A Little of What Is In Front of Me

Seminary ~ it seems like a dream.  It's so odd; it feels as if I've dropped back into my old life after some time away, except that of course it isn't my old life anymore.  Everything is encircled by, encased in, enveloped in the loss of Josh.  I keep feeling that I should be able to fix that, but apparently I can't.  

For the last three years, two of them under the weight of this terrible gone-ness of my child, I have been focused on preparation for ministry.  And for the last eighteen consecutive months (since I took summer Hebrew, there was only a short break last August), I have concentrated intently upon the academic dimension of that preparation.  Classes and meetings to attend,  stacks of reading to complete and papers to write, constant deadlines.  Hours and hours of driving back and forth between Cleveland and Pittsburgh.  Field ed sermons and classes and worship services to prepare.  More deadlines.

Suddenly it's all over, and I have no place in particular to be, no moment a few days away by which three different things must be done.  And no real prospects for that changing anytime soon.

This is, apparently, a time in which to be open to . . .  whatever.  Just do a little of what's in front of you ~ that's what I sense I'm being called to.  Clear off and organize the materials on a table or counter.  Chose a paint color for the guest bedroom.  Write some more thank you notes.  Sort out and give away clothing.  Take long walks.  Listen to the silence.  Try to be open to what's next.

It's disconcerting.  One of my classmates is being ordained in a few weeks.  Others are still working in churches where they have been for months or years, or leading summer mission trips, or . . .  something.  They are active, serving God and others, as they await ordination exam re-takes or the fruition of the search process. 

And it seems that I am called to . . .  go downstairs and go through the piles of books and papers stacked in the sunroom.  

I suppose there's a sermon in there somewhere.  Or, and perhaps more importantly, a prayer.  Time to watch and listen.

The Spiritual Task of Household Composition ~ 2

You thought I had forgotten all about it, didn't you?

The truth is: I am at a complete loss.

I am lying on the wicker loveseat in the library, looking at the shelves and shelves and shelves of books and realizing that I need to think, first, about what my priorities in reading, collecting, and saving are.  A lot of my photography materials are in here, along with a lot of but by no means all of our books.

I think one priority might be access.  Which means, God help me, organization.  I mean, it would be nice to go in search of a book and be able to find it within a couple of minutes.  As opposed to concluding that the only solution is to go to Borders and buy another copy.

Another might be a sense of space, peace, and beauty.  Which is to say that not every square inch needs to be jammed with printed material.  Some of these shelves should be reserved for pottery and photos.  Apparently some pillars and sculptures would be good as well.

A third priority might be a cat.  Actually, that would be my first, but it is a matter of some contention here.

Look at that!  Stained glass of a cat in a library!  And look at how magically things fall into place in the presence of feline oversight!

The fact that this is my third blog post in less than 12 hours should be some indication of just how overwhelmed and unmotivated I am by the messy material world I inhabit.

The Spiritual Practice of Household Composition - 1

Just for fun: Jot down five places you've lived in your life. Anyplace, including a dorm room, counts. Do it quickly. Now write down your favorite thing about each place. See any commonalities? Any reflections in what they mean?

Observation: I did this the other night and included my childhood home, a college dorm room, and three apartments. What jumped out? That my favorite thing about four of the five was windows: big, wall-spanning windows. Some looked out onto hills and woods and water, and some onto city streets, but all of them were big and let sunlight pour into the indoors.

Reality: I have never paid the slightest attention to "window treatments." Actually, we have almost none. When we moved into this house, we had curtain panels on rods that covered the bottom halves of most of the windows, courtesy of the prior owners. Three children in three years ~ meaning that at one point their ages were five, five, and two ~ meant that said rods and curtains were quickly dismantled. And never replaced with anything. Some of the bedrooms have curtains, but not all.

Reflection: There are big windows across the front of our house, which faces sort of north. The best light in the house is the mellow yellow afternoon light that streams into the living and dining rooms from those windows. But there are big double-hung windows, lots of them, on all sides of the house. The views aren't much, but the light is wonderful.

The spiritual part: The windows and the light they offer are much more significant than I've been conscious of. What can I do, I wonder, to enhance and draw attention to the windows themselves, and to take better advantage of the light in terms of displaying artwork around the house? What might draw the windows and the light into the design of our interiors, so that the windows become integral aspects of the rooms rather then mere slots through which light is transferred?

*********

Why I Wake Early
by Mary Oliver

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who made the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
\and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even,
the miserable and the crotchety
– best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens to be
where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light
– good morning, good morning, good morning.
Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.

**********

That is not why I wake early. I wake early because I can't sleep more than a few hours at a stretch. But when I wake up, there is light. Or there will be, in another hour or two. And so: windows. I want to become aware of windows.

The Spiritual Practice of . . .

I don't even know what to call it. Organizing? Decluttering? Ordering? Composing? Orchestrating? Integrating? Streamlining? Engineering?

Yes, I've resorted to the thesaurus. So far I kind of like composing. It sounds like it's related to music, and photography ~ to any work of art. It sounds orderly and intentional. It sounds like . . . it sounds like not my house at all.

I know I've written about this before. In fact, I could probably celebrate my blogiversaries (just passed the sixth one a few weeks ago) by pulling up at least annual entries about figuring out the house. But this time (is there a 12-step program for this?) I have a new resolve and perhaps the time to carry it out.

Here's what's at issue:

A nearly 100-year-old three story house with the accumulated memories (I mean clutter) of 26 years of family life. Shelves and shelves and shelves (remember, we have a library with 34 of them, and they represent only the tip of the iceberg) of books. Enough piles and folders of papers to reforest the entire Pacific Northwest. Files and containers of negatives and prints and videos. Clothes in ~ ahem ~ a multitude of sizes and in styles that qualify for museum status. Children's art and school work. Camping and canoeing and backpacking gear. Several rooms that need painting. At least one ceiling that needs to be replaced -- if you could call a couple of slabs of drywall jammed in place as a temporary measure a decade ago a ceiling. And no money.

Here's what's a stake:

The desire to live with simplicity and beauty. The longing for home as a place of retreat. The wish for our to home reflect our interests and passions in a hospitable way.

I don't think this has a whole lot to do with cool containers or closet designs. I think is has to do with identity and priority and love.

OK, I should have been thinking this way 25 years ago but I wasn't, so let's let that one go.

Here's what I think now: We have maybe 20 years of vigorous health and energy left and the chances are pretty good that we'll spend them in this house. (Although if any of you have something on a beach somewhere that you want to give away, I'm quite willing to walk out the door without looking back.) We have certain priorities for those years and I, at least, would like to focus undistractedly on those, which means I would like our arrangement of furnishings and art and storage to reflect the things we care about and are engaged in. We have a group of wonderful friends and I'd like them to feel welcomed and comfortable when they come by.

And here's what I'm banking on (I know: silly, silly me):

A summer of unemployment - no, let's call that freedom. Something like 60 days in which I could make ordering our household my top and almost singular priority.

You know how you are supposed to prep the walls before you paint? And before the prep, you need a vision. Am I leaving the wall here or knocking it out? New windows (more knocking out)? Paint or paper? And then: the destruction and the re-plastering or rebuilding and the sanding and the cleaning and the base coat? Maybe you don't know all this if your house is more youthful than ours, but I am not youthful either, so the parallel works just fine.

I think that my prep work consists of imagining how life could be and how the house could look and function before I lift a finger. A lot of interior mental and emotional work before the physical task begins.

In the house, the destruction follows the acknowledgment that water damage has rendered the remains of a wall or ceiling no longer useful, and the re-construction involves getting it to a point where it can be made beautiful in a fresh and inviting way. Same for life and how it is reflected by the space it inhabits.

So, over the next month or so, while I am finishing papers and otherwise engaged in the end of my seminary experience, I am going to be doing a lot of inner excavation and dreaming as I prepare for the destructive (I mean cleansing) phase of:

The Spiritual Practice of Household Composition.

Image (not mine): Monk Parakeets in Hyde Park (Chicago). My current model for household composition. You can see that I am faced with something of a challenge. I may have to call in Portia for an intervention.