tomorrow is our one year anniversary of living in uganda. we spent the weekend at the hairy lemon with our community- our neighbors and friends- the people who we mostly live life with, and it was great. this time we camped, this time zoe went down the rapids 'accidentally' with out a boat, this time we stayed two nights- but as usual, it was so incredibly relaxing.
there is an absence of the things that distract us, and the presence of things that draw us close. there is no phone service, no internet, no lights, no tv; instead is the constant sound of the rushing nile river, the hard, short, noon rains, roosters and birds, and the great full night sky- the smudge of the milky way- an arm of our galaxy.
stillness was easy to find, even with the chaos of 10 children, tents, constantly missing crocs, wet swim suits and the pull of the current on small bodies. we read and talked and played american football and cards. it felt together, but also with time to be alone.
i was reading my book, gift from the sea, which i'm purposely reading slowly and fully treasuring. the book by anne morrow lindbergh was written in the '60's, but is timeless. she writes from a solitary beach retreat, where she reflects on the things that make up our life- our inner and outer worlds- and how those things connect or don't. she uses the things she finds in the sand- the shells, or the tide, or the beach itself to reflect on her relationships- on all the parts of her life. being a writer, a mother, a wife, an adventurer, a searcher of inner things.
the chapter i was reading was about love and ultimate connection. that ideally, real, true love is two complete people coming together and giving themselves to each other- not two halves- making a whole, two wholes giving fully to the other. it is not the jerry mcguire "you complete me", it's not the idea of 'together we are one'- it's that we've done our work- we've explored our life and ourselves- we've reached and found our jungian animus and anima selves, and now complete- we are in a place to fully give. we become (and she quotes rilke) "world to oneself for another's sake." it's not that we are ever fully complete, but at least we are each on the path of discovery- not grabbing at each other to get our needs met. she, leaning heavily on rilke, writes about accepting our inability to ever completely share in someone elses experience- but in that accepting, we can even embrace and love the inevitable distance - to see the other person 'whole and against a wide sky'.
we are in the middle of our life. our selves are tethered by so many things- mostly the things we love. we as partners, as parents, as workers, we are busy and life takes up our life. we wonder sometimes if we are complete? if we complete each other? we hold on to things- we fear- the life in our head, our spirit, gets swallowed by our days.
there is a word- intermittency- occurring at irregular intervals- that is essential to our lives. i love remembering this. how i long for permanence- of place- of being- of intimacy- of certain seasons. but. this is not real. the things in our life that mean the most are inherently intermittent. we have moments- of depth- or solitude- or perfection. moments of, well, bliss. when the sky is blue and grey- but hidden behind the clouds is a screaming orange sun. when we look into the eyes of the one we've loved for so long and we see that look that freezes time. when our child tells us that we are his world. when no one talks in the car for an hour and you needed that hour of silence. when a song sings just for you.
all of our life- all of our moments- the mundane and the dull and the monotous- they are all valid. but so is the passion. so are the times when we are in community, looking at the milky way, playing football at sunset. so are the times when we are who we want to be for each other- and the times we see each other whole and against the great wide sheltering sky.
there is an absence of the things that distract us, and the presence of things that draw us close. there is no phone service, no internet, no lights, no tv; instead is the constant sound of the rushing nile river, the hard, short, noon rains, roosters and birds, and the great full night sky- the smudge of the milky way- an arm of our galaxy.
stillness was easy to find, even with the chaos of 10 children, tents, constantly missing crocs, wet swim suits and the pull of the current on small bodies. we read and talked and played american football and cards. it felt together, but also with time to be alone.
i was reading my book, gift from the sea, which i'm purposely reading slowly and fully treasuring. the book by anne morrow lindbergh was written in the '60's, but is timeless. she writes from a solitary beach retreat, where she reflects on the things that make up our life- our inner and outer worlds- and how those things connect or don't. she uses the things she finds in the sand- the shells, or the tide, or the beach itself to reflect on her relationships- on all the parts of her life. being a writer, a mother, a wife, an adventurer, a searcher of inner things.
the chapter i was reading was about love and ultimate connection. that ideally, real, true love is two complete people coming together and giving themselves to each other- not two halves- making a whole, two wholes giving fully to the other. it is not the jerry mcguire "you complete me", it's not the idea of 'together we are one'- it's that we've done our work- we've explored our life and ourselves- we've reached and found our jungian animus and anima selves, and now complete- we are in a place to fully give. we become (and she quotes rilke) "world to oneself for another's sake." it's not that we are ever fully complete, but at least we are each on the path of discovery- not grabbing at each other to get our needs met. she, leaning heavily on rilke, writes about accepting our inability to ever completely share in someone elses experience- but in that accepting, we can even embrace and love the inevitable distance - to see the other person 'whole and against a wide sky'.
we are in the middle of our life. our selves are tethered by so many things- mostly the things we love. we as partners, as parents, as workers, we are busy and life takes up our life. we wonder sometimes if we are complete? if we complete each other? we hold on to things- we fear- the life in our head, our spirit, gets swallowed by our days.
there is a word- intermittency- occurring at irregular intervals- that is essential to our lives. i love remembering this. how i long for permanence- of place- of being- of intimacy- of certain seasons. but. this is not real. the things in our life that mean the most are inherently intermittent. we have moments- of depth- or solitude- or perfection. moments of, well, bliss. when the sky is blue and grey- but hidden behind the clouds is a screaming orange sun. when we look into the eyes of the one we've loved for so long and we see that look that freezes time. when our child tells us that we are his world. when no one talks in the car for an hour and you needed that hour of silence. when a song sings just for you.
all of our life- all of our moments- the mundane and the dull and the monotous- they are all valid. but so is the passion. so are the times when we are in community, looking at the milky way, playing football at sunset. so are the times when we are who we want to be for each other- and the times we see each other whole and against the great wide sheltering sky.
1 comment:
In a similar meditative vein, have you read Madeleine L'Engle's Crosswicks Journals? I think you might enjoy them. http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_10?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=crosswicks+journals&sprefix=crosswicks%2Caps%2C315
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