Lady Mississippi

We have been meeting for several months now, she and I. We have a standing date at 6:45am, Monday through Saturday.

For the first few weeks, there was some semblance of daylight. Then, for a few weeks, we shared the glow of daybreak together. Now we meet in the cover of darkness. At times, I can barely see her, but still I know she is there. 

I have found myself a bit rudderless in these months. I am used to having a landmark to center me. For many years, it was the North Cascades. The outline of their jagged peaks against the glow of the rising sun. And even on cloudy days, when they were not visible, I somehow still felt their presence.

For many years, it was the view of Mt. Spokane. Sometimes green and bald, sometimes white and snow-capped. But again, a steady presence. A landmark to orient myself to. Something constant. Something bigger than me.

It was a sad day when I read that the highest point in Minnesota is 2,300 feet. An even sadder day when I learned that the Black Hills of South Dakota are the tallest point between the Rockies and the Swiss Alps. What would I do without my mountains?

Let me be clear: she is not a replacement. I will always need my mountains. But she has proven to be a faithful companion for this stage in the journey. Our meetings are brief, but each time, I feel my center lower...sometimes by millimeters, sometimes by centimeters. 

She never says much. Of course, neither do I. But somehow in her silent flow, she communicates the truth I most need to hear. And somehow, although she is forever changing, I feel the comfort of her constant presence. I feel the strength in her wide girth. I feel the life in her waves.

And while she will never be a mountain, I like to think that she may meet a few of them along the way as she continues on her journey.

And I'm sure, if I ask her, she'll bring them greetings from me. 

Memory

My dirty feet carry me today

The residue mirroring that which

Remains on my soul

An escape to the north, to the wide open space

To a lake, masquerading as an

Ocean

To a hill, pretending to be a

Mountain

In the desperate freedom of my imagination,

They are both.

My feet find the mud

Plunge into its murky

Depths

Surrender to its squishy

Darkness

They come alive as they leap from rock to rock

Bask in the sunlight, fresh air

Relish in the flow, deep below the surface of the cloudy stream

Here, they are finally at

Home.

Could it be that this is where my soul dwells?

Could it be that it is housed not in my head, or in my chest, but

Here, where my body-clothes grasp the earth,

Here, where my trunk sends down its roots,

Here, where the weight teeters and balances

Here, where the trail is blazed, where the wandering begins

I will leave the dirt lodged between my toes

The mark of my

Baptism

A reminder to my forgetful eyes

That I am not just where I am

Going

That I am also where I have

Been. 

it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

I just moved to a new neighborhood.

I don’t love moving, and this one was my third move in four years.

But it feels right.

I spent two years living in a city where I felt like a misfit – a fish out of water. I felt like I was suffocating much of the time – and I never really ever felt completely safe. Sure, I found and cultivated sweet community while I was there, but I always felt like a part of myself was dormant, lost. And, while I do not love the labor it takes to leave somewhere, I do not know that I have ever been more glad to leave somewhere in my life.

I spent a year hiding out. In a little nook, with nothing but wild, untamed nature as my companion.  I think I needed a year of detox.  I needed to look out my window and see trees...just trees...no concrete.  I needed to rediscover myself and remember how to let my soul breathe again.  I needed to learn how to listen to the silences.

And now I’m here.

Yesterday I went for a walk, and at one point, I looked to my left and saw a community garden, each raised bed marked with a hand-painted sign identifying the caretaker responsible for tending it.  I looked to my right and saw a woman asleep on her roof.  And somehow, in that moment, I knew this was the neighborhood for me.

This evening, I wandered to the park which is a mere half block from my house. Every Thursday in the summer, there is a concert. And, around 5:55, right on time, people starting coming out of the woodwork, picnic dinners and lawn chairs in tow.

It was a Klezmer band tonight.

And there may or may not have been people dancing in the grass.

They also may or may not have been more than twice my age.

There are moments, when I’m sitting in my sun porch (yes, I have a sun porch), nibbling on chocolate and freshly-picked cherries, sipping a glass of wine…when a part of me misses my nook. Misses looking out the window and seeing trees and nothing else.  Misses the stillness, the energy of the quiet.

But, then there are also moments, when I'm sitting in my sun porch (yep, still have a sun porch), sipping my glass of wine, and I look across the street to see another woman appear on her balcony with her own glass of wine.
And in a moment, I know it’s going to be OK.

There are still silences to be listened to.  There is still space for soul-breathing.  There are still trees, abundant.

And there are people - there is community - to share them with.

bertha, wilfred, and a cup of strong black coffee

7:00 AM.  I roll into the music building parking lot (lucky for me, there is no competition for parking spots at this early hour).  I unload my three bags (one for my lunch, one for my teaching materials, and one for my 6 binders of music) and trudge into the building.  There is a bit of fumbling and muttering as I attempt...for the 40th time...to remember which of the 9 keys on my ring opens the recital hall door.  Lights on.  Piano cover off. Lid up.  Good morning to Big Bertha (our 9-ft concert grand).  Bench adjusted.  Metronome and pencil ready.  Binders unloaded.   Coffee cup within an arm's reach.

Ready.

Set.

Play.

I begin with choir music.  I am playing for 2 choirs this year, at two different universities.  Most of their music will be sung a cappella - but there are a couple of pieces with some hefty piano solos.  I work them slowly, at first, saying fingerings aloud to myself, isolating one hand at a time, listening and repeating until the voicing is just right.  I make the same mistake three times in a row.  The coffee must not be kicking in yet.  I pause to take another swig.

By 8 AM, I have moved on to my four (soon-to-be five) binders of solo music for my 75 singers. I start with the music I will be playing in lessons tomorrow and flip through the binder, making a mental note of which ones I need to look at more in depth.  Played that one.  Sightreadable. Sightreadable.  Played that one.  Played that one in a different key - probably should go through it once.   Sightreadable.  Played that one.  Oh, new one.

Out comes the metronome (Wilfred Jr.).  I find a ridiculously slow speed and have a go at it, pausing every now and then to mark fingerings or add accidentals.  I trod along, attempting to sing the vocal line as I work through my own part.  It's slow going, but I'm in no rush.  

This is my time.

This is my home.

This is my sanctuary.

The first few weeks of school were crazy.  I stayed afloat, and managed to arrive at each class, lesson and rehearsal at least mostly-prepared.   But I knew I was floating.  I knew I wasn't fully present, fully grounded. And it took me a few weeks to discern what the real root of my unsettledness was:

I have not worked hard enough to guard this time, this sacred space.  

A few more minutes in my bed...and 7:00 becomes 7:30, and 7:30, 8:00. Lesson planning and photocopying that should have been done the day before is put off until the hour before my first class....and 10:00 becomes 9:30, and 9:30, 9:00. Before I know it, 3 hours has become 1 hour...or has even disappeared completely.

But this time is precious, necessary.  My body relaxes as my fingers find their way across the familiar black and white terrain.  My mind is drawn into focus as I tune out the to-do list for the remainder of the day - and I work to concentrate all my energy on this moment, this song, this chord. My soul sighs as I soak in the energy of the empty hall, inhaling the quiet, exhaling each phrase.

10:00 AM.  Binders, pencil and metronome returned to their homes.  Lid down.  Piano cover on.  Lights off.  I emerge from my solitude and head upstairs to prep for my 10:25 class.  I haven't even made it to the office, before I am stopped by a student with a question on the homework assignment.  Reality sets in, the chaos ensues, and I begin my day of multi-tasking.

But my center is lower than it was when I first fumbled for my keys this morning.  I can feel my feet on the ground.  I'm breathing a little more slowly and deeply, and my shoulders are a bit more relaxed.  I memorize the sensation, in an attempt to prolong it and perhaps even make it permanent.

Wishful thinking?  Probably.  I know the tension will creep back in.  I know my center will begin to rise, as the day progresses.  And at some point, I will most likely realize that my feet are no longer touching the ground.

But tomorrow at 7:00 AM, I will start afresh.  And after I have tried, for the 41st time, to remember which key opens the door, I will step, once more, into that sacred space.

For three hours, I will have the luxury of focusing on just one thing.

For three hours, I will breathe, lower my center, release the tension in my shoulders and the song in my heart.

For three hours, it will be me and Bertha and Wilfred and my coffee mug.

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani  www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com

the white belt

The Sabbath is setting on this, my final Sabbath before the school year begins. The lanterns around my living room are lit, and I am finishing off a glass of wine as I close this day, this season, of rest.

I was on campus briefly this weekend and felt the nervous energy of freshmen and their parents as they moved their life’s possessions into their tiny dorm rooms. I know that energy well; I was one of them, once. I know the intensity of the schedule – the orientation events, the placement exams, the ensemble auditions, the dorm initiation activities. It will be a whirlwind few days, and then on Wednesday, thirty-five students will stumble into my classroom – excited, nervous, terrified, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, hoarse from the yell-off and Mock Rock, loving life more than ever before, wondering if this is really for them.

Truth be told, I am not ready for them. Sure, my syllabus is posted, but I was smart enough to write “SUBJECT TO CHANGE” at the top. How you are supposed to plan the activities and readings and assignments for EVERY SINGLE DAY of class before you have even seen the whites of their eyes is still completely beyond me. So it has been submitted to the powers that be – but there are still lessons to plan, lectures to write, exams to create. 

There are certain things I must cover this semester – concepts they must learn, skills they must acquire, knowledge they will be held accountable for. So I have planned and planned. I have sat and stared at the calendar, wondering how it’s possible to fit so much into a mere 14 weeks. How many days can we afford to spend on seventh chords or non-harmonic tones? I have grown dizzy as I have tried to figure out the best order for introducing various concepts. Lord knows I’m still torn on whether or not to explore minor scales before our discussion of the circle of fifths. I have spent hours wondering how much I will be able to fit into one hour of class time. Will we be able to cover all four triad qualities AND discuss the qualities of triads built on the various scale degrees?

With all this planning and preparation, it would be easy for me to begin this year with the mindset that I am here to teach my students something.

But the truth is: I am here to learn. I am here to learn their names and their faces. I am here to uncover their abilities, their strengths, their weaknesses. I am here to listen to their stories, their dreams, their passions.

As I sip my wine this evening, I turn, as I have often done at important moments in my musical development, to what I have come to refer to as my “musical Bible” - a book called “Zen Guitar” by Philip Toshio Sudo. My copy has been well-loved; its pages are browning, the cover is wrinkled, and there are hundreds of underlined phrases, sentences, paragraphs and notes in the margins.

This particular evening, I find myself flipping to the chapter on wearing the white belt, the color worn by a beginner. As he works and learns, his belt gradually dirties and eventually turns to black – the color worn by a master. But he does not stop there; he continues to work, and as he does, the belt fades and eventually returns to white. It is a never-ending cycle. It is not about “arriving” at a destination – but is instead about being faithful to the process.

My choir director in college used to refer to us as “wearers of the white belt” – those who have, as Sudo describes, chosen to “set aside all knowledge and preconceptions and open [their minds] to learning as though for the first time.”  Wearers of the white belt come with empty cups, ready to learn and receive.

We've all known the people who’ve come in with all the answers. We see them coming, a mile away, and we start heading in the opposite direction. We’ve also been those people. We’ve come in with everything figured out, ready to teach the class or flaunt our vast wisdom and experience. And oh, the things we’ve missed. The lessons we haven’t learned. The nuggets of wisdom we let slip through the cracks.

Sudo says it well: “The moment you think you know everything there is to know, you will have lost the way. The beginner’s mind is the mind of wisdom.”

It’s true – I do have things to teach, wisdom to offer, experiences to share. But I also have much to learn, new perspectives to discover, fresh insights to gain.

On Wednesday, 35 students will stumble into my classroom.

On Wednesday, 35 teachers will stumble into my classroom.

So tonight I don my white belt.

Tonight I empty my cup.

I am ready to learn.

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com

open the door

“…I know I am really free

to share bread and intimacy,

to laugh and exchange mercy.”

                            ~Ted Loder

It was my mother who taught me to set a proper table. And for years, I watched her host family holiday gatherings, serve the famous Trotter pizza to medical students and residents, whip up another overnight coffee cake for friends whose jet lag had awoken them at 4:30AM. How many conversations have been shared, with her in the kitchen, and a guest seated on a barstool at the counter? And how many times had I heard her repeat her mantra? Specialness is worth it.

My own cooking ventures began at a young age, with the creation of “turtle bread.” It was, as it sounds, bread – in the shape of a turtle. And over the years, I have had various successes and failures in the kitchen. Who could forget the time I forgot the baking soda in my muffins? (Not to be confused with the time my mother put black pepper in hers.)

The seeds of hospitality that had been planted in my youth took root in my own life when I set up my own home for the first time, my junior year of college. That was the year that 4 of us had the crazy idea to leave the door to our home open – and host community dinners 3 nights a week. I know that more than a few people thought we were nuts – what if no one came? What if too many or the wrong people came? No matter. We set off on our adventure, unsure of where it would lead us.

But on any given day, if you had walked into our house, you might have discovered a few freshmen doing homework in front of the fire place, or an RA and her entire hall making cookies in our kitchen, or a bunch of chemistry majors enjoying dinner around our table, or 45 people eating eggs and bacon in tuxedos and choir dresses.

It was all an experiment, really; we learned by doing. We learned how to make a meal stretch when 5 (or 15) more people showed up (for the record: baked potatoes are a magical and wonderful and...filling food). We learned that anything will taste good if you put avocado on it.  We learned that BBQ-ed bread is an…interesting delicacy. We learned what made people feel safe and loved. We learned what unique skills and gifts we had to offer as individuals…and we learned even more as we watched each other. We learned what community looks like, how to foster it, how to be intentional in relationships. We learned how to confess our failures and shortcomings, and how to receive grace and forgiveness. We learned how to love each other, as opposite and “other” as we are, and how to walk with each other. We learned what we had fervently believed all along: if you open your door, people will come.  People will come because they crave safety and intimacy and community…and yes, home-cooked food.

That first year in the Open Door was a special one – one that I know I am still reaping the benefits of. Those women, some of whom I barely knew at the outset, have become my soul sisters, my tribe. They continue to be the ones that know and love me the best, though we are now separated by mountains and oceans. We have known each other through triumphs and tragedies, and have fought to stay connected through all the changes and new seasons life has brought us.

And we all, at different times, have expressed longing to be back in that house again. I think we would all agree that while we have experienced moments of sweet community since then, nothing has come close to matching what we shared in those few months we spent together. But instead of feeling despair at what we have lost, we each have come, in our own way, to realize that our time at 10420 Whitworth Dr. was a time to fan the flames. We know what intentional community can look like, and we consider it our calling to foster that in whatever circles we find ourselves in. We each took a candle with us when we left, and we’ve lit our own little corners of the world in our own special ways.

My own candle has traveled far and wide. And it has looked different in every home I’ve resided in since the Open Door. I will never forget the few days my mom and I spent looking for an apartment in Baltimore. On our final day of searching, we hit a wall. The deadline to decide on a place was fast approaching: it was mid-afternoon and we needed to be on the light rail by early evening in order to make our flight back to Seattle. In typical Baltimore fashion, it was hot and humid, and I happened to be experiencing one of the worst allergy attacks I’d ever had. With both of us on the verge of tears, my mom had the wherewithal to tell me it was time to make a phone call to Spokane, to one of my Open Door soul sisters.

So there I sat. On the bench outside the St. Paul Laundromat, dripping with sweat, tears and snot. Thankfully she answered, and even though she hadn’t laid eyes on any of the apartments we’d seen over the past few days, she told me what I needed to hear:

“You love hospitality. You need to have a space where you can be free to welcome others.”

And she was right.  I hung up the phone. Signed a lease.  Hopped on the light rail, sweaty, teary and snotty…but at peace.

I didn’t know what that candle would look like in Baltimore. I couldn’t leave my door open all the time. I didn’t have the money or the time to host community dinners every week. I didn’t have a team of sisters to share the load with me.

But the truth remained: if you open it, they will come.

And so they came. One at a time, for breakfast-for-dinner. In large groups, for bean cake, mulled wine and mandatory fun. Armed with side dishes and salads and dining room tables and chairs for the Easter dinner that fed 17, all crammed in and cozy in my tiny living room.

I’ve been reading Shauna Niequist’s new book – which is, in part, about cooking – but mostly about sharing life around the table. As I read this morning the following quote jumped off the page at me:

“What people are craving isn’t perfection. People aren’t longing to be impressed; they’re longing to feel like they’re home. If you create a space full of love and character and creativity and soul, they’ll take off their shoes and curl up with gratitude and rest, no matter how small, no matter how undone, no matter how odd.”

And as I opened the book just now to copy that quote down, I glanced at the name of the chapter it is found in: Open the Door.

So here I am again, in a new space, with a new place to call home. As it is with all of us who shared that time in the Open Door, I packed my candle at the top of one of the boxes. It’s the last thing to go in, and the first one to come out. Why wait until “everything’s settled” to open the door? How easy it is to forget that the presence of people is what makes everything feel settled.

So the candle is lit, once more. I don’t know how many will find their way to its flame, nor what their stories will be. I can only pray that they find safety around my table – a place to be seen and heard and loved. A place to laugh and exchange mercy. A place to share bread and intimacy.

The candle is lit. The table is set. The door is open.

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com

let evening come

It's my favorite time of day.  Or, my new favorite, I should say.  I will never abandon my undying love for early mornings, but living in a westward-facing home has brought with it a new appreciation for the dusky, twilit world.

The work is done...or at least laid aside until tomorrow.  The dishes are dripping their way to being dry.  The sun is bidding his final farewell as he peeks out from behind the ridge. My wineglass grows more illumined by the second as the candlelit lantern sends its flickers across the table.  My feet are up.  My hands are overflowing with fresh grapes from my garden. And Puzzle, the cross-eyed cat (yes, it's true), has come to say 'good evening'.

I spent yesterday evening in this same spot, catching up with a friend by lantern light after a 6-year hiatus (actually, probably really more like 10) from each others' lives. We reflected our individual journeys, as we recounted what has brought us to this point in time.  And here we are.  In the same city.  In similar seasons of life.

She commented on the way I didn't hide the messiness or the tension as I recounted my story of the last few years.  "That's life," she said, "We want it to fit nicely in boxes, but it doesn't."  We want there to be airtight solutions to the problems and easy answers to our nagging questions.  And it would be nice if it was all wrapped up with a beautiful bow on top.  but that's not life.


And maybe this is why I am coming to love evenings.


The mornings are full of pent-up potential.  There is room for hope, possibility, fresh starts.  I love the unknown.  The anticipation.  The energy of the stillness.  When I look at the day through my morning eyes, I am filled with gratitude.

I've never really liked evenings.  I have always associated them with weariness, heaviness, the weight of the day's work and failures.  The unknown is now known.  The morning's stillness has been replaced by a cacophony of voices. The din has undone me.  When I look at the day through my evening eyes, I am quick to see the negative - it is all-to-easy to latch on to the faults and failures.

But, the longer I sit, the more I force myself to pause and remember, the more I start see the beauty of the day.  A word of affirmation.  A shared moment of laughter.  A surprising turn of events.  An unexpected gift.


Over the years, as I have explored the idea of "Sabbath" - I have come to love the idea of the Sabbath beginning at sundown.  I love that it begins with rest. I love that it begins with what is, by American standards, the most unproductive thing we can do.  I love that surrender to the darkness and the stillness serves as the link between days.   I love that even in the hours that hold such terror and dread for so many - the moments when we are left defenseless and vulnerable - this - even this - is the time to begin anew.

And so, I say, let evening come.  Let it come and bring with it an awareness of our failures and shortcomings. Let it come and bring with it the weariness and weight of the day.  Let it come and bring with it the recollections of quiet moments of beauty in the chaos.  Let it come, and let us embrace it.  Let it come, and let us yield to the darkness, to the stillness.  Let it come, and let us lean into the grace that holds us.

Let it come, as it will, and don't

be afraid. God does not leave us

comfortless, so let evening come.

 - Jane Kenyon

Photo Credit:  Chinwe Edeani

it is what it is

I hate blank walls.

Always have, always will.

So it should come as no surprise that one of the first things I do when I move to a new place, even before all the boxes are unpacked, is start laying out picture collages on the floor.

My father, ever the photo journalist, captured one such humidity-and-exhaustion-soaked moment 2 years ago this week as I settled in Baltimore.

I love this part of the process.  It centers me and settles me, to acquaint myself with my new floor, surrounded by old friends, familiar faces that have followed me on my journey.  After the craziness of moving, my little introvert self is thankful for the chance to absorb the quiet, to reflect, to remember, to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, to make this new place my own.

But as I finally had the "aha" moment and found the perfect place for one little piece of artwork this evening (it has been sitting, homeless, on my desk for weeks), I realize that I have also come to love the change. The paintings and posters and picture frames that call my walls home have found their way to a plethora of different walls over the years - and have hung side-by-side a vast array of different objects.  And though they have remained unchanged over the years, they look different each time I put them up. The light hits them from a new angle. The walls behind them highlight their vibrant colors in a new way. The pieces they are now paired with bring out parts of them I'd never noticed before. 

I love how there is change in the constancy.  I love how you can look at something a million times and not really see it until you look at it that million-and-first time.  I love how everything eventually finds its place - sometimes where we least expect it to.

And isn't this true in life in general?  We bring the same set of strengths and weaknesses to each table we encounter - the same personality quirks - the same set of baggage.   The older I get and the further I travel, the more I am dismayed to find out that I am the same person wherever I wander.  Somehow, even though I attempt to leave it behind, my storage unit full of complexities and idiosyncrasies and selfishness and fears finds its way into each new town I call my home.

But there's hope. There are fresh starts.  There are new circumstances and new relationships and new walls to decorate.  The light falls differently and offers a new perspective.  Weaknesses become strengths.  Fears become motivators.  Shadows are chased away by sunbeams.  They are not bound by their former identities. They have been redefined in the present.  And sure, we cannot change the past or its long-lasting effects on us. And we lean, depend, feed on our hope for the future.  But the fact of the matter remains: we only have this moment.  We only have the present.

In the year before I left for Baltimore, my dear soul sister and I would, at times (OK, often), find ourselves overwhelmed by life.  There were days when we gave up on words and just laughed.  And there were days when we gave up on words and just cried.  And amidst fits of giggles and streams of tears, our mantra became, "It is what it is."  And for us, at the time, I think it meant "I'll take the hand I'm dealt; it's out of my control anyway." "I will accept this reality and trust that it's not forever."

Shortly before I left for graduate school, I found a little wooden sign that said just that: "it is what it is."  So off it went with me to Baltimore. And every morning, as I brushed my teeth, I pondered it.  For two years, I pondered....and also I cried and I laughed (a bit more of the former than the latter).  And for those two years it took on a new meaning: "It is what it is, so I will choose gratitude."

Today that sign has found a new resting place on the shelf beside my dining room table, to the right of my mug collection, just below my produce basket full of Walla Walla sweet onions, to the left of two pictures of my soul sisters.  Today, it reminds me of the tears and the laughter, of the fight to stay grateful.  And today it takes on a new meaning: "it isn't what it was."

a fresh start

It’s been two years since I started a blog. It was my intent to use it to describe my journey eastward, as the title would suggest (Mary Goes to Maryland). I wanted to be able to share my experiences in graduate school with friends at home – the people who had helped to get me there.

And in the process, I came to a deeper realization of something I already knew: I love to write. I have been a faithful journaler since at least jr. high, if not before. There is something so centering about putting pen to paper. Somehow, as I scrawl out my jumble of thoughts in the form of sentences and paragraphs, I begin to make sense of them. And in recent years, while I have learned to process verbally (with the help with some very wonderful and extremely verbal roommates - and you know who you are...), my introverted soul still finds sweet solace in the lined, spiral-bound pages of my journal.

These last 2 years have brought me a newfound joy in getting to share my writing with others. There is something beautifully freeing about taking a thought - a small part of my heart...condensing it, refining it - finding the exact combination of words to express it....and then releasing it - sending it off into this mysterious web of a world. 

But the fact of the matter is: I am no longer in Maryland.

Hence, the new blog.

I spent yesterday afternoon trying to come up with a title, as I sat on my patio, looking out at acres and acres of fir trees. There are many phrases I could use to describe this season of my life, the state my heart is in, my hopes for the future.

After awhile, I gave up and went about the rest of my evening, busying myself with other things. I did the dishes. Continued with the seemingly-endless task of unpacking and settling. Attempted to take pictures of myself so I can renew my passport (if someone had only videoed the entire process…you would have had a great many laughs).

It wasn’t until I poured myself a glass of wine and sat to watch the sunset that it came to me (as things are prone to do when there is wine involved…and a sunset, for that matter).

cultivating the invisible.

It’s a phrase I have come back to time and time again in the 5+ years it has percolated in me. It stems from a book that continues to change my life, “Reaching for the Invisible God” by Philip Yancey. The original quote reads this way:

“The visible world forces itself on me without invitation;
I must consciously cultivate the invisible.”

It is a principle by which I attempt to live. And it works itself out in a myriad of ways: in my commitment to taking a Sabbath – to laying the work aside and resting. In my choice to pursue music – to express the things that are beyond words. In my desire to prioritize relationships - to seek out the divine spark that only comes in human interaction.

I don’t pretend to have mastered this skill of conscious cultivation. But in a world where we are constantly in a state of sensory overload, bombarded by advertisements, technology, the temptation for more, I have found myself growing ever hungrier for the things that cannot be seen. There is beauty to be found in the stillness, in the small and ordinary, in the crooks and crannies few bother to give a second glance to. And I, for one, don't want to miss it.

So, here's to a new season.   Here's to whatever surprises it may bring.     Here's to a new blog (and whatever shape it decides to take).     Here's to the intangible, the immeasurable, the invisible.