Category Archives: Personal

The paradoxical gift of rest

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The third gift I experienced at the “Winter Stillness” retreat this past weekend (see previous post) was rest. Opening the gift of rest wasn’t/isn’t quite as unambiguous as opening hospitality and silence, however. 

In his article, “Sabbath Resting in God,” Ron Farr writes:

There is a terrific amount of momentum in our lives like that of a freight train…. Indeed, most of us seem to have an ambivalent relationship with the idea of rest. We feel guilty about doing ‘nothing’ and resting before we’ve cleared up things in the world…. In an odd sort of way it is painful for us to rest because resting means just sitting with things as they are for awhile, just sitting with our own unresolved struggles and anxieties, just sitting with our neighbor’s untended wounds and tears. In the silence of rest, we are forced to recognize our own limits and see all our underlying conflicts and bruised places to which we’ve blinded ourselves through the diversion of our busyness. There are so many forces and fears within us, pulling us like that freight train away from a simple Sabbath resting in prayer! Yet our deep need for such rest cannot be denied and cries out to be honored.

Through the spiritual direction given us at this weekend’s retreat, we were invited to observe the “movements” we experienced as we prayed Scriptures that were given us by the director or that we had chosen ourselves. These movements might be of peace, joy, sorrow, anxiety, despondency, resistance, etc. We were invited to then journal about this, or perhaps go to the art room and express it visually.

Detail from "The Last Visit of Saints Scholastica and Benedict," clay sculpture, Helen E. Norman

 

So, it takes movement to get to stillness. Jesus said, “Come to me…and I will give you rest,” (Matthew 11:28) but that coming might be an eager run or it could be a lurching and stumbling procedure, or even a long and reluctant shuffle.

But it’s amazing how much movement there can actually be when there’s nothing else to do for a weekend but confront one’s restlessness. And for most of us in the group, it seemed, the weekend’s path ended in the longed-for rest and peace.

Or, in joy. Which again, paradoxically, isn’t exactly motionless either. I’m still chuckling happily over the phrase that jumped out at me from the last text my director gave me in Luke 1 — unborn John leaping for joy in his mother’s womb! Such a wild, excited creature he was, that John the Baptist, from the very beginning! Safe, secure, tucked away, receiving everything he needed from his mother, about as still as it probably gets — but when he heard the voice of Mary, the mother of his Lord, he simply had to leap for joy. That’s the paradoxical gift of rest.

Winter Stillness: two gifts

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St. Benedict's chapel and monastery, behind trees

 

I spent the weekend at St. Benedict’s, a monastery just minutes north out of the city, at their annual Advent retreat, “Winter Stillness.” It wasn’t my first time at St. Ben’s, but it was my first time doing a retreat of this kind, all of us silent, and essentially on our own but for three meetings with a spiritual director to whom each of us was assigned.

A blog is too public, and the time too soon, to share the specifics of what I experienced during my hours of rest and prayer at Winter Stillness. Too much talk about the movements of one’s own soul can have the effect of “letting the fire out of the bones,” a good friend once observed, and I think she was right — so we wait on wisdom for the “when,” and the “how much.” (Incidentally, my last time at the monastery was with this same friend, on a retreat together while she was fighting cancer. She died 13 years ago this December. A long time ago, really, so I was unprepared for my initial emotions back in the place the first evening: that wrenching sense of the loss of her, once again.)

But there’s a few observations about the broader gifts of such a weekend — gifts we can open in other settings as well — that I want to share with gratitude after my days away.

The gift of hospitality: Hospitality is part of the Benedictine Rule, so they have a long habit of it, but my, how very well they do it! It’s the hospitality of warm welcome, as the “Christa” at the retreat entrance so aptly depicts. But it’s also a hospitality that, while attentive, strikes me as somehow inattentive too, unintrusive, never  hovering. Completely unapologetic, trusting, accepting.

"Christa," 62 in. clay sculpture, Helen E. Norman

 

I think this fine balance of attentiveness and inattentiveness must truly come from committed practice of it, and I suppose the Benedictines have learned that eventually a hovering hospitality will exhaust its giver, if not the receiver. But perhaps it’s also a Spirit-gift. I’ve experienced it from various people at various times in my life, and would like to grow in giving it in that particular way. I’m not sure I’ve even found the right words to describe it, though. Perhaps some of you know the kind of hospitality I’m talking about and may have insights to share.

 The gift of silence: Silence between people can be so many other things than a gift. It can be confusing, cruel, selfish. But when silence is shared and intentional, when it’s insisted upon for the purposes of personal soul care, it can be a wonderful thing to experience, even as a group of strangers. We came to be quiet; we were given permission to keep quiet. We might nod or murmur a greeting when passing, but we knew what the withholding of further niceties was all about and how respectful it was of ourselves and the others.

The group was small enough — about 15 or so — that we each sat at a table alone for meals. The only sounds were the occasional ping of cutlery against dishes, like the ring of a tiny bell, the scraping of a chair, sometimes the sound of footsteps (oh, and the crunch of taco chips at Saturday’s lunch!). But our last meal together was a “talking lunch.” How fine it seemed to get to know one another then, and share bits of our weekend. Once silence has been opened as a gift, speaking seems an extraordinary blessing as well.

What book could I be?

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Over at the blog “Considerations,” David Warkentin tells how he recently spent a couple hours in the library of Douglas College, being a book. It was part of  the Living Library, a movement designed to “promote dialogue, reduce prejudices and encourage understanding” amidst the diversity of our pluralistic world. It’s all about “engaging people,” he explains, “instead of just borrowing books.” David chose the title “Engaging Our Stories – Living Amidst Spiritual and Religious Diversity” for his book-self, and people could “borrow” him for up to a half-hour to discuss anything related to his topic. 

This sounded like a wonderful idea, and it got me thinking. What book could I be?

Most days I’m not an expert at anything, but I imagined for a moment that I might land in the “how-to” section of the library. Next I had some fun at my bookshelves, perusing them for what title(s) I might choose for myself. Here’s what I came up with — borrowing only the title, please realize, and not the contents! 

1. On the writing life.

Let’s see… How about Great Expectations (Dickens), or, continuing the metaphor more realistically, All Things Are Labor (Arnoldi). No, that just sounds pretentious. I think Wilderness Tips (Atwood) should do it here.

2. On marriage.

Well, besides 35 years of experience, what do I know? Two Solitudes (MacLennan) for starters. Marriage is good and definitely worth the perseverance, though, so let’s call me-on-marriage The Progress of Love (Munro).

3. On parenting.

Oh my, the possibilities are endless here! Expensive People (Oates), or Here Be Dragons (Newman). A Multitude of Sins (Ford) — mine, I mean — and then they’re Gone with the Wind (Mitchell). On balance, though, A Good House (Burnard). But it all comes down to two pieces of advice:  See the Child (Bergen) and Mercy Among the Children (Richards).

4. On the life of faith.

Well, that’s The Heart of the Matter (Greene) and some days, Such a Long Journey (Mistry). But perhaps what I’d like to get at is mystery and very life itself. How about Breathing Lessons (Tyler)?

5. On becoming an “elder” (chronologically, that is, not a position in the church).

Just at the very beginning here, so what I know so far is Independence Day (Ford), and The Reprieve (Sartre). Also a chance for Final Payments (Gordon) in a metaphorical sense, though when the recession eats at our RSPs, literally too. One faces ahead The Remains of the Day (Ishiguro), finds oneself in The Summer before the Dark (Lessing). The dark of death, yes, but only as transition. On, on, on, then, to The Radiant Way (Drabble).

(Thanks, D.W., for the idea!)