This week, I have been at home and outside more than probably the past two years combined. We walked our back woods this week for the first time in probably a decade. In the midst of the growths of trees and wild bushes, we found a clearing. A circle of bright green grass where no trees were growing. The sun poured into this area . Sitting in that light surrounded by the shaded overgrowth of trees felt like we had entered into sacred space, this hidden gem of sunshine. An oasis of calm in the middle of the wild chaos that surrounded it. I stood there, as Nathan went ahead lifting my face to the sunlight that beamed down. The marshy green grass, the color of sour apple suckers, carpeted this magical spot. It had been there all along. We just had not made it far enough into the woods to find it.
Life has seemed a bit like that overgrown wood lately; dark and chaotic. Full of thisles and overgrown thornbushes that far too often have entangled our lives. I lost my way. I lost the words that for so many years came so easily. This blog has sat in want of attention. My personal journals have grown dusty. How do you describe a life turned upside down? I feared that in the moments if I were to say the words of my heart; the pain, the frustration, the grief, the anger, the disappointment, well who wants to read the thoughts of a very fortunate woman, who was experiencing the impact of loss–loss that even now is too hard to utter. Somehow, hoping that if God can create the entirety of the Universe with words, that if I avoided words, the reality was only the thing of bad dreams.
Part of the chaos is the very real upbringing standard that states you don’t air your dirty laundry in public. If you do, let it be once it is overcome and fixed into tighty rows on perfectly organized shelves. How do you say that there are parts of our lives that are so messy, so full of thorns, that the idea of there ever being a fix seems unobtainable? Somehow, you only write the lessons learned once the journey is complete. The bags are unpacked. But then again, maybe the destination will never come. Maybe the whole point is to learn in the journey.
My sister sent our group chat a Tik Tok video of a man who faced terminal illness. He shared that he often felt like Sisyphus waking every morning to push his stone to the top of the hill. He felt like all joy would come in the day that the stone no longer rolled down. That somehow this daily struggle would come to an end and that would be the celebration. Yet, he opined, perhaps, the stone never rests on the top of the hill. Does that mean there is no joy? Is that all there is to this life? As the Lamentations proclaim: “vanity of vanities!”
And then, a random magical surprise is found hidden in the dark thorns. A confirmation that even among the weeds, the snakes, the poison ivy, there are spots of absolute bliss. Mossy green meadows and conical trees pointing your eyes upward. A place where a soft quilt and candles flickering allow for solace, love, and peaceful retreat, even on the darkest of nights. A place that somehow seems more beautiful because it is hidden away.
Nathan and I have talked about this spot over and over since finding it. We have discussed how we can cultivate this space. How we can make a clearing to it. How we don’t want to clear it out completely, because the tucked away oasis is a reminder that joy is where you seek it, especially within the walls of the dark things. It is a chapel in the wood, where we can go to pray, to fellowhip, to meditate and to scream at the top of our lungs if the day requires it.
I am ready to journal the journey. I am ready to re-enter into the land of the living. I am willing to wake up and push the stone up the mountain, not waiting to celebrate when the stone sits firmly on the top of the hill, but finding ways to celebrate the journey while carrying the stone.
The man in the Tik Tok video said he realized that while he was holding the stone, there were birthdays, vacations, simple serendipities. That was also part of the journey. Maybe that is the whole of the journey.
My stone is death and grief, estrangement, poor health, and overwhelm. It feels heavy. It refuses to stay at the top of the hill. But as I push it back up, day after day, there are long sweet kisses with a man I love, cuddles with an eighteen-year-old who still wants his Mom from time to time, phone calls about new loves from my heart songs, wildflowers from a precious friend, fresh canvases and new paintbrushes, do -overs, reels from my sisters, beach trips with my person, unexpected blooms on the dormant hydrangea bushes , and an unexpected spot in the wood where joy rekindles and possibilities abound.
