Most writing days I want to get away – to a coffee shop, the
lobby of the local Inn, a well-manicured botanical garden.
Today I felt like staying.
We are easing into Joey’s summer schedule of flexible hours
so he has taken over with the kids this morning – making sure they are eating,
learning, not killing each other or doing any permanent damage to the house. I hear their footsteps, the opening and
closing of doors, and the muffled conversations. I remove the piles of books and clothes and pictures
frames and a dozen other odds and ends from the table beneath the double
windows in my bedroom. I stack them all on
top of the white coverlet of my bed.
Maybe I will put everything in its place later, or maybe I will just
transfer it all back. For now it is
behind me and the green of our lawn framed by the row of white hydrangea and
the towering trees of the woods are in front of me.
A wide, open space.
A spacious place.
God keeps calling me back there.
There is room to move and breathe and it is
quiet enough for listening without distraction.
More and more I am listening for the things my ears cannot
hear and looking for the things my eyes cannot see.
I am finding them.
Sometime easily and abundantly.
Other times the going is slow and the rewards are sparse,
but still I persevere because always, always, it is worth it.
I don’t have a perfect work space in my house. I’ve found I don’t need one. The weathered aqua blue side table that is
just barely tall enough to slide a chair underneath is the only piece of
furniture I could fit into the small space of our bedroom. Our bedroom is the quietest place in the
house with a lockable door. It works fine.
I have opened up the blinds and cracked the window because
it is unseasonable cool this morning.
The camellia bush a few feet beyond the glass has grown too high and has
too many wayward branches poking out of its core. Trimming it is on our to-do list, but not the
top of it.
Despite the obstructed view I can look to the left and see
the edge of our vegetable garden peaking out from behind the hedge separating
the upper yard from the terraced section.
The runner beans are beginning to stretch up the rows of string woven
through stakes meant to provide a path for their growth. If I squint I can even make out the tiny
purple blooms amongst the leaves, promising a harvest.
To the right of the monstrous camellia the grassy hill leads
past the concrete bird bath, along the overgrown garden of spider lilies and Lenten
rose up to the play house. The white
curtains I hung on the front are frayed at the bottom but they look lovely
billowing slowly in the breeze. The paneling
Joey carefully erected on top of the raised deck foundation he built is painted
a creamy white making the simple gray-brown shutters my brother helped me
construct out of reclaimed barn board stand out. The roof panels are brown and rippled and
always remind me of Spanish architecture which I was unusually drawn to as a
child. The slide hung from the front is
yellow and the wagon parked underneath is red, but otherwise the whole
structure blends unobtrusively into its surroundings. The chalkboard wall is weathered and peeling
off the back side. I can barely see it
from where I sit, but I know what bad shape it’s in. It’s on the list too.
There are many things in need of our doing out there on the
other side of the windows, but I don’t feel the weight of them right now.
Even after all these years of practice I still have to make
a conscious effort to shift from doing mode to being mode. In this place, I can be fully present and
fully appreciative of what exists without any help from me.
There will always be things
to do clambering for our attention, but there will also always be a need to be whispered in longing.
Just as I finished typing that last sentence I heard
footsteps and the slow turn of the doorknob.
For some reason I chose not to lock myself in this time. That is always a risk, but today I wanted to be tucked away yet accessible. Lucy entered on unusually gentle feet and
whispered kindly, “Mommy, can I ask you a question?”
Of course.
She cracked open the library book in her hand, “I know we
are reading a different chapter book right now but I am doing my 20 minutes of
quiet reading and wondered if it would be okay if I finished this one instead.”
Sure. That’s a fine idea, honey.
"Ok," she said with a soft smile. As she pulled the door closed behind her she
turned, “I love you.”
I love you too.
Sometimes I am deeply drawn to having us all under the same
roof. Even if we are each involved in
our separate things and there is work to be done, I find comfort in knowing we
can whisper our “I love yous” to each other any time we please.
