I tried writing you a letter yesterday. I’ve been putting it together in my head for a few weeks now. When I reread it this morning, it seemed void of heart – trying to say too much, I ended up saying nothing at all. I put the letter away and turned to a movie I’ve known about for a couple of years, thanks to Catherine and Kevin Cray.
This being my sabbath – a day of rest, contemplation, and delight – I turned off my phone, put on a blanket against this winter chill (snow still lies in feet-high mounds all around the city), and experienced Into Great Silence. I read that the film was “one of the most mesmerizing and poetic chronicles of spirituality ever created, [dissolving] the border between screen and audience with a total immersion into the hush of monastic life.” It has quieted me today – stilled something in my heart for the moment, which makes me more able to think clearly.
When I told people I was moving, I was often asked, “What’s going to happen out there? Will you find a job? What will become of you in this economy?” I answered as truthfully as I could, usually turning my hands, palms up, toward the sky, “I don’t know what will happen.” I’m sure I also responded with what I hoped would happen – maybe that I would meet new people, be fine, take care of myself, try to trust God more, do yoga…a couple of friends and I talked about the possibility of meeting a man who I would one day marry. But I felt mostly like: I don’t know what’s going to happen. In fact, although I knew it couldn’t totally be true, I honestly thought I didn’t have any preconceived notions. I discovered I was wrong.
I’ll start with a little timeline: my parents divorced when I was around 15, and we were living in Washington – the rainy and cloudy part. When I graduated High School (Go Peninsula Seahawks!), Mom, my brother Glenn, and I moved to Colorado. I remember the first year as one of blinding light as the Colorado sun seemed relentless through both winter and summer. I wondered, “Who can STAND this much sunlight? It’s insane.” Eventually, I settled in, became a Bronco fan, found meaning and fulfillment as I worked with high school students and established my own life. That was many years ago now, and since then lots of things have changed, lots of things I thought would happen did not – we did not start a church I thought we were going to, I did not meet a man and get married in my twenties, and I did not wake up one morning and sense a specific direction in which I was to go once these things did not happen.
When I made the decision to move, what I didn’t know was that Colorado was truly my home. In fact, when I drove away, without my knowledge, I thought I would not ever come back to live. That was my preconceived notion, and I didn’t realize it until these past few months. I had thought of Colorado as the place my mom had moved us to; not the place I had chosen to live. I’ve heard it plenty of times, the line attributed to John Lennon, “Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans,” but it has new meaning for me now.
After 24 years of living in Colorado*, at every turn here in NY, I respond like a Coloradoan, with Western sensibilities, communication, style, and heart. I now long for the Colorado sun. Daily. Bring on the snow at Halloween and January days when I can ride my bike to work. It’s a happy realization and also one that feels hard as it begs the question: What do I do now?
My friend Hicks framed it well for me as I was struggling to determine if I had made a bad decision in moving or if I decided to move back, would that be a bad decision? After discussing my emotional and spiritual growth this past year, he said, “Well then it sounds to me like you needed an adventure.” Yes! So simple. No judgment or need to torture myself with endless questions. And I’ve had wonderful times here with new friends, old friends, visiting Dad who is just down the coast in N.C., soaking up an unimaginably beautiful day at the Jersey Shore, and spending time exploring a new place. Too see it as Hicks describes, is an invitation to take this for what it is right now, an adventure in which I can still turn up my palms and say, “I don’t know what will happen,” and be okay with that.
I would also now add, “Life is too short to let fear get in the way of living it.”
*If you’re thinking something along the lines of, “She didn’t realize Colorado was her home after 24 years – that doesn’t make any sense!” I understand. I might think the same thing if someone else was telling this story.
This being my sabbath – a day of rest, contemplation, and delight – I turned off my phone, put on a blanket against this winter chill (snow still lies in feet-high mounds all around the city), and experienced Into Great Silence. I read that the film was “one of the most mesmerizing and poetic chronicles of spirituality ever created, [dissolving] the border between screen and audience with a total immersion into the hush of monastic life.” It has quieted me today – stilled something in my heart for the moment, which makes me more able to think clearly.
When I told people I was moving, I was often asked, “What’s going to happen out there? Will you find a job? What will become of you in this economy?” I answered as truthfully as I could, usually turning my hands, palms up, toward the sky, “I don’t know what will happen.” I’m sure I also responded with what I hoped would happen – maybe that I would meet new people, be fine, take care of myself, try to trust God more, do yoga…a couple of friends and I talked about the possibility of meeting a man who I would one day marry. But I felt mostly like: I don’t know what’s going to happen. In fact, although I knew it couldn’t totally be true, I honestly thought I didn’t have any preconceived notions. I discovered I was wrong.
I’ll start with a little timeline: my parents divorced when I was around 15, and we were living in Washington – the rainy and cloudy part. When I graduated High School (Go Peninsula Seahawks!), Mom, my brother Glenn, and I moved to Colorado. I remember the first year as one of blinding light as the Colorado sun seemed relentless through both winter and summer. I wondered, “Who can STAND this much sunlight? It’s insane.” Eventually, I settled in, became a Bronco fan, found meaning and fulfillment as I worked with high school students and established my own life. That was many years ago now, and since then lots of things have changed, lots of things I thought would happen did not – we did not start a church I thought we were going to, I did not meet a man and get married in my twenties, and I did not wake up one morning and sense a specific direction in which I was to go once these things did not happen.
When I made the decision to move, what I didn’t know was that Colorado was truly my home. In fact, when I drove away, without my knowledge, I thought I would not ever come back to live. That was my preconceived notion, and I didn’t realize it until these past few months. I had thought of Colorado as the place my mom had moved us to; not the place I had chosen to live. I’ve heard it plenty of times, the line attributed to John Lennon, “Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans,” but it has new meaning for me now.
After 24 years of living in Colorado*, at every turn here in NY, I respond like a Coloradoan, with Western sensibilities, communication, style, and heart. I now long for the Colorado sun. Daily. Bring on the snow at Halloween and January days when I can ride my bike to work. It’s a happy realization and also one that feels hard as it begs the question: What do I do now?
My friend Hicks framed it well for me as I was struggling to determine if I had made a bad decision in moving or if I decided to move back, would that be a bad decision? After discussing my emotional and spiritual growth this past year, he said, “Well then it sounds to me like you needed an adventure.” Yes! So simple. No judgment or need to torture myself with endless questions. And I’ve had wonderful times here with new friends, old friends, visiting Dad who is just down the coast in N.C., soaking up an unimaginably beautiful day at the Jersey Shore, and spending time exploring a new place. Too see it as Hicks describes, is an invitation to take this for what it is right now, an adventure in which I can still turn up my palms and say, “I don’t know what will happen,” and be okay with that.
I would also now add, “Life is too short to let fear get in the way of living it.”
always with love, gfaith
*If you’re thinking something along the lines of, “She didn’t realize Colorado was her home after 24 years – that doesn’t make any sense!” I understand. I might think the same thing if someone else was telling this story.
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