Saturday, August 31, 2013

Sabbatical Shift: Cocooning


I recently read that a caterpillar in a cocoon essentially turns to mush. Its body becomes soup as its frame is reconstructed inside the safety of its drawn-in walls.  
I don’t have some lofty vision of being reconstructed or growing wings or any such nonsense, but I do feel cocooned, cocooning, cocoonish, a compulsion to cocoon.  I find myself wanting to draw back, draw in, hunker down in quiet. I am dissolving in a puddle of tired contendedness, moving slowly through the world.  

My heart beats calm and steady most of the time, which feels noticeable; the rushes of adrenaline and anxiety, excitement and anticipation, worry and work juggling are far from me, like a dream.  Like someone else’s life.  I hear friends and colleagues in ministry talking about leading meetings and preparing sermons, and I feel aghast.  My first, uncensored thought is, “I could NEVER do that!” – and I find myself momentarily gazing at them with admiration and awe, even though just four weeks ago I was doing all of it too.  Right now, though, I wake, and I am here in the moment in front of me pretty much until I lay back down again. 

The new puppy helps.  
Like my new babies did, she pulls me into the present and demands I stay focused here.  Feed, outside to pee, nap, outside to pee, water, outside to pee, play, outside to pee, don’t make plans that take you away from the house for more than two hours, outside to pee.

The biggest things on my horizon today are these: 
the kids and husband start school in three days, and I have just started a puzzle. 


Fatigue clings to my joints and crowds behind my eyes, and the thought of sending my family off to their first day of school on Tuesday and staring down six unscheduled hours, puppy and me, is vast and delicious and strange and simple.
  
I assumed I’d immediately call up friends I never see and go places I rarely go the second my days opened up.  But instead it appears I want to sleep when I am tired, puppy naps, collapsing down and surrendering for a few minutes, then rising, yawning and stretching, refreshed and ready for what’s next. 
I want to eat when I am hungry, unhurried, wholesome food.  I want to read when I am bored – remember bored???  I want to feel bored so I can read when I’m bored. 



Driving this month with my family to the edge of the continent, and perching for a few days on the edge of an island, I watched the cruise and cargo ships in the distance chug through the sound and out to sea.  It animated the image of my congregation bobbing along merrily in a boat far, far away from me.  Sails billowing, and way, way too distant for me to overhear any sounds, see any faces, or observe any action, I trust that within that boat they are well; all is well.  They are where they should be, and so am I.  
And when I glance out at them from time to time it slows me down and lets me return into myself and this detached place in which I am dwelling. This place where all my competencies and capabilities seem almost to have melted off me.  I feel strength at my inner core, raw, steady and firm, but wrapped in a kind of foggy, soupy mess.  And I'm surprised to find that, actually, I am fine with that.  It feels nutrient rich and pulsing with quiet life.


Inside the cacoon, I am pretty sure the catepillar isn’t visioning ahead to its butterflyness.  
Maybe it’s whistfully thinking back to the milkweed chomping days, but I suspect that, depleted and safe, it is most likely lying still in its own soup, and not really
worrying 
about anything 
at all.


Saturday, August 10, 2013

Sabbatical Beginnings: Letting go


It is just hours before I would normally be preaching. Normally. When I’m not on sabbatical.
Which I am.
So… not tidying up a sermon, then. 
Not thinking through the details of the service and wrangling kids into churchish clothes and making last minute calls or adjustments to liturgy.
Just, momentarily, instead, feeling the stab of it, the need, or something.

The first week or so of sabbatical was vacation - family, friends, break-neck pace of relaxation and events, hosting and cooking, playing and reading. Wonderful. 

But earlier this week it began to prickle a little.  To creep in around the margins. To wake me early with restlessness.

OK! Good! That was sure nice!
A healthy, appropriate ten-day vacation!
Now….
What am I doing?
Wait, what is this stupid idea, sabbatical? Who ever thought up this ridiculous thing?  How utterly unnecessary!  Clearly, I am more than ready to go back to work!
I’m itching to write a sermon.  So that’s proof, right?  And I am brooding about how things are going there and what might need fixing or tinkering, and I’ll admit, I am toying with the idea of phoning up a spy just to check in a little on how it’s all going.

Alright, and I’m feeling a little panicked at the lack of role/ responsibility/ identity/ structure. 
I did a puzzle.  For real.
OK, I did two.


That helped unclench the ball in my stomach – which would obviously not be an issue if I was working like a normal person.

The anxiety about the time stretching in front of me is a mixture of dread at how long it seems and alarm about it going by way too fast.
And can I really let go?  Really?
I trust my congregation.
I trust God with my congregation.
I am excited for their journey during this time. I believe it will be meaningful and rich. 
And I believe mine will be too.  But I am a little nervous that I wont let myself fully let go and enter in.  I want to trust God with me too.

So…
this morning, in the quiet dawn as I was walking the dog, I imagined placing the church in a boat.  
A little wooden boat, sturdy and weathered.
I looked at the faces of those I worry about, I miss, I wonder how they’re doing, smiling confidently at me from their seats in the boat.
I lifted in the things I feel responsible for, the issues I left hanging open, longings and ideas that I have for the church that must remain untapped and dormant for a while, the tasks I do that I know someone else will do just fine, the worship services, the session meetings, my anxieties and my hopes, and one by one I slowly hefted or gently tossed them into this boat.  (People politely shifted their legs around to make room for all my junk).
And then I pushed the boat off the shore.
I dug my heels into the sand and leaned my whole weight against it and pushed, soaking my feet and ankles and shoving it out into the current.  Release.

Then I waved, and let my hand drop back to my side. And I watched quietly as it got smaller and smaller, the sunrise shining off the water around it as it rocked out to sea, calm and steady, farther and farther away from me, standing here alone as I walk my dog.

And in the silence I feel peace. 
And fear. 
A little exposed and insecure.
I feel my fatigue.  my strength.  my body and mind and spirit alert and stirred up.  I hear myself breathe. 
Hi there, me.
What will we discover today?


So, tonight, when my gut starts to tighten up, I say a prayer before the worship service, and breathe in and breathe out. And I look up to notice the boat merrily bobbing along, way out there on the horizon, sails unfurled and full.
And I turn away and walk back off the beach.




How to Repent (It's not how you think)

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