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Mindful Living:
Underneath the Hoopla
What happens when you go somewhere where there is nothing to
do, when even the ratty old pen you are writing with forces to
you to think a little slower?
A little while back, I visited my retreat in New Hampshire.
The pond is so clear there that you can see the fish ambling
about. The pine trees are tall, and sprinkle fragrance on my
bare shoulders. The rooms are quiet with one hundred years of
solitude. There is nothing to do, but be.
A little longer while back, in the time when my heart and my
life was destroyed, I found out who I was underneath the hoopla
- when I had nothing to do, but be. I found out that under
duress, even when I most wanted to hit, to hurt, and to punish,
-- I didn't. At the time it seemed as if that little thing, that
"I didn't" was all I had. The little thing turned out
to be my integrity, what was left when everything else is fogged
in. When I am away in the New Hampshire woods, with nothing,
saying nothing, I think about that last stand of strength,
discovered in a different wilderness. I stare out at the trees
through a window misted with early morning fog, just like I did
when I lost myself to love and love lost. I am nothing then but
maybe someone standing by, the watcher for once but not the
doer, a person who is sometimes defined by what she isn't doing
rather than what she is. I watch people talking long streams at
me as my head nods and my mind wanders in the wildflowers. But
when I stop my own stream of things to do, I can hear my feet
scraping the bricks of the path through the woods, scraping the
gravel, and then tickling damp grass. I walk slowly, so that I
can hear my feet, walking, even as I cast about for something to
frame my next few minutes.
What do you do when there is no e-mail, no dishes, no
errands, even no conversation? How strong is the pull back to
the structured life? What will happen to my self without the
frame of what I do - at home, in my car, at work? Who am I when
there is only silence? Who am I when there is only the tip-off's
of what I put on that morning, a passing "good
evening," and my way of looking people straight in the eye?
When Wile E. Coyote is smushed flat as a pancake by a cartoon
steamroller, little parts of him pop up afterward like little
inflated airbags. His hands, his feet, a leg or two, his head -
and then all of a sudden, he leaps up all OK again. Will that
happen after the steamroller is done with me, or will there be a
few trace wrinkles under my eyes that I am sure weren't there
before? I see those traces in the mirror of my friends, little
etchings of sadness on their faces. I always thought it was a
load of hooey about how this or that builds character, like
Calvin (of Calvin & Hobbes) hearing his dad insist that
taking out the trash "builds character." But maybe
there's some truth there, even if it isn't about chores.
Besides the darkness in my eyes, what else has changed? Have
I lost my trust in love's gifts? Have I lost my trust in men, or
even of God's presence in my life? Can a heart be mended
completely or is there always a weak link in the place where the
stitches are? If he was the love of my life, would that preclude
another one? Is he still a soulmate if he is too far away to
reach? Is a soulmate necessarily a partner or maybe just someone
who let down the barriers and allowed you all the way in? Does
looking up at the same stars keep the link alive? Or one day,
long or maybe short in the future, will I see him and maybe the
connection might be gone?
Is love like in the romance novels, immutable? Or is it
dynamic, a reality only when fully engaged? I think sometimes
I'd like to have stayed as I was, without any character
building. But having seen something that precious, so precious
that I was willing to toss aside my well-tended life, I think it
was worth the trade. But will it be enough to tide me over?
A friend told me the story of her first husband who she loved
with such a passion. He died, and she never hoped or expected to
find it again. But then, years later, love reappeared, stronger
and deeper. I had this same experience with finding a home, so I
thought up what I call my "Apartment Theory of Love."
You see, I had this perfect apartment which I loved through and
through. I'm terribly demanding when it comes to my personal
space, so when I gave it up, I thought I would never again find
that perfect match. When it came time to look for another home,
I despaired and even wept after looking at some places that had
no warmth, only small spaces. But then, I came upon another
home, found in a twist of fate - the same as before, but better.
Bigger, more sun, more storage. Could it be that love is like
this, appearing again, bigger, and with more sun and more
storage?
I have a lot of questions, I know, and not all that many
answers. My friend Becca read all my questions, and she sent me
this excerpt by Rainer Maria Rilke which
reads: I beg you.... to have patience with everything
unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions
themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a
very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could
not be given you now, because you would not be able to live
them. and the point is, to live everything. live the questions
now. perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will
gradually, without ever noticing it, live your way into the
answer...."
Is it possible to close the book and let the mystery remain?
Maybe there are no answers at all, but just questions, rattling
out of me in a steady stream, complete with fishes nosing about
in an infinite silence.
Copyright January, 2000
Reprinting
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Would you like to reprint this column? If so, do ask! I
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ideas is an important way of expressing my faith. Please e-mail
me at CybeleW@aol.com
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