I have been feeling like I just need to calm down and wait . . . Wait for what? For whom? And in some ways, this entire year has been about waiting - and maybe it really is about waiting for the dust to settle, whether that's CoVid, election, health, Mom; and the list goes on.
So when I was trying to figure out how to write this, I began and stopped and started again several times. I see this big dust pile under my feet, not a cloud over my head, but whenever I take a step, I disturb the fine grained dust - already so vulnerable and tramped on, and I can't side-step it; I can't avoid the dust. And I can't find the words, only a picture.
Until this - enjoy.
On restlessness, a recovery weekend, and letting the silt settle
An essay for Field Notes; Sarah Bessey
Hi friends,
I am very much in a burn-it-all-down mood lately.
I could sell my house - while we’re at it, let’s sell every stick of furniture in it. We could move home to Alberta. I could have a ranch in the foothills. Forget that, I could move to Prince Edward Island. Did you know that this Inn was owned by L.M. Montgomery’s grandfather? I think I will buy it and run an inn within sight of the sea. Or maybe an urban life in Calgary next door to my sister?
Okay, fine I’ll simply move up to the Sunshine Coast and live at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. We’ll get a dog, a goat, a sheep, none of the above, all of the above, maybe a farm? Let’s homeschool the kids! Wait, no, I have a job. Okay, fine, Brian, YOU homeschool the kids. (He also has a job.) I think I’m going off grid. At the very least, I’ll delete Netflix. But wait, The Crown is coming back on in a few weeks so maybe I’ll do that later. I think I quit writing, I quit Evolving Faith, I quit Twitter, I definitely quit Facebook, I quit everything and I think I’ll be a florist, that sounds lovely. (Florists, do not disabuse me of my romantic notion of your vocation.) I think I’ll write a novel. A poem. I think I’ll upend everything, maybe that will fix it.
Just me?
The world feels unsettled and scary, overwhelming and tragic. I don’t know what it is that makes me think that if we upend our lives, somehow that will make the uncertainty and big things dominating the headlines seem less true. I’ve been restless - wanting to do something new and different - and yet every time we talk about it, we end up more confused than before we began. Clarity hasn’t been forthcoming.
Last weekend, my husband Brian and I went away for what we called our Recovery Weekend. We knew we would need a weekend to rest and recover from what has been a big push for both of us this year - work for both of us, health challenges, quarantine, four kids, family, global pandemic, all of the things. We set this Recovery Weekend on the calendar after Evolving Faith as a finish line of sorts and, after dropping the kids off at my parents’ home, we drove up to the Whistler area for two days. (Granted, we’re in western Canada where coronavirus cases, while rising, are being managed well and because we stayed somewhere very committed to maintaining safety protocols and we abided by social distance and mask guidelines so we did feel safe to keep our weekend plans.)
The purpose of Recovery Weekend is not “do the things.” It is the exact opposite. The purpose is to recover from the doing of all the things. So we slept in. We read novels. We ordered room service instead of going out to restaurants. We went for long walks in beautiful open places. We watched the snowfall while we drank coffee. We sat in front of the fire and talked. We did NOT check email and we did exactly zero productive things. It was marvellous. Being in the mountains nourishes both of us; we need some bite in the air to feel like we can take a deep breath.
One afternoon, we drove down a very bumpy service road to Lillooet Lake. I’ve always wanted to go to this particular lake and it’s just a bit too far from our place in Abbotsford for a day trip with the kids so we took advantage of it. It was a snowy day and so the clouds were very low and the air was chilly which meant we had the shore covered in driftwood to ourselves.
Lillooet Lake used to be a bright turquoise colour, much like other mountain lakes up north here. That uniquely azure colour is courtesy of the light reflecting off the rock flour from glaciers which feed the lakes. But back in 2010, the largest landslide in modern Canadian history hit just up the river from Lillooet Lake. It went from being a clear bright blue to a muddy shade of brown overnight.
Ten years later, the silt from the landslide is only just now beginning to settle and, especially in seasons like right now when the currents are slow, you can just begin to see the colour returning to the lake again. On the day we were there, it was clear at the shoreline and it reflected the grey sky, almost looking silvery as it stretched out before us. We took our time on the shore, breathing deep in the silence of the wilderness.
As we bounced away from the lake (seriously, that road), I turned to the familiar conversation of the past few months and began musing afresh about making a major change in our life. I get restless when I live in one spot more than five years and the state of the world right now makes a major life change seem utterly reasonable response. See my first paragraph.
Brian was silent and then he said, “We have had a landslide these past few years.”
I knew where he was going right away. And he’s not wrong. Particularly since my car accident a few years ago, there have been multiple landslides into the lake of our personal life. Losing my friend Rachel last year was devastating. There was my diagnoses with chronic illness stemming from the accident. Work has been a landslide lately as I’ve found myself in a vocation and role that feels very ill-fitting and challenging at times.
I’d argue that 2020 is a particular landslide for all of us - a global pandemic, uncertainty, political upheaval, exploding racial tensions, rise of Christian nationalism, the powers and principalities of this world all rising. The landslides aren’t over for many of us. We have been buried under the landslides of our times and our days - some of you have told me of your divorce, your own diagnosis, your job loss, your loved ones falling prey to conspiracy theories, your own devastations. And we wonder why nothing feels clear, why everything feels murky and uncertain and muddy. We’re living in the aftermath of the landslide and it simply takes time for the dust to settle.
“You’re saying that we need to let the silt settle in order to have full clarity of what - if anything - is next,” I said slowly.
As we drove, we did what we always do - we talked. We are equally earnest and so well matched for a conversation about the metaphor in our rear view mirror. We have felt unsure about “what’s next” for a while now and that has been its own particular tumult.
“If the clarity isn’t there,” I said, “perhaps the invitation is simply to hold fast. And wait until we know what we know under all the turmoil.”
As we drove home the next day, every once in a while one of us would start the familiar refrains: “What about moving…” or “what about quitting my job…” and the other would say, “We’re letting the silt settle.” We agreed that the aftermath of a landslide or four isn’t usually the ideal time for major life decisions.
Maybe now isn’t the time for upending everything. Maybe now is the time to simply let the silt settle until things are more clear.
Maybe this is the time to hold fast to what we know is true. Clarity will come when it’s time. There is no urgency of missing it in the Kingdom of God. If things aren’t clear, they cannot be forced to resolve until the appointed time.
I think sometimes when we’re used to being in crisis mode, running from fire to fire, we forget how to settle into our lives and simply live as disciples of Jesus on a daily basis. This reminds me of a line in Madeleine L’Engle’s novel A Swiftly Tilting Planet: “The world has been abnormal for so long that we’ve forgotten what it’s like to live in a peaceful and reasonable climate. If there is to be any peace or reason, we have to create it in our own hearts and homes.” We live in a time when the absence of peace and reason feels both chronic and acute - both inside and outside of our homes - so now what?
The world will be abnormal for a while longer. That’s just true. We will want to burn it all down and start over. Our collective culture is dealing with a landslide of apocalyptic proportions; within that are all of our little lives, swirling in the dust, too. And it’s true, the crisis may not pass for a while. The rock and the mud is still sliding. We will think we can manage our way out of the murkiness. We will think that because we have been in crisis for so long that crisis is all that’s left to us.
And so we can either be swept away in it or we can hold fast, creating the peace and reason we crave everywhere we can until the silt settles and the water is clear again. Hold tightly to the vision of the Kingdom of God we yearn for, hold tightly to the high road, hold fast to love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Or as the writer of Hebrews said, “Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful.”
Faithful, faithful, faithful.
I’m home now and I find myself thinking of the lake often. I love the image of that lake out in the mountains letting the days pass, the silt slowly settling, the currents ebb and flow, and the slow, steady accumulation of clarity being restored again. I love that it can’t be rushed and it can’t be avoided. The process both inside of time and outside of it. Slowly, slowly, faithfully, faithfully, the water does the work it is meant to do. And when you can see the sky in the water again, it seems to me that you’ll know everything you need to know by then and not a minute sooner. And isn’t that faithfulness, too?
Love S.
