An Economy of Gentleness, and other reflections on Lent
Along with Seven Things I'm Reading, Listening To, & Generally Delighting In
It’s been a strange February here in Jersey. Unusually warm days, enough to have gotten the green things all confused. I’ve been worried about my daffodil bulbs, tenderly popping their necks above the ground, certain it’s late March, every day a little taller. Everytime I look outside I feel a motherly tenderness for the poor things, afraid for whatever big freeze is on its way to snap their hope in brown sticks. So far, it hasn’t come.
This Lent, in the midst of finishing my book manuscript, I’ve taken on what feels hardest to me: Taking Richmond the dog for a walk along the trail by August’s school, earbud free, open to the voice of God. It’s not that I don’t like taking Richmond for a walk, it’s just that I’ve denied myself most extra things in my life as I frantically write toward my deadline. Who has time to walk the dog when Chapter 7 is still waiting in my Google docs, blank as the winter trees on the trail?
You’ve probably figured this out by now, but I write about prayer, rest, and living in an economy of gentleness, mostly because the battle of my adulthood has been learning to be kind to myself, and learning that prayer is actually found in the rest, not in the anxiety. I wrote my first book in the wee hours of the night and mornings, brutal towards my body, beholden to my own stern belief in hard work. This time around I’ve been slower, taking naps when necessary. And it’s always surprising to me that no matter how much I write about making space for rest, I’m still learning that performance and accomplishment no longer serve my end goal. I want this book to be beautiful, but it’s going to have to be beautiful from a place of abundance and not from a place of exhaustion. I’m still learning what that looks like.
Today, on this third day of Lent, the ashes from Wednesday night all washed off, but the voice of Ada Límon’s poem “Dead Stars” ringing in my ears: “But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full / of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—” It’s not just the earth dust on my forehead, I keep thinking, but the stardust on my tongue. Ashes to ashes.
On my walk with Richmond this morning, the wind blew frigid on us both, like we’d been transported to wild West Texas, and on the bare trail, Richmond caught the sound of Canada geese honking, finishing their morning bath on route to somewhere north of here. Perhaps they’re as early in their migration this year as the daffodils are in theirs? Our trail was empty of any other souls---human or dog---so I let Richmond fly down the dirt path that leads to the pond, all mud and sticks and brown leaves. He bounded, free of me and my leash-holding, for thirty seconds, closing in on the flock just in time to watch them escape the water in one great string into their otherworldly “v.” I called Richmond back and he ran to me and sat, big almost-human eyes staring into my face, tail sweeping the dirt, waiting for his treat---a reward for his attempts at geese snatching.
He’s made of stardust too, I thought. And the geese, and even the dirt the scriptures say God shaped us out of.
I love Ash Wednesday for the reset it gives me. And Lent, this season of waiting, and listening, of choosing to untangle ourselves from the distractions that keep us from seeing our lives and our pending deaths, is a gift because of its realness, even as our small practices of attention can feel near impossible. There are books to write, after all, egos to feed, individual worthiness projects to complete. And so, I’m grateful to be reminded this week of the smallness of our lives, the reminder of our finite, stardust bodies.
I pray the same small reminders for you.
Here are the things I’ve been reading, listening to, and generally delighting in this past month:
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