Vitamin Share

The moment my alarm wrestles me from dreamland, I sense a strange tightness in my feet. I must have been clenching them for hours! I imagine my feet curling, almost cramping, and relaxing again through the night. What could my mind have been processing? I recall a dream about Disneyland and a massive, confusing, hotel. Maybe, even in slumber, I've searching for rest and for peace. That sounds about right.

I pry myself from under the covers, pat my still-inert spouse, and stumble through my morning necessities before settling on my stained office chair. I place several warmed rice packs in critical locations. I close my eyes. I open my hands and sink deep. 

Well, I try to sink deep. 

Most days lately, I've attempted this sacred unwinding. I still my soul, clear my mind, and repeat whatever mantra will draw me closer to peace and to God. The practice lasts until the rice packs cool down, and then I open my eyes and start moving. The simplicity has proved vital to my current season. I draw on the solitude all day.

But today, as is her current norm, my daughter's cat, Gerty, arrives to inhabit this space with me. First comes a gentle meow, then several padded footfalls. Finally, her soft bulk fills my lap and the beginnings of a contented purr replace the sweet silence. 

I emit a small sigh. Gerty has settled atop my open hands. Clearly they were offering her stroking, offering love. Gently, I move, cupping one palm to cradle her head. I place my other hand on her chubby body. The warmth of it emanates through the skin and up past my wrist in a comforting flow. 

Together, the cat and I breathe. Occasionally, she nudges me: More chin-scratches required! I sit and I think, and then I force myself not to think. My quadricep muscles slowly release (I didn't even know they were tight). My mantra shifts from "rest" to "Jesus" and then back again, but I figure they're basically the same. 

Gerty and I keep on breathing.

And then, just when our contours have melded into a comfortable connection, she makes a small noise and moves off. Her footfalls depart but her purr remains, somewhat muted. She's probably stationed just outside my office door, waiting for Chris to emerge from the bedroom so she can accost him with requests for attention and food. 

In the middle of my stillness, I smile. It took several days to make room for ritual. But then I realized that our pets, like our souls, require tending. When we invite them into our space, we implicitly agree to this care. But unlike houseplants or a new set of tools, they require presence and connection to achieve optimum health. We must extend. Expand. We must faithfully give and receive. 

Gerty's soft purring subsides. She's probably drifted into dreamland: I feel a small, jealous twinge. Then my mind settles back, safe in its blanket of silence. My mantra repeats. My soul stills. Jesus. Rest. Sharing my space and my soul. Somehow, the three intertwine. My mind stops is searching. My soles begin to relax. Together, Gerty and I submit to the Presence that invites us deeper, shares It's soul, invites us in. 

And we breathe. 

Vitamin Savasana

 

Savasana

Now I lay me on this mat
Hands are open, back is flat.
Adam-like, I’m still. And then …
Inhale. Exhale. Life begins.

Vitamin Seen

I was young, and I was pregnant. My joints had started to loosen in that pregnancy way, giving and swaying and combining with my blossoming belly to create a different stride, a necessity to check my balance when traversing tough terrain. I'd been hiking with Chris on a down, down, down track for what felt like too long, wandering through shadowy groves of surprisingly mundane-looking koa trees. Surprising, because these trees produce some of the most beautiful wood grain I've ever known. This created a vague sense of disappointment that I just couldn't shake. I'd expected gnomes, or sun-dappled moss, or at least an occasional bright flower. We were on the island of Kauai, after all. Garden island of our most tropical state. Where was the magic, the palm trees, the sun?

I kept these thoughts to myself, of course. Even in my sweaty state, I recognized the privilege I'd been granted by even having this adventure in the first place. We were staying on the island for several weeks for Chris's job, a job that required only a few hours a day. A paid vacation in paradise? Yes, I could quell my complaints with no problem.

And so, I kept walking. My knees began to feel tender. Eventually, our descent leveled off and we picked our way among dank and rotting old growth. Ahead, it appeared things might open up. A whiff of fresh air, a shaft of light, an occasional breeze. And then -

And then, I found myself gasping. 

In what felt like an instant, we'd emerged from the gloom. I stood atop a sheer cliff, and the Crayola-blue ocean spread out beneath me in an impossible, wide arc of color. On both sides, our cliff moved away in endless contours, the shoreline looping in and out, the rocks glistening with ocean mist and covered in the green plants of paradise. White froth rose and fell far below, a delicate, living border contrasting with the darkness of the rocks and the tint of the sea.

I inhaled. 

I inhaled again. 

The wind whipped at my hair, my shoelaces, my still-roomy maternity shirt. The sweat evaporated from my body and a shiver coursed through my body. 

Once more, I inhaled. The beauty had struck me like lightning, like an unexpected, loud sound. I simply could not catch my breath. 

While I kept on gasping, we wandered our own private promontory. The ocean air gusted around us. We said witty things like, "Oh," and "Wow." And eventually, I grew tired. Honestly, it didn't take long. The experience had shot me through with adrenaline and acted like a marathon on my nervous system. Call it weakness, call it maternity, call it being a neophyte traveler. Whatever the case, this moment made an impact upon me that lingers today. I remember it now, and my breath still catches. My nose tingles in that pre-crying way that. And I'm back.

Back in the embrace of the wind and the sun. Back with my husband and that dear, tiny life growing inside my womb. Back under the dome of God's sky, with the noise of His glory roaring in the waves far below. 

I remember, and I'm there again. And then, of course, I go on. We didn't stay there forever, after all. We ate our lunch, said more witty phrases, and started back. Back through the unmagical forest and the disturbing, fetid air. Back up the endless, unlovely climb. Back to the normal sun on a normal island in normal, everyday paradise. And later, back to our lives on the mainland, the birth of our first son, our jobs, our friends, and the future that we're live today. 

But even though I know we went back, a piece of me has always remained. Deep in some quiet kernel of my mind, I still see that sacred place. I see the ocean haze, I feel the tiny pricks of moisture. The sun's passionate gaze warms my skin. And the thundering voice of  my God fills my soul.   . 

Do you have a place like that, too? Allow your mind to return there whenever it needs. There's an infusion of truth in those spaces, I think. A recognition of our identity in proportion to God and His world. They make us feel small, of course - and we are. But in the seeing of my sacred space, I find that I also feel known. The Power that made this panorama also, mysteriously, made me. And because He gave me the ability to encounter it, I feel seen. I am a part of His creation. And thus I am valued. I'm safe.  

I haven't visited my place in some time. But I did so today, and now, I feel renewed. I wish the same renewal for for you. 

Vitamin Clear

Everything's uncertain today. Ice coats the streets. Fog hangs in the air thick enough to feel against my bare skin. My own mind feels thick with the cares of yesterday, the worries of today, and the concern about what matters most. 

Around me, people and traffic ease along at a slow, cautious pace, the speed with which I imagine the sun must be edging toward rising. On Kendall Road, my headlamp illuminates just enough ground for running, but succumbs within 18 inches of my face to the white wall of condensation. I move carefully in this shapeless void, scanning the foreground for hints of oncoming headlights and keeping a close eye on my dog. She's weaving, as usual, lost in her world - until suddenly, she snuffles at a peculiar, blue spot in the road.

I stop, too. It's a piece of old gum, surprisingly interesting to a dog typically intent on festering piles of unmentionable origin. 

I stare at the gum, a tiny, bright patch in this pre-dawn mist. Behind my annoyance at litterbugs, beneath my realization that I can't just carry it home in my pocket for disposal, a curious sensation arises. I appreciate that little blue wad - though I can't exactly say why.

Inwardly shaking my head, I move on. Ever so slowly, dawn overtakes darkness, and tree silhouettes now mark my progress. As I head toward home, I realize the fog has been lifting, as well. Its myriad, suspended ice crystals have melted, dropped to the ground, and dampened the exposed hair on my head. In the ditch to my left, a drift of old leaves sports a transient patina of frost. It, too, will disappear after sunrise. The world of this morning's run will transform, solidifying into sharp lines, safe roads, and clear shapes standing bright in the full winter sun. 

And that's what I must have appreciated about the blue gum. It offered a pinprick of clarity. A drop of certainty in an ocean of gray. Here I am, it said by its presence. I am clear.

I marvel at the message this trash-bit provides. No matter the mists in my ongoing world, like that little roadside surprise, I am here. And I am clear, too. I'm clear that the space I occupy is mine, the place I inhabit is not wasted, and the work that I do not in vain. Whatever comes next, I don't know. But I cherish my blue-gum moment and move, with more certainty, into my oncoming day.  

Vitamin Adjust

It's winter weather, I remember as I start down Kendall Road with my dog. Layering weather. The brush of my bare arms against my new winter jacket reminds me that I left my fluorescent orange running shirt, the shirt sure to keep me warm on my pre-dawn jog, back at home. 

Ah, well. I won't turn back now. I swing my arms with more vigor and anticipate the one-mile flush of warmth that will invariably overtake my chilled body. 

Sure enough, like clockwork, it comes. Sometime after a high, hunting eagle screams into the dark and sometime before Minty and I start our slow lope up Cottonwood Road, I feel it. The tingle of life returns to my fingers. My core temperature begins to rise. Soon I am stripping off my hat and my gloves and unzipping the front of my jacket. Whoever dreamed a mile could make such a difference?

I consider this phenomenon later. My system's ability to adjust to nearly any situation, given enough time. I'm moving again, back on Cottonwood Road and walking toward the mountains in the dusky space between sunrise and full day. To my left, a field sits still and dark, bordered by golden grasses that have held the night's precipitation and spun it into the most delicate of frosty-white lace. Compelled, I stop and raise my phone for a photo, and a surprising sense overtakes me. 

I'm going to miss the winter. 

The thought arises unbidden, fueled by a sudden awareness that only during winter do these visual offerings occur. I continue my walk with my dog, but my mind turns this idea over and over, worrying it like a stone in the pocket of a child. I've not felt so fondly toward winter for years. Could it be that, after enough seasons spent in the northlands following our move from New Mexico, I've adjusted to the cold, the gray, the never knowing if my front deck will be coated in a deadly-thin layer of ice? Could it be that I've found found blessing in a season that, for so long, represented only restriction, darkness, and cold? 

I believe that it could. My phone timer chimes and I should turn around, but I'm not quite finished with this little journey. Minty and I press on a little while longer and as we go, I savor the sting of cold on my cheeks, the patter of last night's ice crystals as they fall softly from a small stand of trees, and the way the fog uncurls, and rises from its low mountain bed like a silent cat stretching and starting its day. 

I like winter, I realize. I've adjusted to one more thing. 

My steps lighten as I head home. I wonder what gifts I might uncover as I adjust to other situations, other types of dark and cold. I'm not going to speculate too long, but I trust that, like today's surprise understanding, these gifts will arrive in their time. All I have to do is keep walking.   

Vitamin Share

 

                I pull into the parking lot, grab my flashlight, and step into the pre-dawn chill. I’m headed to a ladies’ prayer group at a friend’s house, and my day has barely begun. Already, however, the stiffness in my soul mirrors the tension in my muscles. I’ve scheduled this time, both the walk and the prayer, to loosen the fibers of my soul, but have my doubts it will help. The walk to my friend’s house is dim, my flashlight’s weak beam barely alerting cars of my presence. The road slaps against my sturdy shoes with a jarring, unkind, insistence. I struggle to breathe, to focus, to rest, a struggle I suspect will last the whole day.

                Once I arrive at my friend’s, I settle into her low-lit living room for a spell of soft conversation. We transition to prayer soon enough, and my friend, who cares for her daughter and her medically fragile husband, excuses herself to tend to his needs. We keep on in prayer, a familiar rhythm of raising our concerns, listening in silence, speaking life, and repeating. We name our discouragement, our need, and our joy. Spontaneously, someone sings a song. The melody rises, too, the scriptural words floating around us like a breeze, like the Spirit.

                I’m on a schedule this morning, so precisely on time, I take my leave. My friend’s dogs bark their good-bye, and her daughter calls to them from her bedroom. The ladies, I’m sure, will keep praying. I bless them with a look, and step outside into a shockingly bright autumn morning. While we’ve been praying, the sun has risen. I glance at my now-useless flashlight and break into a jog. My feet feel lighter somehow, my spirit surprisingly free. With minimal effort, I move toward my waiting car. Sunlight spills over the Blue Mountains, pinking the leaves, roads, and sky with the promise of brightness to come. I make my way through this transformation. It’s happened outside, for sure, as the sunrise has illuminated this new day. But it’s also taken place deep inside – both in the home of my hospitable friend and in the recesses of my newly lifted heart. I realize I’m entering this day filled with hope, wealth, and peace, my soul transformed by the sunrise of a few minutes spent in the presence of God with my friends.

I enter the day feeling Love.

Vitamin Presence

Today, I sit at last to face the difficult inner work I’ve avoided for so long. I am shivery from my long walk in the rain, a persistent flow of droplets so small they seem suspended in the air, yet somehow, still fall to earth.

I sit quietly, reveling in the remembered companionship of my dog on this and so many other excursions. She is a dutiful dog-of-transitions, moving with me from old home to new, from one season to another. I sit gratefully, my soul waiting, and filled with trepidation for this new season I face.

This here-ness, my presence, carries weight. It recollects Mary’s, “Let it be to me as the Lord has commanded,” It hearkens to Samuel’s, “Speak Lord; Your servant is listening.” And it calls up Isaiah’s, “Here I am; send me.” It carries power.

But also, this presence is small. I comprehend so little of God’s eternal knowing. My here-ness, this tiny speck of significance, seems swallowed in the vast sea of life. I consider the drops of rain I’ve never seen, the acres of pavement I’ve never walked, and the people with whom I will never walk them. How can my presence add depth to this life, this process of Becoming that God continually unfurls? Why does me, my sitting here, matter?

I do not know. Like the secret of the small drops of rain, this answer evades me. Yet today, after walking enough quiet backroads with friends, I trust the mystery of presence more often. I trust that the shared space with my dog – with my husband – with a stranger – and sometimes, with the silent expanse of a wheat field in the rain – hum with the same, magical force. We are with you, the actors in these shared moments whisper. We are here. We’re together. And in this sharing, there’s glory. The reality of the field, the rain, and the sky amplify. They

My choice today, to sit still for the hard work of growth, conjures the communion I have felt in the fields. I settle in, raise my gaze to the Companion Who shares every path, and sense one more truth. He is present, as well. My willingness to show up gives Him joy.

I smile. Our gaze meets. And suddenly, Presence (the most natural, mundane mystery in the world, the gift of God’s Incarnation), soaks this space with Love. We are here. Together. It is good.