A Beautiful Ripple Effect

This week I hoped to journal (i.e., blog) about the rhythm of struggle and ease. I began the process by re-reading passages from one of my favorite books, Sabbath by Wayne Muller. In the midst of soaking up the book’s calming restorative truisms that I had previously highlighted, my phone buzzed with an AP alert announcing Steve Jobs had passed away. News of death and suffering hits me particularly hard—unearthing emotions and grief that are still (and will always be) in the process of healing. I’ve come to accept the fact that grief unravels in different forms at different times.

I find comfort within the pages of Sabbath and its focus on caring for ourselves—even when it feels selfish and scary (actually, especially then). After reading the grim news, I sat for a few moments in silence and recognized the vulnerability blooming within me. Recognizing this vulnerability, I retreated to the din of Twitter hoping to introduce noise that would overpower this feeling. I sought busyness to fill the space within, the space in need of nourishment.

I feared silence. I feared uprooting old pain. My gut reaction was to fill the void as quickly as possible. And then looking down at the book still on my lap, I read the following passage.

Thus do our unspoken fears and sadness speed up our lives. We are terrified of the painful grief that is hot to touch, sharp and piercing, so we keep moving, faster and faster, so we will not feel how sad we are, how much we have lost in this life: strength, youthful playfulness, so many friends and lovers, dreams that did not come true, all that have passed away. When we stop for even a moment, we can feel the burning, empty hole in our belly. So we keep moving, afraid the empty fire of loss will consume us.

When I was a boy I learned to skip stones across a lake. If I threw the stone fast and true, it could skip clear to the other side, barely getting wet. But if I threw it too slowly, it hit the water once and disappeared. We do not want to disappear. If we slow down we might be pulled by some gravity to the bottom of our feelings, we might drown in all we have lost. So we keep moving, never finding refuge, never touching the tenderness that propel us into a life of speedy avoidance.

While our speed may keep us safe, it also keeps us malnourished. It prevents us from tasting those things that would truly make us safe. Prayer, touch, kindness, fragrance—all those things that live in rest, and not in speed.

After reading this passage, I gently closed the book and turned off my computer. I lit a single candle and opened my journal. And these simple actions allowed me to ease into a space of rest. This space provided a safe container to compassionately navigate the underlying thoughts and emotions.

Do you ever notice that you fear rest? A gentle reminder: practice self-compassion when thinking about this question.

…

image: chez jolly

ps: The lovely “I Am Project” giveaway ends tomorrow (friday oct 7th at 9 PM EST). It’s an incredibly inspiring project so i hope you take a moment to enter.