Rest, Wrestling, and Wildness

Is something nesting in you—a desire, dream, idea, yearning—that you could give permission to slowly take root and grow?

Listen to Pegge read Rest, Wrestling, and Wildness

I wonder what is coming ashore in me in this time of aloneness, on my own.

Spaciousness and unrest grow, even in this season of turning inward, hunkering down, as the outer landscape along the Kenai River quiets, snow and ice blanket the land, the glacier fed river drops as temps do too, into single digits. Still the aquamarine water flows, with increasing slowness. On afternoons like today, air overcast with shadows, wind finds its way through windows and invisible to me cracks and gaps, birch and spruce tree branches stir and wiggle, outdoor chimes clang and jangle their song.

By the calendar, it is not yet the season of winter. Over time I’ve come to suspect that these few weeks when autumn sunsets and winter dawns is perhaps the toughest season for me. I resist—whatever is taking root, fatigue from summer and winter prep wears upon me, and inner restlessness grows. Light begins and fades five minutes a day faster, a 30+ minute a week loss. This autumn I feel the word endurance, grieving the absence of my Dad, his sudden death days after the summer solstice less than six months past. A yawning gap opens wide at times and grief roars. I wrestle too, with increasingly familiar existential questions:

Who am I becoming? Who is the nameless God who beckons me and won’t let go?
What is my purpose? Where is my freedom, what choices and changes are mine to discern?

So, I sit on this Sunday, legs crossed, in my decades old oak rocker that knows how to embrace me, my pen in hand. The newish Labrador Retriever to my home warms my feet with his heavy head, weighted upon my foot. At 110 pounds, Big Papi is three now, and doesn’t leave my side. He is as much my guardian, as I am now his. He and his sister Minni permanently live with me now and must also miss our Papa Bear—he was their person too. Along with my girl Kula, now ten, the gift of many paws and three dog nights accompany me as we rest and wrestle.

Soon after my son died in 2006, I discovered for the first time, the power and necessity of a one-word sentence, a one-word answer to a question. Two letters and a period form an acceptable simple sentence of “No.” I recall this knowing now, and the understanding that the only way through is through. Experience reminds me that stillness, friends in whatever form they appear, and no judgment gentleness help the traverse and passage. There is truth in the lingering, the wrestling, and resting as autumn and winter intersect and mingle. Determining my “no” so I’m gifted with time to breathe and slow, I lean inward to open my heart, with acceptance, and embrace this outer landscape which offers fierce solace.*

What is familiar about this time – is there anything in the past that feels similar?

Books are familiar friends to me. Today I turn to them in my wrestling and unrest, that brewed itself awake long before my father died so suddenly in June: How can I understand a God dying to be birthed in me anew, who is closer to me than breath, who I can no longer describe or name? I’ve written two books about this divine relationship, inviting others into their own knowing and experience, and a decade plus later, I no longer find adequate or expansive enough words.

The decision to visit the mystics in my library began brewing after designing and leading a retreat yesterday, around the theme, “Open Your Heart: a Winter Radiance Retreat” and once again, inviting others into growth and transformation, while trying not to name God, whoever God is. If I’m honest, it’s not working anymore. I am writing, speaking, leading, with a depth and core, an anchor and rooting that comes from the hard work, dedication and grace, of decades of showing up for prayer, practice, inquiry, attentiveness, contemplation. Practicing the presence of God among the pots and pans as Brother Lawrence instructed. Or beginning to practice while riding the bus along PCH in Laguna Beach, California, what it felt like to lift the corners of my mouth as Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh instructed in his book, Peace is Every Step, then discovering my resting face that brings a smile to my eyes and is second nature now.

My foundations and depth are rooted in Spirit and a treasure chest of learning, lived experiences, wrestling, being curious, becoming astonished. Thus, around midday, to do my current and future self a favor, I went in search of a book that keeps pinging me, by Tessa Bielecki, about Teresa of Avila, a 16th century mystic, thinking that perhaps their insights will assist in this season of dark nights. I believe it’s true that a mystic is one who knows God by experience, and that contemplation is a “long loving look at the real,” as explained by William McNamara.

I knew the book I was seeking had a red cover, and it wasn’t on the shelf in my room where I thought it lived. I headed to the basement where a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf built from trees here that grew for decades, then died during the ongoing spruce bark beetle infestation sweeping the land. One day this room will be named the Raven Cellar when I finish unpacking it—boxes still linger from my move three years ago, and the bookshelves are already full. Instead of finding Tessa’s book, I encountered several hundred titles from theologians, thinkers, seekers, philosophers, spiritual guides, poets—who all wrestle with similar places as I find myself. Peering at book spines, seeking that little red book, author names and title phrases began to light up around me. I could feel their friendship, embrace, inquiry, and yes, companionship. I am in good company!

I ultimately found Tessa’s book in the Orca suite guest room library, and it along with three others accompanied me to my treehouse room perch where I would sit for the afternoon, reading, writing, reflecting, daylight diminishing, heat from Big Papi’s head once again on my foot.

Caryll Houselander, writing in A Child in Winter about the second Sunday of Advent, offers good guidance,

“This Advent, fold Christ deep into the soul of your heart, and indulge God a season to rest and grow in you. Grant God the space to rest and lie peacefully within. All may seem quiet and still, but God’s Word-Seed will take root, and, in due season, we shall reap the harvest of new life” (30).

I pause after reading this, breathing into my belly, the scent of a Pier One Island Orchard candle flickering familiarity. Gazing out the window, inner stillness grows. Breathe, breathe, breathe, and say hello to tightness, angst, grief, and hope in this body. Become still and quiet. I recognize an annunciation brewing. Permission given of my own accord, willingness for a three-letter word response to this unnamed, unknowable God who woo’s and pursues, never gives up. Today I once again breathe into, “Yes” to allow mysterious seeds in me to grow, even in the unknowing.

I wonder if it is true, that perhaps it is I who absent myself from presence that is ever present, the love at the center of everything. I do this through distraction, unwillingness, stubbornness, a slight turn of the head, stress, setting aside my foundational life rhythm when something else demanding or more interesting presents itself. So be it. I am ready and willing to let it all go, the fight in me slowing like the river outside the window. In these hours today, I become open, pliable, yielding, willing to receive. The labor is a strengthening, a forever dance unveiling, deepening.

It’s nearly dark now as I turn to an exquisite book, wrapped in a pale blue cover, written by a man who had the kindest brown eyes—a window to the soul—and hands that once clasped mine within his. I felt that day as if I was embraced by gentle paws, then his “hello” and gaze greeted me, making the world upside right in a time when everything was upside down. Today, a dozen plus many years later, his words lift from the page and ripple awake in me anew. May they also breathe in you. From his poem “The Annunciation,” in Conamara Blues, John O’Donohue writes,

The sentence awakens like a raven
Fluttering and dark, opening her heart
To nest the voice that first whispered the earth
From dream into wind, stone, sky, and ocean

She offers to mother the shadow’s child;
Her untouched life becoming wild inside.

In these coming days, week two of the Christian season of Advent stillness is in motion with a theme of peace. Hanukkah—the festival of lights—is celebrated, and in the Northern Hemisphere we edge closer toward Winter Solstice and return of light. I pray you may find solace in your own seeking, grieving, and wrestling, in moonlight and star gazing, and rest in the beautiful wildness of your unique heartbeat. Can you feel a welcome home taking seed—through your own courageous yes, or no?

Reflection offerings this week – kindly share your response or own questions in the comments if you are so moved!

• In this upcoming season of rest and wintering, how might you be gentle with yourself and your own tender heart?

• Do you find it difficult to be tender with yourself? Others?

• Is something nesting in you—a desire, dream, idea, yearning—that you could give permission to slowly take root and grow? What support or help do you need for this to become possible?

• In your own times of struggle and uncertainty, are there familiar acts from your past that can assist you today?

• Are you aware how you might distract or absence yourself from inner inklings inviting you to shift and change, slow down, rest, and simply respond with a yes, or no?

• Is there one small action you can do every day to bring more rest and stillness into your daily life this December?

Bonus: Practice lifting the corners of your mouth into a gentle smile, with your lips closed. My hunch is it will also lift your eyes into a smile and lighten your mind and heart. Try it, then practice this as your resting face. What do you discover?

PS: Next week I’ll share from Tessa Bielecki’s book–I did find the one with a red spine, and several others she authored!

*I realize this is a play on words from the title Belden Lane’s book, The Solace of Fierce Landscapes.