I nearly came unhinged in contemplative spirituality last week.
There I was at the Central library, tucked away in Religion, searching for a book on daily meditative practices. I’d listened to an interview with the author and was captivated by the short snippets she read from a few chapters, little hints on inviting a greater experience of stillness and peace into daily life. I hunched myself over in the stacks, ran my finger across the dusty spines, and tried to read the ISBN stickers sideways with my tri-focals in bad lighting. I could not find the book, despite the e-librarian telling me it was available. Knowing that I, on occasion, have put a book back on the shelf where it did not belong, I scanned a few shelves to the right and the left, above and below, just in case. Nothing. Waste of time. Stupid library. Where for the love of all that's holy was that book about inner peace?!
I felt my jaw clench, my heart rate intensify, my lips curl into a pout. And I don’t know, something about the scene just seemed a little, well, off.
Reminding myself that misbehaving characters are sometimes escorted from library grounds, I pulled it together. I stepped away from my inner-tantrum for a second, formed a little cartoon bubble above my head and scribbled in this caption: “is it possible that you might have a little something else on your mind?”
I visited a friend over the weekend. She’s older, I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate that adjective, let’s just say she’s had her AARP membership card tucked into her wallet for around, oh, twenty years. I mention her age because this is a woman who has been through some trying experiences, survived her share of ordeals. She can be a tough cookie. We were getting ready to go outside for a bit to enjoy the springtime evening. She was buttoning up the house, when she accidentally caught her finger in the sliding glass door. I didn’t see it happen, I just heard the yelp. She held out her hand, told me she’d smashed her finger and burst into tears. I grabbed an ice-pack from her freezer (trying at the same time to remember from high school first-aid if crushed fingers want ice or heat). I handed her the ice-pack as she sat on her couch, now sobbing inconsolably. Her finger was hurt, to be sure. I offered what sympathy I could. But these tears seemed way out of proportion to the injury. And I wondered if maybe she’d been storing up these tears for a much-needed cry and, thanks to the quick action of the door runners, she finally had her opportunity. I wanted to ask, “is it possible that you might have a little something else on your mind?”
There are moments when we long for clarity, to know what’s really going on underneath the tantrums, the tears, the guardedness, the aches. We suspect that clarity is in there somewhere, we’re just buried beneath heaps of anxiety and fret and rigidity like a hoarder trapped among the piles of old newspapers, empty pizza boxes, chipped trinkets and unsorted laundry. The path between head and heart is so strewn with every concern we’ve collected and clung to, it’s hard to see clearly.
I wish it was like Oil Can Henry’s. It’s an oil change and a movie at the same time. While I’m getting filters changed and transmission fluid drained, I’m also watching the fellas underneath the car on the Henry-Cam poke around and check for leaks, for weaknesses, for bare spots, for any signs of trouble.
When my heart feels weak and troubled, I’d love to know what’s going on underneath.
When my youngest niece was in the 3rd grade, maybe 4th, I was visiting for the weekend when she got the news that her best friend would be attending a different school. She ran from the room and buried her head in a pillow, and cried the way only a little girl can cry. I left her alone for a few minutes, and then went to sit by her. I asked her if she wanted to tell me about it. She looked up from her pillow and with hot tears streaming down her red cheeks she wailed, “now who am I gonna eat lunch with?”
Ah, sweet clarity. To know what the trouble is, to say what the trouble is.
A few weeks back, my priest asked us to tell the Easter story in six words or less. She’d gotten this idea from a radio broadcast, and asked us to pare the story down to its core, to what was essential about it for us individually. Many people offered their six-word sermons and it was beautiful to hear what each person claimed as their meaningful truth.
The story of the risen Jesus encountering Mary Magdalene in the garden has always been a favorite scene for me. It reads very genteel, but in my head I hear Jesus quietly asking, “Mary, Mary, why are you crying?”, and Mary, a frantic, blubbering mess, all sobs and rage and fear, catches her breath and cries out: “they took my Lord and I don’t know where to find him!” Sweet clarity.
My six word sermon: “Kathy, Kathy, why are you crying?” “Kathy, Kathy, why are you having a melt-down in contemplative spirituality?” “Because, because, well, um, because...”
There’s a TV show from years back that I loved watching, a show about a single mom living with her mother while raising a child of her own. The little girl was precocious, inquisitive, perhaps a little bossy, and never at a loss for words. In one episode, after telling her mom and her grandma exactly what was on her 8 year-old mind, the grandmother turned to her and said “you know Lauren, you don’t need to actually speak every single thought that comes into your head”. The little girl seemed crushed, like someone had just sold her puppy.
But maybe speaking every thought that comes into our heads is just what we need to do once in a while (time and place of course, avoiding the Central Library religion section).
“I'm not gonna make it if I don't get some help"
“I feel really sad all the time”
“Who am I gonna eat lunch with?”
“They’ve taken my Lord and I don’t know where to find him”
To know what the trouble is, to say what the trouble is.
After Mary Magdalene bared her soul to the man she mistook for the gardener, Jesus looked at her and simply said, “Mary.” In that moment, she was led through the clutter of her fear, her confusion, her deep sorrow. We speak our truth to the one who loves us best, we see a little more clearly, and we find ourselves named and known. Sweet clarity.
