I wish.

I tell my friend that Chris is going on a work trip, to Budapest, my favourite city.

“Can’t you go with him?” she asks.

“I wish”, I reply.

*

I see the post on Facebook, the red brick, the blue sky, “Are you ready to walk through these gates yet? #Chq2017”.

I tag my friend Lynn.  I type 2 words: “I wish”.

*

My Auntie Po is in Australia.  I see her lovely photos – places I visited, places I lived, the faces of our family.

I like the photos, but also, I wish.

*

It’s fine to be a little wistful, of course.  A little dreamy and nostalgic.

But then there’s envy.  There’s discontent.  There’s sighing over your kitchen sink, sighing over your right-now-life.

*

Marian Vischer writes about learning to receive her own summer life.  I am learning this too.

‘Real life is not lived in highlight reel moments’, she says.  ‘When we receive those moments, they are worthy of celebrating. But the mundane moments matter too. And to begrudge them because everyone else seems to be living their best summer life now, well, it makes a mockery of our beautiful, ordinary lives.’

*

I have had some life-changing, memory-making summers, and I’m grateful.  I’ve been to some beautiful places, packed backpacks, talked under the moonlight.

But we’re memory-making now, I think, with welly boots and library cards and another trip to the same old park.

Here’s this beautiful, ordinary life and if I’m honest – when I sat by lakes, legs dangling off piers, talking all night long – wasn’t I a little wistful for this?  For a future that was still a bit blurry, a bit hard to imagine.

If you had shown me a snapshot, then, of pink rain suits and stick collections and Lego cities, of a house that smells of Apple Crisp and 2 girls that won’t come for dinner because they’re reading… I think I might have said… “I wish”.

 

Pockets Full of Paper

Sunday morning: my husband raises his eyebrow at the scraps of paper on the kitchen worktop. Short sentences scrawled in inky black pen, crumpled into balls, soon to be stuffed into the pockets of my jeans.

My Permission Slips.

My new favourite practice.

‘Permission’ is my word for 2017.

I need to give myself permission, most days, just to be myself, to rest in my God-breathed worth.

I need to give myself permission to have these particular limits and gifts and needs, to have this particular way of being in the world.

I need to give myself permission to have the thoughts and feelings that I do, to let them exist.

This is work for me, it’s kind of a fight.

I don’t want to function from a place of shame, or envy, or pretense.  I know the cost of that.  It’s not worth it.

Yet these are my defaults – to withdraw with embarrassment, to look over my shoulder, to declare it all ‘fine’, everything’s fine.

Brené Brown says we need to reckon with emotion rather than off-load it, and I have learnt (from her) to use permission slips to do this.  She says, “writing down permission becomes a powerful intention to stay aware.”

So I pause now, sometimes, before going out the door, and I scribble these notes.

Permission to be excited!

Permission to be nervous. 

Permission to tell the truth. 

Permission to not know what to say.

It is a simple practice, stuffing my pockets full of paper, but it gives me peace, and it gives me courage.

I use it a lot for the things that make me nervous, and I use it a lot for church, but you could use it for anything.

‘Be Kind to Yourself’ by Andrew Peterson plays every day in our house at the end of our morning playlist.

“How does it end when the war that you’re in is just you against you against you?” 

I uncap my pen, rip a piece of paper.

Maybe that war can end here – with pockets full of paper and permission, black uni-ball scribbles and authenticity, walking out the door with courage and peace.

 


Thanks to Gemma for doing the lovely graphic for this post.

# One Word 365

It’s odd that we start on 1st January and try to come up with our teachable moments. I can’t predict what life will teach me this year.’

[Erin Loechner]

“I thought your mornings are all nice and gentle?!” my husband texts me at 7.58am, in response to a text from me, declaring my intention to commit murder.

Gentle mornings.

He’s funny.

*

‘Morning’ was my one word for 2016.

I have been choosing a word for the past few years now.  Instead of making a list of resolutions that you forget, or fail at, you choose just one word.  The tagline for #OneWord365 is “Go where it takes you.  Be who it makes you.”

The words I have picked to guide me over the past few years have been Morning, Rhythm, Body and Home.

I have always picked words to help me focus on an area that I’m struggling with a bit, words to help me live more intentionally, words that encourage some improvement in my attitude or my time-keeping, in my habits, in how I spend my days.  Which is good.

I have a page in my bullet journal where I had been doodling contenders for 2017, all of them related, all worthy, none of them quite right.

*

Our mornings are not All Nice And Gentle.  But they are better than they used to be.

Mornings had been defeating me, on several levels, and #OneWord365 helped me invest a bit more in the start of my days.  I get up in time to have an hour to myself, more often than I used to.  A morning playlist has changed the atmosphere of our school mornings, apart form the odd morning, when I want to commit murder.  I also Read Aloud at breakfast.  It’s nerdy, but it works.

The school door has sometimes been a difficult threshold for my eldest daughter (and I) so I have picked up Lisa-Jo Baker’s reminder to part in love, not relief as my school-run mantra.  I needed it this morning.

*

As with previous words for the year, I will probably always pay a little more attention to my mornings now, picking up any tips and wisdom that I come across.  The other day I heard someone say that the problem with the ‘morning voice’ (the one that pipes up at 3am when we get up to pee) is that it gets us when we’re not ready for it.  So true. So helpful, somehow, to have someone draw attention to it.

This year, though, I have been doodling through January, circling around words that weren’t quite right.  Having too many ideas, to be honest.

Then I listened to an episode of the Simple Show about goals and non-goals.  Erin Loechner likes to celebrate, and centre herself, around her non-goals in January.  She describes these as the things she has fought to love and accept about herself (like her introversion).  When other people are setting goals and trying new things, she reminds herself about the things in her life that are now a given.  When she finds herself looking over her shoulder and thinking she needs to try something that worked for someone else – if it doesn’t match the things she has fought hard to keep about herself – then she knows she doesn’t need to.

I said ‘YES’ to all of this in my kitchen and as I listened I found a word emerging for 2017:

Permission.

This word is more of a grounding, than a guide.

It’s about holding on to important things that I am so quick to drop.  It’s about being myself.  (Isn’t it always?).  It’s about listening to the still small voice instead of the fire and the wind.  It’s about non-goals.

I’ll write more about it soon.

 


 

I follow Tsh on Spotify and use her Schoolhouse playlist in the mornings.  She writes about how she uses music in her house here.

 

 

This is the morning

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This is the morning after the night the clocks went back and it stretches long before us. We are up at the same time as usual, the girls and I, but it feels like we’re early risers, the clock says so.

This is the morning my husband rejoices that Sunday is his lie-in day.

This is the morning I find Liv banging around in the dark in her room, Cat in the Hat outfit half on. It’s GB Sunday, but that’s not on her radar. If she could wear her tail and top hat to church she would.

This is the morning Imogen propositions me the same way she does every morning: “Dance with me Mumma?”. This is the morning that there’s time. This is the morning they shake their butts to the radio in the kitchen, the morning I make a mental note (again) that we should stop saying ‘butts’.

This is the morning I strain to hear Sunday Sequence as they discuss the evangelical support (or not) for Donald Trump. This is the penultimate Sunday before the election. Morning after morning I have expected to wake up to the news that he is no longer a candidate, how could he be? By this morning I have stopped expecting to hear that.

This is a morning that tastes like my childhood: Shredded Wheat with hot milk.  It’s a morning I make myself a small coffee ten minutes before church, just like my dad always did.  (Like he still does).

This is a warm morning for the end of October – the sky blue, the trees on fire.

This is the morning after the night I read ‘Out of Sorts’ for longer than I meant to (read it like a novel) and it’s still swirling round in my head.  This is the morning I sit on a wooden pew with Sarah Bessey’s words : “I don’t want to choose between the people who first showed me Jesus and the people who made sure I got to hold on to Jesus and the ones that keep me even now.”  I wonder why those words, what have they got to do with anything?  They seem to have something to do with all the mornings, all the Sundays… something to do with legacy and heritage and faith and doubt and wilderness and home.

This is the morning I feel like maybe it all holds together, that I can be thankful for it all.

 

Morning (small beginnings)

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The mornings are dark now and there is nowhere like a quiet kitchen lit up at this hour, when everyone else is sleeping.

There is nowhere like it yet, more often than not, I would trade my very soul to stay in bed. I whittle away this hour, ten minutes at a time, with every hit of the snooze button.  Always convinced it’s worth the trade off.

When I chose morning as my word for the year, maybe I imagined myself productive.  I thought I might have jobs done, essays written.

What I have, is a morning basket.  It has colouring pencils and colouring books.  It has my Common Book of Prayer.  It has my bullet journal.  Right now it has a Georgia O’Keeffe postcard that my friend Cherith gave me.  It has my heart bowl, which I set on the kitchen table beside the postcard.  Sometimes it has other books, or pictures, or quotes from my bedroom.

I have two problems with the morning.  One: I don’t want to get out of bed.  Two: when I do get out of bed, I want to do Everything.  It is easy (for me) to be lazy.  And it is easy (for me) to try to do too much, and to try to run on empty.  It is harder by far to just be awake and present to my life.

It is hard to just colour in.  It is hard to read liturgies before I read Facebook. It is hard to feed myself properly instead of quickly.  It is hard to Be Still, with my fists unclenched, like I believe in the holy spirit, like it’s the way to start my day, like it will make any difference.

It is hard to begin without feeling like we’re already behind, without panicking that already “it’s not enough”, without listening to ridiculous voices in our heads.

“Do not despise these small beginnings”, Zechariah 4:10 says, “for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.”.

Those words are too long for a tattoo, but I need to etch them somewhere.

The mornings are dark now, and just being here in my quiet kitchen is a small beginning.  A cause to rejoice.

 

Are you free on Thursday night? Thoughts on Introversion.

There’s a few things the internet doesn’t need any more of.  Open letters, for example. Elsa pictures.

There’s something about saturation that can make us weary, or even angry.  Something that once was cute, or original, or important starts to make us twitch the more we see it.  I have read some brilliant open letters in the past, but these days I fear it’s only a matter of time before I turn on my computer and see “Dear woman with the curly hair driving the scratched Fiesta…”.

And there’s something about enthusiasm, evangelical fervour, popularity even, that can be curiously off-putting.  We feel like giving up faith, say, or breastfeeding, in reaction to the intensity of those who share our practice.

One of my favourite topics of conversation is personality types and tests like Myers-Briggs and the Enneagram, and particularly Introversion.  Understanding myself as an introvert has, and is, one of the most important factors in how I live my life.

But when a friend texted me recently saying: “I think I’ll become an introvert, they’re taking over the world”, I started to wonder, is one more post about introversion the last thing the internet needs?  Have we got Introvert-fatigue?

*

Back in the day, I read about introversion like it was some big secret.  Back when Philip Yancey books were steadying my soul in the garden, one of the reasons I felt this weird commonality with him was in the way he wrote about his personality, his slowness, his thought-process.  He was the only person I ever read who was writing about being an introvert and I thought me too, me too.

My ears picked up any time I heard it being discussed.

Even 4 years ago Susan Cain’s TED talk, and subsequently her book, healed and inspired me so much because it wasn’t being talked about.

*

When my mind is healthy I know that my gifting, my truest parts, my best offerings all come from being an introvert – from slow, well-brewed thoughts and feelings, from paying attention.

But on a daily basis that mind gets frazzled and rushed and the thing it notices is people around me doing life faster and smoother and smarter, and I feel less-than.

When my soul is healthy I know that it needs stillness, time, good books, prayer and rest to stay that way.  Yet when I hear those words “Are you free on Thursday night?” something in me still believes that the only acceptable no is the ‘Busy No’… No because I’m at an Event, No because I’m meeting someone else, No because I’m doing some kind of work.

I need those introvert articles and memes and comic strips to simply remind me that I am a person who recharges by being alone, and that I am not the only one, and that I do not have to go anywhere on Thursday night.

image(Source: Quiet Revolution)

I’ll be honest, because I’m an introvert, the text my friend sent “recently” was actually about a year ago.  This post has sat, unfinished, for a long time.  I would read it, now and again, and wonder what my point was.  Since then I have been doing the work with Brené Brown, I have started seeing a Spiritual Director and I have become a bit of an Enneagram-geek (that is a whole other post!).  These things are adding depth and dimension (and even discomfort) to my understanding of shame, true self and the things that get in the way.

I have also come to understand that it is not just introverts who feel the pressure of the “acceptable no”, or whose lives are damaged by too much hustle.  Gemma’s  lovely Ode to Margin resonates with most of us, I imagine.

So I do not celebrate my introversion over your extroversion.  Thursday nights are for solitude and conversation, pottering and dancing, saying yes and saying no.  I do not click on all the introvert articles anymore (I probably get sent a few too many ‘saw this and thought of you’ ones, these days).  But, regularly, I just need a reminder, you know?

 

 


Some of my Introvert Favourites

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking
by Susan Cain

Susan Cain TED talk

Introverts in the Church: Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture
by Adam S. McHugh

Can Introverts Be Part of the Revolution? by Addie Zierman

Why Slowing Down Your Kid’s Schedule Can Be A Good Thing by Brian Gresko

2016: That Morning Cuppa

‘The hour before the world gets to you is precious and sacred time.’

[Anne Lamott]

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It’s February and the waves are crashing right outside my window, right outside my three windows.  The house is quiet and the sea is loud.  Now and again a train passes over the narrow track.  The rugged beach is dotted with dog walkers in anoraks, an occasional horse.

I had my breakfast in the huge bay window downstairs – porridge with berries, chocolate brioche, Brené Brown, tea.  I had my breakfast while the rest of the house slept.  The sea was loud but it let me be.

*

On my first night at the writers’ retreat I had my supper, filled my hot water bottle and went to bed.  I thought about sitting up, by the cosy fire, with this interesting group of people, all here by the sea to write.  Where else would I meet them?

Fear of missing out thrummed its familiar beat.  A glass of wine and fireside conversation with interesting strangers sounds like a life I used to have.  Sounds like something motherhood should be making me crave.  Don’t I?

I do want those things.  But I want my morning more

*

I am here for 3 nights as a Christmas present.  My husband knows that in this season of life the greatest gift he can give me is Time (especially time with wild sea and a desk to write at).

downhill

I feel like Time & I have been locked in battle ever since I became a mum.  I write lists and confab with my husband, trying to figure out how to fit it all in.  I scratch things off the list or designate them a particular slot, I swap things around.  We try to prioritise.  Which things are obligatory?  Which things are necessary?  Which things are not?  We try to name the things we love, the things we want to make time for.  I write more lists and scratch more things off.  We try to work out how to give each other ‘time’.

Last year I chose Rhythm as my word for the year and  I noticed that I am addicted to the elusive ideal of ‘getting everything done first’, and it is filling my days with stress.  I keep chasing this daily rhythm where the rest comes at the end.  In some seasons, and contexts, this can be a healthy pattern, but not in motherhood.  I seem to have developed an “inner bookie” where I am constantly calculating the odds of a restful evening as I go through the day.  I  do more to try to boost the odds.  I count desperately on something rather uncertain – my girls having a smooth, on-time bedtime.  I put too much pressure on things I can’t control.   It’s exhausting and it doesn’t work, the payoff never comes.  The tattoo on my foot says “Be Still” but I seem to have scheduled even stillness – only when the house is still, only when the dishes are done.  So what I get, if I get it, is the left overs.  Whatever time is left, whatever energy is left.

There is a phrase that has been rattling round my head since I read it recently in ‘Simplicity Parenting’, it is about establishing islands of “being” in the torrent of constant doing.  The book says that to have moments of calm – creative or restful – is a form of deep sustenance for human beings of all ages.  I am trying to establish this for my girls, but I am trying to establish it for myself, too.  “Islands of being”, I mutter to myself like a crazy person, “islands of being!”.

Virginia Woolf said every woman needs a room of her own. I don’t have that… but I do have an hour of my own and it’s glorious.

[Glennon Doyle Melton]

As I continue to seek rhythm in 2016, my word for this year is ‘Morning.’  I want to choose this island of being, this hour of my own, at the start of the day, instead of frantically chasing it all day.  I know I’m a morning person, I don’t know why I stubbornly put so much stock in the evening.  I am also a person that needs a little solitude and I have realised that if I don’t choose it first thing, then I spend all day resenting how impossible it is to get.

So here’s to moments of calm.

Here’s to choosing the sustenance we need.

Here’s to precious, sacred time…

…and here’s to that morning cuppa.

 

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What about you? Any words for the year? Are mornings or evenings your sacred time?