The Slow Way Newsletter: On Wanting Well and Telling a True Story About Ourselves
a weekly newsletter for all the frantic strivers, serial doers & weary achievers
unhurried thoughts
On Wanting Well and Telling a True Story
There’s a narrative I’ve been telling about my move from San Francisco to Small Town, New Jersey. And the narrative goes like this: Our family was struggling. Ace wasn’t thriving in his school situation, in fact he had regressed socially, verbally, and physically. And when he was diagnosed with Autism in addition to his at-birth diagnosis of Down syndrome, it felt like more than we could bear. We wanted him to thrive, and we didn’t know how to find what he needed in San Francisco. At the same time one of our older boys was struggling with severe anxiety, the kind that affected his ability to engage at school, and we watched his anxiety sucking away the love he once had for learning, until he had become the kid in the back of the classroom, arms folded, done with the whole thing.
I had always known that his anxiety was tied to mine, that we were each holding one end of the same rope, constantly pulling each other back and forth. If our family was a ship, our shared anxiety was the force tossing the whole thing one direction or another.
When Chris and I first spoke the words out loud that we might need to change everything and leave the city we loved and the people there who had loved us well for so long, we pointed to our son’s anxiety: He carries the constant hum of the city inside him, we said. We think living in this frantic city at this hurried pace is the opposite of what he needs to feel safe.
We moved because of the kids, we said.
. . .
This week when we were sitting on our front porch having our daily morning coffee, Chris said, “I love how happy you are in the garden.”
I was surprised he said this. Because, yes, I love to garden. But I’ve never actually seen myself as a Gardening Person. I wasn’t sure I was confident enough, or suburban enough, or (honestly?) middle-aged enough to be a gardener. (Reader, let’s be honest. I’m 41. It counts as middle-aged, even if I won’t admit it.)
“Next I just want to get you a farm,” he said. When he said that my insides lit up. Because I want that. I love being in my garden. I love digging in dirt, making compost, trimming back dying things. I love the satisfying pop of a weed flung from my lawn. And I realized, sitting there on the porch, that I haven’t been fully honest about why I wanted to make this move. Yes, it was for the kids. And yes, it was for the family. But I think I’ve been doing that thing women do where we ignore that there’s a story about us in between all the other “bigger” stories we tell. I wasn’t being honest that there was a story in this move about me.
Why do we often ignore our desires in the story we tell about our lives?
I’ve been thinking about that lately, how my faith and my life taught me to hold up and bless the needs of others. But I never really learned in the church how to listen to my desires, how to wade through the waters of self-kindness, how to hold both what I want and what I’m called to do. How do we learn to know the difference between selfishness and self-generosity? How do I learn to care for the people in my life and work to bring the shalom of Christ to the earth, while also feeding myself well, letting myself read good books on a couch, and gardening, because I like it?
This past week Jen Hatmaker re-released a previous interview with Glennon Doyle on her podcast For the Love, and Glennon’s words have been sticking with me since I listened Tuesday morning: “Women want a minute to take a deep breath. Women want rest. Women want peace. Women want good food and good sex. Women want safety for their children and for other people’s children. Women want less war and more love. What women want should be the blueprints of heaven. It should be the marching orders of all of us.”
What if your wanting is good, is God-blessed, is the very path toward healing the world?
I’ve been thinking about that, about how to be honest with my wanting in the presence of God. In the life of following Jesus, in the work of living a slow and true life, we believe that God is inviting us to be both peacemakers and justice-slingers, to be servants of all and people who practice delighting in creation. Could it be that the good work of following Jesus must also include being honest about what we want? Have we forgotten how to have holy-wanting because we’ve confused our wanting with self-absorption?
. . .
I thought of all of this when my husband said he wanted to give me a farm because I’m so happy planting and growing good things. And I thought of it later that day when I was writing an email to a new friend out here, about why we moved. I added something to the story. I said we moved because both my son and I had a hard time living in such a frantic, loud city. I said, We both carried the anxiety of the city inside us, and we needed a quieter life.
I felt something settle in me, like I was finally being honest with myself about it. I needed to move. I struggled to live in San Francisco. The truth of our story is that it’s not just a story about my son’s anxiety, it’s about his mom’s. When my hands are in the garden I’m far away from the panic attacks I battled, the time my son had to hold my face and help me breathe simply because we were running late for school and I couldn’t handle any other hard thing.
The truth of our moving story is that I fell down the stairs and spent weeks in bed healing my brain, and all I wanted was a quiet place to write outside of the city, a house of my own with grass and flowers and trees. I wanted a trampoline in the backyard for the kids, and a porch where I could sit in the warm evening and the quiet mornings.
We moved not just because the kids needed it, not just because Chris’ family is here. We moved because I wanted it. I’ve been afraid to tell that story because it feels like rejection of all I loved in San Francisco, all the people I loved there.
So, perhaps the slow way begins with being honest about our own wanting, learning to hold both the needs of the world and our own sacred needs in the same hand.
May we learn to live with kindness toward ourselves, starting by being honest about what we want, and why we want it. And learning to believe that we can tell ourselves the truth about ourselves, and that, as Jesus says so simply, “the truth will set you free.”
a slow practice
This week I've been finding box breathing helpful, especially when I combine it with a repetitive prayer. Yesterday I set my timer for five minutes and mentally repeated "Holy Father, Holy Mother" during every inhale, then released one need or request with every exhale. Around and around my invisible breath box, I prayed small gratitudes and brought up deep needs.
The inhale / exhale prayer has helped me relearn how to ask God for intervention, after a long season of doubt, frustration, and uncertainty about "intercessory prayer" as I understood it in my past. The timer releases me from any need for performance. The short breaths keep me from rambling, attempting to "convince God" with my long-winded reasoning, or letting my thoughts go off on non-prayerful tangents.
Today, why don't you try it with me? Sit for five minutes and set your alarm. Choose any acknowledgement of God that is true or necessary for you right now. It can be straight from scripture: "Jesus Christ, Son of God" or "Holy One." It be simple, "My God and my Lord," or "Creator, Sustainer, Way-Maker." Or maybe, "Divine Love."
Breathe in for four counts, while silently saying your acknowledgement of God. Internally watch your breath move across the top of the invisible box. Hold your breath for four counts. Then breathe out for four seconds, acknowledging one tender need in your life or the life of someone you love and watching your breath move down the right side of the invisible box. Hold your breath for four seconds, then breathe in again, acknowledging God, and moving across the box toward the left corner. Hold your breath again, and then move up, releasing another need. Continue the practice until your timer goes off.