If it was supposed to be otherwise…
Dear Life,
If You wanted me to be up to more You’d tell me right? You’d open doors, You’d point the ways, You’d inject me with energy and wherewithal and resources (and energy again), right? The fact that I’m up to not much of anything in between the hours spent earning money and attending to my spiritual practices is fine, isn’t it? Normal?
I’m asking because this is not the message I’m getting from the world. Here on Earth, it seems that doing nothing (at least as often as I do it) is neither normal nor OK. When someone asks me what I’m up to I’m supposed to be planning a trip or just coming back from one or engaging in some passion project or making art or meeting this fascinating person or digging into this new theory (“here let me recommend the book”) or discovering a new restaurant or trekking up a mountain. I’m not supposed to say, “Nothing. Life is boring. I am content.”
I’m not supposed to spend this much time in the bath, am I? Or wandering aimlessly around my neighborhood? Or getting 9 hours of sleep a night (gosh it is shameful to admit that, even to You)? Or baking cookies that I’m not the best about giving away (and therefore end up in my tummy)?
Sure I’ve managed to stay healthy all winter. I’ve had wherewithal to meet a friend for coffee or dinner or a hike now and again, parting happily after an hour to go home to eat or sleep. I’m on time for all my appointments (not that there are too terribly many) with time around them to spare — to rest or eat full meals or talk to my husband or walk the dogs. Man I spend a lot of time walking the dogs. They’re happy, Life. So am I.
My home is in order. I’ve even tended to the crevices of late — broke out the vacuum’s hose attachment, sucked up cobwebs, passed over baseboards. Wiped mold off the windows. Cleaned out the fridge. For no other reason than I felt like it. I had time. It was a joy, Life. As is attending to the smaller daily tasks that keep my environment feeling clean and inviting — washing the dishes, for instance. We have no dishwasher in our little place. I do it all by hand, every day. I scrub and rinse and artfully balance bowls and mugs in the drying rack. I look out the window at the neighbors’ deck, at the crows and squirrels on the power lines, at the different shades of sky. I listen to stories on my phone. Not podcasts about how to be a better person or get more done. Not vast histories of the world that I can regurgitate so that I sound fascinating at cocktail parties (I don’t go to cocktail parties, Life). Just stories, told or written by regular human beings like me. These stories aren’t changing the world either, but they’re feeding me.
And actually, Life, about these spiritual practices — these hours spent unpacking everything in this silly sack of flesh that is getting in the way of hearing You and Your plans for me (which You steered me into, by the way; I certainly never would have chose them). There are 4–5 evenings a week plus a full weekend afternoon I’m spending in community, in our shared endeavor of connecting ever more deeply with You. Studying, guiding, teaching, serving (which all amounts to learning, which can be hard). So really I’m not lollygagging, am I? It’s just that I’m up to the same thing, repetitively. It keeps going deeper, feeling ever more significant and holy, but how do I explain this when I haven’t seen in a long time asks, “So what are You up to?”
And it might be why I need to rest deeply when I rest, huh Life?
“Remember to give Your itself time for integration, which is a fancy word for allowing shit to settle. It looks like doing nothing. This nothing is necessary.” — Emily McDowell
You don’t need me to singlehandedly change the world, do You? If You did You’d kick me in the pants and point me down a road. As it is, my assignment seems to be getting OK with feeling like an alien in this world — one who isn’t in constant motion or doing something dazzling, who can hold up a project and say “look what I’ve been working on.” My project isn’t physical, I suppose. It never has been. This is challenging for an alleged Earthling. It seems like we’re supposed to be constantly toiling away at something to show for our time here. Something we’ll be remembered for. I’m not all that concerned with being remembered, Life. Should I be?
And of course there are those billions of Earthlings pouring everything they have into the mere act of survival, whose only task is to stay alive in the face of astounding difficulty. You’ve given me an easy ride this time around Life, hence my incessant questioning of What to Do with all this ease, all this abundance, all this privilege. I hope You’re not tiring of hearing it. I know I get tired of asking sometimes.
I have my share of busyness, pain and fatigue. Sometimes this simple life feels like an incessant dog paddle, a battle to keep my own head above water. There’s always some ache in my body, actually. Quite often in my heart too. Sometimes I feel older than I am. Perhaps I’m wearing myself out in service to You, which is fine with me. I don’t need to save my energy for anything beyond pouring it back into what I’m already doing. I came across this recently:
“I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake.” — George Bernard Shaw
Not work for the sake of work, though. Not in my case. Not blind busyness. Nourishment and seasoning of the soul. The hard work of excavating all that is not You expressing Yourself through me. The painful lessons that usually involves.
This all sounds very egotistical, Life, and I don’t mean it to. I’m not the least bit unique in my craving to be a conduit for Your ideas. On the contrary, more and more I feel myself part of an ecosystem, an organism. I just want to do my part, I don’t wish to be special. I want to blend in, be helpful, live simply, feel fulfilled.
If this doesn’t match what You want for me, Life, I trust You’ll say.
Thanks,
Me
