Observation as Meditation

Observaton as meditation

Opening my facebook timeline right now feels like a freight train barreling at me at full speed. I feel my body clench, tension building in my jaw, my neck, and on down into my shoulders, spine, and arms.

In times like these we need to make conscious efforts to breathe, to observe, to relax our bodies for our own health and well-being, both physical and mental.

I breathe in through my nose for a count of eight, hold it for a count of eight, and release it through my mouth for a count of eight. I’m not sure where I got the eight from, but it works for me. It draws my attention back into my body and I become conscious of all the ways in which I’m curled up on myself, holding both my fear and everyone else’s in the muscles of my neck and shoulders. I suspect I’m not the only one.

We have entered a time of great uncertainty with no idea of when the danger will have passed. It highlights both our interdependence on one another and the fact that tomorrow is promised to no one in ways that most of us don’t live with in our day-to-day reality. Pretending that this isn’t so only buries the fear down deep, and makes our bodies tense and curl in on ourselves again.

I’ve been practicing observation and awareness as meditation. Partly because I’m really bad (read not practiced enough) at the sitting still kind (hey maybe quarantine is a good time to practice that).

The leaves on my geranium on my kitchen sink are fuzzy.
There are tiny flowers popping up all over my yard, some of which my kids are bringing me.
Moss is coming back to life under my dogwood tree and it has the softest, most amazing texture.
One of my trees is putting out new leaves that look kind of like tiny green feathers as they emerge.

All of creation is emerging from a time of winter sleep just as we go into a time that feels very much like a winter sleep. But there is something to learn from nature in this. The tree turns within itself and waits.

We are not trees and we are not accustomed to a yearly routine of shedding things that seem so necessary in order to wait in stillness and silence for the right time to re-engage with life and re-emerge.

But while we are not trees we have been children. Everything in the future seems forever away when you are a child, and yet children cope with this reality by fully engaging in the moment. My boys are forever bringing me samples of nature, those tiny flowers popping out, acorns with their tiny caps, a moss-covered stone.

And it occurs to me that they are on to something.

So I hold a stone in my hand and feel its coolness and its weight in my palm.
I examine the scale-like texture of the acorn’s cap in contrast to the smooth skin of it’s seed. I stare at it in wonder that a tree lies coiled within this unremarkable and yet magical brown oval.
I water my houseplants and contribute to life and growing and all the things that seem to be put on hold right now, and yet are still happening all around us.

I calm my brain and do my best to inhabit each moment with an awareness that life at full-speed doesn’t always allow for.

And I breathe.

Breathing Together

Breathing TogetherTo answer the question, how do we support each other when we can’t meet in person, I’m creating a Facebook group to share spiritual resources. I’m leaving that definition purposefully vague because I’m hoping to cultivate a community to minister to each other in a variety of ways. If this sounds like something that would feed your soul during this time, please come join in.

Living with Fear and Anxiety

Living with fear and anxiety

I’ve been trying and failing to come up with any analogous time period in my life to what we are currently living through. I was twenty-one when September 11th happened, and for a time things felt strange and uncertain, but it seemed that people rapidly got back to normal for the most part, and adjusted to the new normal that was living with constant war that is now stretching into its 19th year. There was fear and speculation the year before that about what would happen at the turn of the century. People were stockpiling for the Y2K breakdown of civilization. I had just turned twenty at that point.

Perhaps it was being a young adult that made all of that seem unlikely. I’ve never really felt invincible per se but I definitely feel more vulnerable now. And while we’ve lived through outbreaks and things before, none of them have in our lifetime approached the scale of what we are dealing with right now.

There’s no road map, no place we can build a web of understanding, no idea of how long it will take for things to go back to normal. I can feel the anxiety in my chest, like a weight around my heart.

Like a good Episcopalian I turned to the prayer book for solace and then remembered there is no prayer for mass sickness, I already looked like last week. My husband was over here last night helping draft responses for our region to the pandemic and he remarked he’d had to look to the 1928 prayer book for a prayer that fits our situation.

That prayer book, or course, was finalized just a decade after the 1918 “spanish” flu pandemic. It seems the drafters of the 1979 prayer book thought we were past pandemics when they left out a version for that.

I was talking with my aunt yesterday about family history. Apparently the women on my grandmother’s side (several of whom were named Anna, yay!), for multiple generations kept family records and as my aunt was going through them, she was struck by how close death had touched all of them. Of course it touches all of us, but not as often as it did. Most of them lost babies. Many of them had mothers who had died in childbirth, husbands who had died young, and so on. We’ve made so many medical advances and progress with vaccines that I think it’s easy to forget just how recently in human progress the mortality rates were much higher just on a regular basis, never mind in a time of great sickness.

Reading history is one thing, living through it with no firm end date is something completely different.

I don’t know about you, but I sometimes read spoilers for tense television shows or movies or read the ends of books really fast if I can’t handle the tension of not knowing how the story turns out. I’ve done that less lately, but I’ve definitely not traditionally been good with suspense.

And in this moment we are living in, the suspense is unable to be mitigated and I feel the anxiety rising, I hear the fear that people are masking.

And the temptation is to go pull a verse from the Bible that is comforting. Perhaps a verse like Romans 8:28 “We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.”

But there’s not much consolation there because we all know people who love God and things haven’t worked out for good no matter how many contortions you pull to try to make it seem so. Taking that verse out of its context is like trying to put a band-aid on a stab wound when it comes to stemming the tide of fear in this moment. Rather I think comfort comes from that context where after describing all manner of hardships: “…distress or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?” the writer goes on to say, “No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all of creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom. 8:35-39).

The call, friends, is to go deeper. Not to try to convince ourselves or anyone else that it will all be “okay” simply because “God is on the throne.” But to go deeper and say even when really terrible things happen, nothing can separate us from the love of God. No matter what happens, God is holding on to you even when you can’t always feel God’s presence.

And if God is promising the gift of presence in our darkest hour, I think we have our marching orders. We are to be present for each other through this. We are to hold on to one another (from our separate quarantines of course), and listen to whatever fear or anxiety needs to be named. Pretending it’s not there doesn’t make it go away nor does trying to carry it all on one’s own.

It’s strange, but even if you and I are both carrying similar loads, helping each other with them makes them both seem lighter.

Perhaps this time too in the middle of Lent we find comfort in the remembrance that we are dust, and to dust we shall return. But we’re dust that’s held in God’s hand. And in this there is comfort.

And remember to breathe. It’s strange, but sometimes we forget. Our shoulders get all hunched up, and our breathing gets shortened. It helps to physically straighten up, relax our shoulders, close our eyes and concentrate on our breath. Feel it going in and out, all the way to the bottom of our lungs. These breaths are all gifts, receive them.

In Time of Great Sickness and Mortality.
O MOST mighty and merciful God, in this time of grievous sickness, we flee unto thee for succour. Deliver us, we beseech thee, from our peril; give strength and skill to all those who minister to the sick; prosper the means made use of for their cure; and grant that, perceiving how frail and uncertain our life is, we may apply our hearts unto that heavenly wisdom which leadeth to eternal life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
(BCP 1928)