bad. I snapped awake from an intense dream when my alarm clock rang, but retained only the adrenaline and edgy fear from whatever was happening in the dream.

I’m praying that something will break, and clarity will emerge. That only Jesus will have access to my dreams, and that I will be able to receive that which He speaks.

I’m praying for safety – particularly in my home. For it is there that the onslaught of fear is the strongest.

I’m working to believe the promise spoken over me that was first spoken over Abram “Do not be afraid. I am your shield, your very great reward.”

I have to keep reminding myself that this promise does not mean a life without warfare (the shield an essential element of armor), or even without wounds (for a shield cannot usually cover a person in the entirety), but a life that is held fast, protected from the complete destruction of the evil one, covered by the hands of Jesus.

What We Feel is Not Who We Are - Henri Nouwen

Another great bit from Henri Nouwen:

What We Feel Is Not Who We Are

Our emotional lives move up and down constantly. Sometimes we experience great mood: swings from excitement to depression, from joy to sorrow, from inner harmony to inner chaos. A little event, a word from someone, a disappointment in work, many things can trigger such mood swings. Mostly we have little control over these changes. It seems that they happen to us rather than being created by us.

Thus it is important to know that our emotional life is not the same as our spiritual life. Our spiritual life is the life of the Spirit of God within us. As we feel our emotions shift we must connect our spirits with the Spirit of God and remind ourselves that what we feel is not who we are. We are and remain, whatever our moods, God's beloved children.