December 26 used to be "reclaim the house" day; everything boxed and stored for another year, the tree contentedly retired and resting out on the garden compost heap. Until the time a friend reminded me about the 12 Days of Christmas. The twelve days (the ones we sing about in that ubiquitous and vexing carol) that begin the day after Christmas (Boxing Day or St. Stephen's Day) and end on January 6 (The Feast of the Epiphany). So, now, the merriment and celebration can linger on. The lights are still up, and Celtic Christmas carols drift through the house.
Outside my window, it is a different story. The dusk winter sky is the color of burnished pewter. It's as if you can see the cold. Our thermometer reads 35 degrees. (I recognize that 35 degrees does not qualify as cold, especially to people in Michigan, where I was raised. When I was a kid, it didn't count as cold unless your nostrils stuck together when you breathed.) But 35 gets our attention here in the Pacific Northwest, with snow flurries expected tonight, and a week of days in the 20s, with frozen ground and unhappy plants. Not to mention the unhappy gardener. Let us just say that it is easy to be fixated on Spring.
There is one minor problem: My spring garden is still almost two months away.
In my garden magazines, springtime is sexy and intoxicating and invigorating. Winter is, well, emptiness; exposed and open spaces.
No matter. My mind races with plans and ideas and lists, full of stuff-to-do. I will add roses to the lower bed. And I still need to move several shrubs from the horseshoe bed to make room for a new pathway.
My garden, however, has other plans. My garden, is not in a hurry.
My garden knows that this is the season for rest. Downtime. Dormancy. Il dolce far niente (Italian for "the sweetness of doing nothing"). Dormancy is a disagreeable companion to our wired psyche. To make matters worse, our computer driven vocabulary throws a monkey wrench in our way of thinking. Wikipedia tells me that downtime "refers to a period of time that a system is unavailable or offline, usually a result of the system failing to function." In other words, downtime is an imperfection, and must be avoided. Our response? Get "back online," get the system up and running. As if downtime is something from which we need to recover.
We live in a world that sees any empty space--translation: non-productive--as an indictment. It is no wonder we are compelled to fill every void quickly... with stuff, busyness, activity, conversation, distractions, commotion and any number of well-meaning goings-on. As a result, we lose the restorative power of dormancy... Il dolce far niente.
The Hebrew word for rested, vyenafesh, can mean rest; or ensouled, breath, as in to catch one's breath, sweet fragrance, passion, and inner being of man. A nefesh can also mean a living being. In the context of Sabbath, God ensouled this day when He rested.
Dormancy ensouls a garden.
Downtime (Sabbath and dormancy) ensouls my heart. And my life.
That sounds like enough doesn't it?
One would think.
And yet. There is something unnerving about this need to fill empty spaces. People ask, "What did you do for your Christmas vacation?" Emphasis on "do." And I rack my brains...
Well, that's just it. I didn't accomplish much. (Not that I didn't make lists and a few well-intentioned plans mind you.)
Okay. I did play golf on Christmas day. Does that count?
I can tell you that it was a remarkable day--postcard worthy with sun and placid clouds. Even the air suffused good will, or at least reprieve from the frenzied noise in my spirit. I can tell you that my gait slowed, on this day to breathe. And see. And pay attention. Il dolce far niente.
Downtime indeed.
It can be called a golf addiction. Fair enough. However, I prefer to call it a joyfulness deposit. Or an ensouled moment.
Lord knows we need as many as we can get, and they're good for whatever ails us. Although when we do make (or find) them, we tell ourselves, "We don't deserve this, this is selfish, or, maybe a substitute will do."
This is not just about sufficiency versus scarcity, although it applies. It's about knowing--recognizing--the value at your core. That you are worthy--ensouled--having nothing to do with score-keeping or beating heaven's rap on a sliding scale.
In last week's Sabbath Moment--The Healing Power of a Hug--I wrote about a little girl at home in her father's embrace. In that embrace, you allow all other considerations to fall by the wayside.
Of God's love we can say two things: it is poured out universally for everyone from the Pope to the loneliest wino on the planet and secondly, God's love doesn't seek value, it creates value. It is not because we have value that we are loved, but because we are loved that we have value. Our value is a gift, not an achievement.
William Sloane Coffin
Sue Monk Kidd writes the story about her daughter, coming home from school in early December, telling her mother she got one of the great parts in the Nativity Play.
"What part did you get?"
"I'm the Star of Bethlehem!" the daughter says proudly.
"Well, what will you do?" Sue asks.
"I just stand there and shine."
The little girl gets it. At some point, from the Star of Bethlehem to adulthood, we obstruct that light--with restrictor plates, with armor, with fear, with perfectionism, with prejudice.
Here's the deal: when our value is predicated on grace, you can't clutch it because there is no connection to the ego. By nature, value from grace--like light--spills, because fullness by it's very nature spills and gives and pays forward and shines.
We don't give to get, or to earn, or to impress, or to be helpful. We give--we shine--without a quiz justifying why. We give because we are full. And as long as our worth is an equation about earning, we miss the connection that shining spills... Courage. Resilience. Vulnerability. Compassion. Forgiveness. Healing. Grace. Joy.
During Christmas vacation I catch up on movies--last year's Oscar Nominees and winners. Last night, 12 Years a Slave. And my heart still hasn't recalibrated. It is never easy to witness human cruelty. The movie is a reminder about how every injury / injustice / lash to another human only serves to shred our own self, regardless of our excuses. And about broken spirits and how we can easily fall into despair. And about the fables we tell ourselves and others, and the places we find mercy, or beg for it. And yet... in all of this, how stories are able to bear witness to the strength and potency of spirit. The good news: Even in the darkest of hours, the light cannot be quenched.
Today I put down my to-do lists. I let the empty garden breathe. Today, I need to let my garden be my teacher. I let my mind rest. Outside my window, the trees are without leaves. Blank. And exquisitely beautiful. I'm settled in my living room. A fire in the fireplace, a good book for company (this year's pile, Death of a King by Tavis Smiley, Just Mercy by Brian Stevenson, Different by Youngme Moon, This is your brain on music by Daniel Levitin, and Mary Oliver's Blue Horses) and a dram to warm the piper...
Here's a dram to warm the hall
Here's a dram to raise the rafters
And here's long life to you all.
The baby was staring intently at other people, and as soon as he recognized a human face, no matter whose it was, he would respond with absolute delight. I realized that this is how God looks at us, staring into our face in order to be delighted, I suspect that only God, and well-loved infants, can see this way. Even when we try to run away from our troubles, as Jacob did, God will find us, and bless us, even when we feel most alone, unsure if we'll survive the night. God will find a way to let us know that [God] is with us in this place, wherever we are, however far we think we've run. Kathleen Norris
NOTE: (1) Heartfelt gratitude for every gift / donation in the year 2014. They made Sabbath Moment possible. Your gift makes a difference. Thank you...
(2) You'll see the changes in appearance to Sabbath Moment and terryhershey.com in 2015...
(3) Sabbath Moment will still arrive every Monday.
