Vitamin Outside

Gertie is a cat with a home body. Round, affable, and slow-moving, she seems incapable of climbing a tree, much less stalking a rabbit or engaging in feline warfare. During her few waking hours, she meanders the house in short bursts, pausing frequently to flop on one side and recuperate. She purrs easily, samples all laps for softness, and wears such a sweet expression that she seems perpetually at peace. An anomaly of a cat, always content. She's the perfect indoor pet.

Last night, she proved me wrong.

I stumbled downstairs around eleven, unable to sleep. After arranging myself on the couch and waging further warfare against insomnia, I  slipped into dreamland until sometime around 3:00 am. 

At this point, a curious noise awakened me. I roused and listened momentarily before recognizing the unmistakable "tunneling" sound of small paws brushing the full-length window of our front door. Although darkness obscured her, I imagined gentle Gertie, "digging" furiously to escape this safe house. 

The sound shifted slightly, and Gertie gave several soft meows. She moved to the other side of the double front door, then tried the side door, as well. 

"Pssst!" I whispered across the dark room. Her efforts were ruining my rest.

She paused for a moment, then resumed scratching.

And I? I lay still and marveled. Our obese house cat, so serene during the day, displayed such desperation at night! What did she want? Why did she dig?

She kept at it for what felt like hours. Finally, I retreated to the silence of my bedroom. I'd considered squirting her with water. I'd even tossed a poorly-aimed pillow her way. But I just couldn't fight any harder. The moon filtered in, its luminosity diffused by the day's smoky haze. Outside, the grass and trees seemed to glow. If I were Gertie, I'd strive toward that beauty, too ... even if it put me in danger. 

And so I left her to it -- to her quiet, unobserved struggle. She must have known it was futile; she'd never even extended her claws. Yet there she sat, long after I left, expressing an urge deeper than her domesticity, truer than her overweight state, stronger than her desire for safety. 

Oh, how deeply I could relate. Perhaps you can, too.

On the surface, my life bends to certain themes. Nurture. Comfort. Peace. Farther down, my silent needs lie. Adventure. Exploration. Full, freedom-filled life. When the moon rises and the haze hangs just right, these needs arise. They stir my soul, driving me to dreams and to action that surprise even me. Impatient, I push at the boundaries of my danger-free life. Like Gertie, my truest self drives me to just get outside.

And God, Who created this truest self in the first place, must smiles. He beckons me beyond, rather than imprisons me within, my four walls. He calls me forward into the mystery of dependence upon Him instead of my skills. He calls me into faith, into life.

I wonder how many nights Gertie visits those tempting glass doors. I wonder what  would happen if they opened, and she could step outside. Would she? 

Would you? 

And will I? We've got the Maker of all nature, the Upholder of eternity on our side, which means there's nowhere really outside His protection. But still, the world seems so wide. Excitement still surges each time I decide. I take one step, and then two, and with my great Maker, I smile. I'm anxious to see what I'll find.

Vitamin With

“With is … God’s plan for our lives.” (Bob Goff)

A year ago, I started the practice of sitting still. Through many trials and much error, I’d come to realize that I spent the majority of my time running, striving, scrabbling, sweating, and fomenting unrest – all in the first several minutes of my day. When I learned about the practice of centering prayer (that’s meditation for Jesus people), I knew I had to step in. My current blood pressure, my future psychotherapy bill, and my present loved ones would all thank me.

And so, I sat still. Twice a day, several days a week. I closed my eyes, settled my hands, selected a centering word, and breathed deeply. I tried not to expect instant results. I chased my errant thoughts back towards stillness. And I waited.

It was slow going at first. My thoughts wandered. I changed my sacred words like an athlete changes his socks. I developed twitches, itches, and excuses to help me avoid those 20-minute sessions. But bit by bit, I experienced a level “success.” set my to-do lists to one side, at least sometimes. I found favorite places, like the driver’s seat of my parked car, to sit still. I began to look forward to my sessions. I relaxed.

Some time later, about nine months into this experiment in stillness, we welcomed a new member to our family. Gertrude, or Gertie the Hut as my husband has dubbed her, arrived just days before Washington state’s quarantine took effect. Hailing from who-knows-where, aged somewhere around three years, this C.O.U.S. (cat of unusual size) claimed my daughter’s heart the moment she saw her online photo.

“Mom,” Summer breathed when we met Gertie at the Humane Society the next day. “She’s so beautiful!”

I looked around. Several normal-sized cats lounged nearby, displaying several states of beauty. The only visible part of Gertie, a nondescript portion of what may have been her back right quadrant, spilled through one side of the “cat house” where she had been hiding since we arrived. It rose and fell with each breath, confirming that she was, indeed, alive. But beautiful? I had my doubts.

Still, I reserved judgment. Carefully, we coaxed Gertie into our presence. 

Noncommittally, she allowed us to stroke her vast girth. Summer’s devotion increased, and so did her tugs on my heartstrings. Finally, after a hurried consultation with my spouse and a trip to the store for supplies, we stuffed Gertie into a too-small cardboard carrier and brought her home.

Would she survive? I had my doubts. Outside our doors lurked coyotes, foxes, and various birds of prey, still salivating over their memories of our former cats. Summer instructed us to keep Gertie inside; we humbly agreed.

But would we love her? Could she love us? I doubted that, too. Our dog, Minty, struggles with social boundaries. Our lifestyle involves frequent guests. And we immediately put Gertie on a crash diet. What newcomer could feel welcome in such conditions?

Initially, my fears seemed well-founded. Gertie spent the first month of her new life with the “I’m nervous” patch of fur on her back perpetually upraised. She traversed the house with her paws clenched and her legs stiff. She did a low of meowing. My husband guffawed each time she walked by. Summer’s older brother, Ethan, found her simply offensive.

“She’s so ugly,” he sniffed. “I can’t stand her!”

But slowly, our home climate has changed. Minty gives Gertie a wide berth (claws demand a certain respect). Ethan allows her to sit on his lap. Despite frequent binges, Gertie has lost several pounds (and gained them, and lost them again). Today, I have to admit it: Gertie’s become one of our clan.

Gertie seems to know this, as well. She sleeps in my favorite chair. She’s stopped yowling. And now, when I practice sitting still, she wants to join me. I settle my spirit, lay my hands in my lap, embrace my inner quiet, and hear her soft meow. Her purr starts to rumble, there’s a grunt and a whoosh, and suddenly, my lap’s full of kitty.

To be honest, it’s distracting. I’ve read the manual these kinds of things. Nowhere does it mention leaving room for a love-hungry cat.

But it doesn’t mention rejecting one, either. Once again, my heartstrings are singing. I clutch my sacred word in my mind, asking it to wait just one second. I lift my hands and rearrange them around Gertie’s soft form. Her purr kicks into low gear, and the rumble fills the stillness as, together, we practice our rest.

Maybe true stillness, like the other disciplines of grace, cannot be threatened by the presence of one lonely cat. Maybe her presence enriches it. Maybe togetherness unfolds the true beauty of every good gift, the way the wind lifts a flag to unfurl its full glory.

This virus and the isolation it creates has affected our togetherness so deeply. We feel the impact now. We’ll feel it far into the future. How can our rhythms shift? How can our actions accommodate the with–ness we must offer (and accept) in order to stay whole?

We’ll have to dig deeper, that’s certain. We’ll need to look wider than we already have. We’ll need to include our pudgy pets, and our stinky ones, too. We’ll reach out to our awkward neighbors, our annoying spouses, and the children who twang on our every last nerve. We’ll find ourselves leaning over other lines, too: Lines of routine, of expectation, of hostility. Together, as we learn to give and receive with-ness, I believe we’ll find ourselves, and our stillness, too.

One simple, shared sit-down at a time.

Vitamin Hope

I started wearing contacts when I was five. I have single vision and low visual acuity in my one sighted eye, so prior to the contact-lens phase, I sported massive, frog-eyed glasses strapped to my face at all times.

I’d like to report that the sensation of freedom relieved me – and it did. But it also gave me a healthy dose of fear. I required a high-powered contact lens, which meant that each delicate disc cost quite a lot. More than once, I recall accidentally rubbing the lens of my eye, enlisting my friends to help find it, then running home with the tiny treasure balanced on the tip of one grubby finger. Those contacts were so floppy! I needed help to put them in, help to remove them, and a whole lot of reassurance when they disappeared.

Because let me tell you, losing a lens was the worst. After I got older, I’d stand over the sink to remove my lens for the night. Occasionally, it would slip through my fingers, and poof – tumble right down the drain.

Oh, the clutch in my heart when that happened! Oh, the horror of telling my folks! 

We’d carefully remove the drain plug and peer around with a flashlight. If my dad was home and felt hopeful, he’d get under the sink and disassemble the pea trap, just in case. One time it worked, too. The lens had nestled safely in that humble, U-shaped bend, from whence we received it with all the fanfare of a Lazarus newly emerged from the tomb.

Although all my contact-losing escapades didn’t end so joyfully, I must have retained a scrap of that childhood hope. Recently, while changing the belt on our vacuum, I discovered a new diagram in the manual.

“No way!” I exclaimed. “This thing has a secret compartment!” The blue-printed picture depicted an easy-to-access chamber just below the machine’s bag. This space, the manual informed me, would collect all items too heavy or too large for the main receptacle.

“Do you mean to tell me,” I wondered aloud, “that 20 years of treasures have accumulated, right there?”

Eagerly, I pulled on the handhold. Anxiously, I carried the assemblage upstairs. From across the room, my teenage son’s gaze followed me. Everything around us grew silent.

“What could be in there?” I all but whispered. I gave the thing a gentle tap; then, with images of forgotten jewelry and priceless coins filling my mind, I began shaking it in real earnest.

“Here it comes!”

A small cloud of dust blocked my view. I held my breath while my mountain of treasure took shape.

One nickel, three pennies, and a few twisted nails.

“That’s it?” My heart sank. “Twenty years, and that’s all?”

My son Ethan, weighed in, guessing that my husband had already emptied it several times. But this provided scant comfort. I’d at least expected a bobby pin! I reassembled my machine, feeling bitter.

But the feeling could not last for long.

What have you discovered? A small voice repeated as my day recommenced. List out the treasures you’ve found.

I grinned, remembering the high-five with my son after my successful belt change. I chuckled over the likelihood that my husband had rescued countless coins through the years. Maybe enough to buy a new vacuum! I celebrated the simple pleasures, too: The moment of discovery, my sweet childhood memories, and the delicious anticipation I’d just enjoyed.

True, the compartment hadn’t contained all the treasures I’d hoped. But it had provided three pretty pennies, not to mention a nickel. And who knows? Maybe next time, it’ll give me something more. I can always hope, anyway. And that’s greatest treasure of all.  

Vitamin Solace

There’s a sacred solace

found in simple, mundane tasks:

A comfort that extends beyond

the bounds of each small act.

When days loom long and pressures throng

and strength becomes fatigue,

sacred solace enters in

with work I can complete.

The counter? Scrubbed. The dog? Well-loved.

The several dishes? Clean.

I may not mend life’s larger ills,

but I can tend these things.

And when they’re done, I take my cup

of coffee, tea, or pain,

and sit with it and make the most

of what I can’t explain.

I find the work of finishing

small things can make a way

for larger cares to shrink; and then

I face them, unafraid.

Vitamin Soothe

There’s something about the pounding of my feet on solid earth that soothes me. I’ve needed more of that, lately – the soothing. I keep finding myself drifting outside, tennis shoes laced, embarking on a walk or a jog or a lope, all unplanned. I wander my neighborhood. I circle city parks. I trek the grid of gravel roads that drapes the contours of the Blue Mountains like a shawl. Inevitably, I return feeling cleansed.

Most days I walk quickly, relishing the rhythm of breath through my lungs and blood through my veins. These days I thank God for my ability – the miracles of health and sight, and the freedom to travel safe paths without fear.

Other days I move slowly. I talk with my dog, examine flowers, search for birds. On these days, I often feel a different rhythm – the pulsing headaches that have become my companions this year. These days, I move gently, keeping the throbbing at bay. But these days, too, I thank God. I thank Him that I can still move. I thank Him that my pain is so small. I thank Him for the simple things that slowness reveals: Cloud shapes. Sounds of children at play. Sun and shadows sweeping the hills, silent travelers moving with a will and a destination I cannot comprehend.

On other days still, I move with near-mindless passion. Somewhere inside, I may relish my pumping muscles, my beating heart. But these days, I’m walking to survive. I scarcely take in my surroundings. My thoughts bump in a jumble, up and down in my mind and I make no effort to sort them. They are the reason I’m here, after all; they are the things I must soothe.

Eventually, the miracle always happens. In one mile or in seven, the pounding pace perseveres. My speedy steps slow, my focus returns, my breath and my thoughts flow freely once more. My thoughts may still be in a jumble, but they’ve been jostled to a manageable size. Thus subdued, I can pick them out one by one, examine them, and decide what I want to do.

Perhaps that’s the real reason I walk. Perhaps this movement provides a stand-in for all the actions I wish I could take. It offers a preliminary satisfaction that tricks my mind into a cease-fire, a lull just long enough for me to regroup, rearm, and reengage, feeling renewed.  

Whatever. It sounds like a good reason to me. All I really know is this: Walking works. I no longer judge those people I see on the road, the ones talking to themselves, swinging their arms way too high, their gaze focused inward or perhaps outward, far away. Those people are me. They’re walking their way to inner peace. I send them a mental salute whenever I pass them by. We travelers need all the support we can get.

This may sound wild, but maybe if more of us took to the roadsides and hills, allowing ourselves to look a little crazy, we’d find our own inner peace, too. Maybe that’s the first step toward healing: Giving ourselves a place and a way to process our troubling thoughts … one soothing footfall at a time.  

Vitamin DEPTH

FINDING YOU

I cannot find the depths of You.

Though childlike, still, I try.

I think I’ve seen the best of You

And then new heights arise

You’re ocean-deep and heaven-wide

You’re mountain-strong and steep.

You’re undertow and avalanche

And nights of deepest sleep.

You’re clear-reflecting water-glass

You’re headlong-rushing stream

You’re tiny mosses, holding fast

To cliffs unscaled, unseen

You’re unrelenting desert heat

You’re tender sun in spring.

You’re garden roots and fresh green shoots

You’re songbirds. migrating.

You’re yesterday with all its joys

Tomorrow, still unknown

You’re fields of grass all tossed in waves

Of worship, mute, windblown.

You are these things; You’re in them. Yet

You’re more. You’re not contained

By mass and light and sound and sight.

You’re Glory, unrestrained.

Vitamin Morning

Morning comes early,

comes with sharp pain;

comes for your wedding,

comes when it rains.

Morning comes simply,

comes with delight;

comes though you dread it,

awake, through the night.

Morning comes quickly;

morning comes slow.

Morning comes.

Darling,

that’s all you need know.