intermittency

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. 

where's the back yard?

life in africa is lived out loud. and outside. and communally outside. so for those of us who are extroverts that require at least an hour a day of uninterrupted (and with out the potential of being interrupted) alone time - this part of living in africa is hard. it might even be the hardest part.

people brush their teeth outside, people pee outside- right on the roadside-not in the bushes, people stop by unannounced often, someone sidled up and asked if he could join us for dinner while we were at a nice restaurant celebrating mikes birthday- (what? no! we don't even know you- there is candlelight!) but i think in tribal culture- boundaries (if they exist) are very different.  communal life, is, communal.  if you want to be alone, why are you at a restaurant?  but stepping into this world from our super individualistic and highly boundaried culture, can feel cramped, over exposed, too public, and has left me searching for that 'space' or that 'place' where i can not see anyone or hear anyone for an hour.

i know, what does this have to do with my new found decreased expectations? not much i realize but it's important to acknowledge what our needs are, and then align them with our expectations.  i know, i have little kids so i shouldn't even expect to go to the bathroom alone for 5 minutes- how dare i ask for an hour!

but.  in atlanta, before i lowered my expectations and my kids were even younger- i some how found this desperately needed hour.  and the secret might be... a back yard.  at five o'clock i retreated, put myself in grown up time-out, and sat out on the back porch, rain or shine, winter or summer, over looking the back yard.  in the back, people don't know you are there and, it's quiet. it was the one hour my kids were allowed to watch TV, the hour before the dinner routine started, before mike got home.  it was mine.  even if i was interrupted, there was something about it that was internally quiet and peaceful and still.

i love living in cities.  boston, cambridge, and san francisco, were fabulous.  i love to watch people and i enjoyed the constant motion and even the noise and the bustle, so what am i complaining about? how does my need to be alone jive with city life? because it's just different.  in the city it's anonymous bustle and motion.  you're not responsible for or to the noise, it's background noise, not noise that requires attention.  the people walking by are strangers- strangers who would never invite themselves to your dinner date with your husband-there is no interaction. 

today, i looked around and wondered about where, and when and how, i can meet this need for internal quiet in an externally loud place. in a season of little people with needs, in a culture where house help abounds, and gardeners rake the yard outside your bedroom window (and i mean like 3 feet away) at 6am on the weekend or mow the lawn at 7pm during dinner, in a place where all windows are screened and not shutable, and where there is no back yard? 

i began to wonder if there is something wrong with me?  am i selfish in needing space? am i becoming anti-social? are my expectations in this area way too high?  but then i remembered that even Jesus required solitude. He retreated to a quiet place alone sometimes, He needed to regroup, time alone, stillness.

so i think it's okay to have this need- but i will have to tweak it.   have to find it in snippets, maybe not 60 minutes.  or i might have to go elsewhere to find it- up the big hill outside- or in town at a coffee shop once a week. it will become an adventure- the seeking of place and space for stillness.  because i don't have a back yard, and even if i did, this is africa.

the sabbath of life

the nile is a powerful river and the light on it is amazing.  there are parts where it is still, so still like glass and then immediate turbulence- rapids, white water.  we are at the juncture, where still part meets the crazy.  i can hear the constant 'shshshshshchchchchch' from it's mouth, it never stops, it just keeps going. it's like being near the ocean, you can feel your smallness, and the constancy of the moving world around us.  it helps me remember my place in the world.  one piece. one small piece.

the sun set and birds and bats came out- and 41 began with lots of relaxing.

and good food and then lots of bugs. and a favorite Christmas movie, (love actually).
then today we had a delicious breakfast, with the "shschchchch" of the river in front of us and a lot of conversation.

and we talked about the sabbath of our life.  the seasons of rest and patience.
this came up because we are very different.

we have a different idea of when rest is needed and for how long.

i'm the fast twitch muscle - he's the slow.  i run hot, but can burn out quick, he's slow to start, but paces himself. this makes for a good combination, but often a long conversation.  we balance each other. but i have the easier job.  i'm the inspiration, he's the perspiration.  i usually dream it, he reigns it in.  i run headlong into something, he tells me to wait. 

we've learned over these years- that both parts are needed, and both parts are in each of us, but we default to our more comfortable zones.  mine is 'go' - his is 'wait'.  but today he talked about the importance of the sabbath- not in a 'sit-still-and-don't-do-work-because-it's-sunday' way, but the importance of having seasons in life, of rest.  collectively, he and i aren't very good at that.  culturally, americans aren't very good at that.  but i agree that it's important.  it's what i mean when i talk about my endless search for stillness.

i looked out over the nile, this immense, ancient river who touches 10 african countries as she flows north. 

this river who gave life to early people with her fertile banks, who is used today for energy and food, and bathing and washing, and sports and fun, and pure beauty.

i thought about the loud rushing rapids and the soft, glass-like stillness and how their contrast was moving and real and necessary.

this year, i want to be like this river.  i want to have seasons of quiet rest and stillness, followed by crazy churning motion.  and then retreat into the seasons of rest again, the seasons of sabbath.

the park and the red sea

it's 70 degrees outside.  sunny.  GORGEOUS.  this is when the south rocks.  you can get a weekend like this in january.  i feel a little bad for the sleeping plants and trees who are being woken up too early- but for the rest of us- it's a beautiful thing!

the park playground is a great place.  it's kind of like a neighborhood for people who don't have neighborhood kids to play with.  its' a different culture than school.  kids are thrown together- different ages and different streets or sections of town- different schools- different challenges and strengths.  and at the playground, labels that might follow you during the school week, are gone. you are not 'the quiet kid', or the kindergartner, or the kid whose in special education.  you're the kid who likes the play star wars- or who has a dog to be petted. i love this experiment in social interaction.  i love watching my kids find there way in it- and just being the backdrop- the haven- and then finding some adults to talk with.

zoe is honestly a playground pro.  she can work the scene like no one else.  she is bold in her introduction- she is fearless and determined. she doesn't need me at all.  she can let rejection roll off her back and move on.  and that's what's great about the park- there is always another kid.

today we went because we had to be outside- for every minute the sun was shining- because it would be a crime to not be outside in this luxury.  we packed a picnic lunch and went for 2 hours.  i even brought the dog- which i never do. everyone was thrilled.  this particular park is perfect for kids my kids ages.  there are swings, a lot of playground equipment, and woods and hills and a stream- something for everyone.  we ate first and then they were off.  zoe ended up playing with a bunch of 7-9 year old girls for hours.  there was no drama.  no sadness.  no stickiness.  even around the monkey bars.  jude and bryn found a 10 year old boy who liked star wars and seemed to me to be a bit on the 'special' side, and they played with him for hours.  it was all the beauty of public shared space, of organic community.

when we left- everyone was in a better mood.  they had run out their energy on the hills and fought battles that needed to be fought with sticks.  they had found their conversations and shared their stories and been who they needed to be for the afternoon.  they'd made new friends- friends they planned to meet up with again. it's the beauty of life in all it's childhood purity.

for me- it's a lesson in letting go. see, i still have the mild urge to check in - to 'save' zoe- to hover-to intervene- to help navigate, but i don't.  i practice resistance.  i let her sink or swim. i remind myself that she is her own, that she must do this with out me. that if she gets horribly upset and melts down and does the wiggly voice and covers her ears and screams and goes running away down the street- that it's OK.  that it will be OK and that i'll be OK.  but that doesn't happen on the playground- only in my mind each time we're there. no.  she amazes me- and each time, i'm a little more comfortable, a little less on edge, a little better at letting go.

for me-it's about allowing the process to run.  it's about being alright with 'different'- it's about accepting my identity for what it is.  a mom of a non-typical, playground pro, lovely, engaging, delightfully different kid.  so i think i learn more at the playground then they do.

today in church the sermon was on the crossing of the red sea.  the israelites had just left the egyptians- just left a life of slavery and had followed moses, led by God, into the dessert.  and now they were trapped between the encroaching egyptian army and this giant body of water and they were really mad.  the situation stunk and they were mad at moses and at God and actually wished they'd just stayed in egypt as slaves.  they did what i do all the time.  felt the fear and got mad.  lacked the faith and wanted to run back to slavery.  because known pain is often better than the scariness of the unknown.  and God tells moses to tell them to be still.

there it is again.  stillness.

but once they are still.  quiet.  not freaking out.  he tells them to move.

he opens up the sea- he allows passage to safety.  he leads them closer- to the promised land.

lessons in faith. lessons in patience.  lessons in stillness.  lessons in obedience.

the result is provision.  non abandonment.  safety.  growth.  lessons learned.  awe.

for me- i'm always trying to run back to the painful but known.  i'm always finding a giant sea in front of me to throw me into doubt and fear. i'm always struggling with trusting.  i'm often feeling trapped and forget whose leading me.

so i love these days of remembering- these days of seeing the fruition.  of seeing the promise.
these days when stillness happens- and crossing is possible- and there is a moment of awe- and i feel the grace.