Category: Pause

Power of Pause...

3/1/2019

“Work is not always required of a man.
There is such a thing as sacred idleness,
the cultivation of which is now fearfully neglected.”

These are the words of Scottish author and minister George MacDonald, (1824-1905), written in a world that I have trouble envisioning as rushed or lacking in opportunities for idleness. The Model T was still a few years away, and electricity wouldn’t find its way to my corner of rural Pennsylvania for decades. There was some question as to whether or not farm families even wanted or needed electricity.

No one in MacDonald's world was ever interrupted with reminders of incoming e-mail or text messages, and twitter was still a bird word. Telephone use was a rare and not-rural luxury. It‘s hard for me to grasp that in those years, anyone struggled with the allow-ability of sacred idleness. Everything was closed on Sunday. No one had electricity for watching baseball on television or even for lights when the evening crept across the porch.

And yet. Sacred idleness was “fearfully neglected.”

MacDonald spent his childhood as farm boy, and no one sweats through the limitless availability of work more than a farm family. All of my farmer neighbors in still manage their lives “off the grid." And it seems that most moments of most days, work is required of the men. And the women too.

Perhaps MacDonald was remembering hot afternoons forking hay into the mow or frigid mornings breaking ice in the watering trough with chapped hands when those words poured from his pen.

But most of us aren’t farmers any more, and the labor intensity of earlier decades has faded like the color from an old photograph. People, theoretically, have more leisure, so one might imagine we would be more in tune with the cultivation of sacred idleness. But again no. I think MacDonald would be astonished to observe the frantic pace at which so many of us insist on living life in the 21st century.

When you left work today, how many stops did you have to make on the way home?
How many calls did you make during your commute?
How many times have you reached for your phone in the past 15 minutes?
What did you do while you were cooking dinner?
What about after school/after work activities – how many kids are you taking in how many directions?
How long did your family sit at the dinner table on any given night this week?

Look up the word multitasking, which MacDonald had never heard of, and you’ll be awash in information about why it is good/bad/easy/impossible/beneficial/harmful.

I believe George MacDonald is still right – work is not always required. But it seems like "busy-ness" is required. Look at how we have filled the extra time that used to be devoted to hard physical work: Technology. Empty entertainment. Frantic rushing from one event to the next.

Maybe the reasons have changed, but it appears that we continue to avoid the deep water of sacred idleness in our lives. Forging upstream to a quiet pool through the rushing water of current crazybusy culture isn’t easy. It will never be just right, or convenient to choose a different way.

Always, the oughts and shoulds will clamor for your eyes, your ears, your hands, your attention like a bevy of school children wanting to be chosen first and right now, “pick me, pick me, pick me.”

Maybe it’s time to say – eeny, meeny, miney, NO to one more activity,
and yes to sacred idleness.

Imagine what that might look like for you, today, just for ten minutes.

Look at your favorite tree from a new angle. It's always good to look up.

Or, take in the sweep of the bigger view of your "same old same old" world.

Stare out your office window, listen to the sounds your house makes as night falls, wander along the creek, rock a weary child or just yourself, linger after dinner, wait for the sunrise or sunset, light a candle, read a book. Watch the clouds scudding across your window view. Take a little ramble, "there and back again," with no further plan than that. You might be surprised along the way.

I had never seen an owl dozing in a tree hole before my Sunday ramble.

Wait for the sunrise.

Tomorrow, give yourself an extra ten minutes in the morning for....pause. Tonight, after everyone is (finally!) settled, find your way to ten minutes of...nothing?

What might it look like to cultivate some sacred idleness?
Stare. Listen. Wander. Linger. Wait.

Be still and know.

Sacred idleness allows time for reflection. Or for observing reflection. Or both.

Find your moments for sacred idleness.
Soon.
Just ten minutes to start. (I think you'll want to find another ten after that.)

Power of pause...

HumminB

2 Comments

This is what weekends are for...Get out the door and stand and stare already.

4/22/2018

2 Comments

Leisure
W.H Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

..and stare as long as sheep or cows. (Or killdeer!)

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

"streams full of stars like skies at night..."

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

Looks like little dancin' feet to me!

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

The weekend is almost over, but Monday is a good day to go out-the-door as well...make time, take time. You don't have to get lost to find yourself, but sometimes it helps.

Just for a little while, lose track of time and be fully present in this (ordinary, amazing) moment. You'll be glad you did.

Tell me, what did you see on your trip to nowhere?

The glorious willow, dancing along the creek.

Same tree, just a close up of what creates all the glory - thousands of golden catkins.

HumminB

2 Comments

This is what weekends are for - get yourself out the door!

4/14/2018

0 Comments

Go ahead, find some shoes and go out the door. You don't have to be gone long, just go. Ten minutes out, ten minutes back if that's all you can "afford" to invest today. But when you're out there, be all there! Be mindful of what you see and hear in your world.. Start listening with your eyes. You never know what you might discover. And if you won't take my word for it, here's a quote to get you motivated!

Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher." William Wordsworth

Spring is coming to the Shire...we live between the already, and the not yet.

Every day, the treetops change.

What a surprise!! Great horned owl having a late, late breakfast!! (Shouldn't you be sleeping now?)

Breakfast debris. Beauty in the dying...

Standing among the great ones...good place for adjusting my perspecticals.

Small is lovely too - colts foot looks like little drops of sunshine.

Always remember to look up...and don't forget to say, "Thanks."

What are you waiting for? The weekend is whispering your name..."Come. Pause. Listen." Yes. You. Out.the.door.

HumminB

0 Comments

Learning to listen with my eyes...an almost-Spring ramble.

4/13/2018

0 Comments

A wise man recently told me – you need to learn to hear with your eyes (oh, Moshe Kempinski, the conversations I’ve been having with you in my head) so I decide to do that today. I wonder what will I see, what I will hear? I am choosing to be intentional about looking...

but I don’t really know what I am looking for...(and life is a lot like that, most days.)

I am walking in the most ordinary of places today, unlike my recent adventures in the intense and varied land of Israel. Oh, such a place, such a place. I’ll never forget the wonder of exploring Hippos...was that just three weeks ago?

To stand atop that mountain, with a bit of breeze lifting my hair, taking in a splendid view, wandering with friends or alone on a cardo (Main Street) that was centuries...no, millennia old?

Seeing where the columns fell in a row, here, here, here, when an earthquake shook the city... It is like a dream...thinking about it right now, I feel wistful, full of longing to walk there again. (Hippos was in my top two “wow” moments in Israel, along with Gethsemane.)

But I am not in Hippos anymore, I am back here in my rather drab spring-isn’t-quite-here-yet world, where I’ve walked hundreds of times. What can there possibly be to see, I wonder?

I don’t know what I’m looking for, I’m just looking, eyes wide open, ears too.

How many shades of brown can there be? Yes, bits of green are emerging, but overall, the landscape is underwhelming.

I notice the barbed wire fence needs repair near the creek...which means I have no trouble at all scrambling through to the interesting side. (Last time, the fence looked much better, and I looked much worse after I snagged my pants and ripped a red angry scratch in my leg.)

It’s the season of mud, just now, wedged here between winter that will not give up and spring that can’t find it’s mettle. The water along the creek is finally receding after recent rain and heavy snow raised the banks to overflowing.

I’m listening with my eyes, and I can hear the busy-ness scramble of life along the creek banks when I'm not here. Lots of small creatures, coming and going, stretching to reach the creek for a drink, creating little tracks through the grass, highways and byways leading to hidden burrows and holes beneath giant gnarled tree roots. Groundhog, squirrel, chipmunk, a skunk, right here, a few weeks ago, creeping across the frozen span.

Around the far side of an enormous stump, a startled muskrat hustles herself straight into the water and disappears. As I pause, birds flit from brush pile to the thorny hedge that is the perfect cover for song sparrows and nest building cardinals. Overhead, two red-wing blackbirds seem to be gossiping about me, pink hooded intruder; robin fuss tells everyone I’m here.

A flash of white grabs my attention...pure white feather resting in the mud.

I’m pleased with myself for noticing...but when I bend down, a bit of movement surprises me:

a honey bee, stopping for some water.

The creek is too fast for her tiny form, so she’s grateful for mud...me, not so much.

I take a few more steps, and the story of the white feather unfolds before my eyes. I'm hearing the scream of the hawk, the muffled piping of the lovely pigeon who became dinner. Now as the wind scatters feathers, I know the tree swallows will gather whiteness to soften their nests in a few weeks.

I climb up the bank and wander along the edge of the cemetery. I wonder about this enormous rock which I have never noticed before.

It’s probably eight feet by six feet, and I’m sure it’s always been here, but I wasn’t listening for its story until today. Why is it uncovered, all weathered and worn, right here in the middle of a grassy area just south of the grave stones.

And who etched this cross along the side?

I clamber through another broken down fence, and stooping, I spot the tiny blue brightness of corn speedwell.

Yes, it’s a weed, but it’s hard to argue with this kind of blueness.

A tree stump
with a half dozen gnarled roots reaching into the stream
is the perfect spot to pause
and let my soul finally
catch up to the rest of me.

I sit for a long time.

I realize I have missed this ordinary place in the weeks I’ve been “seeing the world,”
missed the opportunity to ramble at my own (slow) pace,
missed these familiar sounds -
creek rush
and horses clip-clopping along the road
and wind whispering, "Welcome home..."

I whisper back, "It’s good to be home."

It's time to get back to the house now; neighbors rumble by in their carriage, waving. I pause once more, looking up through the branches of my favorite meadow tree. I don’t see it from this angle very often.

This is a tree whose stories I would love to hear. I’m certain this ancient oak predates all the European settlers who traveled to this area in the mid-1700’s. The first church in the valley stood right here in the meadow, and this tree probably stood in or near the church yard, hearing the preaching and the visiting and the laughter of children and the singing. Today it only heard the wind. And humming.

And what did I hear today, with my eyes?
I read the music,
and I heard the song of home.

This sweet and lonesome melody,
with interludes of long silence, stanzas of joy and lament -
it is my song.
And so, I sing.

HumminB (is home!)

0 Comments

Snow as a gift...even in April. No foolin'!

4/3/2018

2 Comments

World in (black and) White!

Sunday was supposed to be April Fool’s day, but yesterday I woke up to a world in white, snow upon snow upon snow, maybe 6 inches! In the early light, I was watching birds outside my kitchen window...and before coffee, I’m never quite sure I can trust what I see.

I looked again.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one confused by the piles of whiteness. A disoriented Wilson’s snipe was sharing space with a robin on the driveway! (No foolin'!!)

I was tempted to complain...snow in April? But I knew it couldn’t last long, and truly it was beautiful out there, a winter wonderland. I'd be a fool to complain. In another season of life, I would have looked out into that beauty, longing for the chance to see the sights, camera in hand. So, why not do it?

I pulled on my purple coat and a warm ivory scarf, found my ready-for-storage snow boots and my favorite mittens, and opened the door into “pause.”

Somehow, snow muffles the ordinary noises of country life – leaf rattle was silenced, and traffic buzz from beyond the hill had been muted.

I was left to wander in snow hush and bird song.

A determined song sparrow warbled from the walnut tree, and everywhere, robins fussed and squabbled, trying to find perches on fence posts with six-inch snow caps. (Oh God, let me be the song sparrow...)

I made meandering paths with frequent footprints like this,
stopping “in my tracks!”

to look up,
around,
and back.

So much to see,

in sparkle and shine mode.

I was wrapped in stillness and wonder. I discovered I was smiling and couldn’t stop. (But I didn’t really try.) I had not asked for this enchanting gift, but I was grateful to open my arms, my heart wide to receive it from God’s hand.

Job 37:5,6 God does great things that we cannot comprehend –
for to the snow He says, “fall on the earth...” (even in April.)

Soon enough, it’s time to return to the house. (and the coffee.)

That snipe has moved on (he wasn’t frozen in place as I had feared.)

Already, snow is falling in muffled thumps from branches and wires. By day’s end, the whiteness will be a slushy memory along the roadside, and maybe my gratitude will have melted away too. (I’ll work on that...)

But for these moments, I’ll choose joy, I’ll choose gratitude, I’ll chose praise.

Praise the Lord from the earth-
Fire and hail, snow and mist...
Psalm 148:7,8

If the snow can praise Him, so can I.
Even in April. For snow.
No foolin.

HumminB

2 Comments

Monday Moments. Taking a moment to look around...

2/26/2018

0 Comments

Here's what I was thinking about today, a quote from my daily "Simplicity" calendar, "inspiration for a simpler life:"

Leave the beaten track behind occasionally and dive into the woods.
You will be certain to find something you have never seen before...
Alexander Graham Bell

I didn't dive into the woods, but I did wander a bit. I wasn't sure what I was looking for - but here's what I found! (Thanks for the challenge, Mr. Bell!)

The sporophytes are bursting forth...can spring be far behind?!

Even without color, the woods offers scenes of beauty. Has any one ever stood right here, and seen this particular view? (And is it just me, or does that mossy clump look like a sleeping hedgehog?)

Across the way, I caught a glimpse of this reminder to live loved. I needed it.

The waxing gibbous moon is framed by pines and bare branches, And I'm the only one (in the entire world!) who had this particular view.

What were you looking for today? What did you find?

HumminB

0 Comments

Weekends are for wandering...wondering too. Oh, and gratitude!

2/18/2018

2 Comments

For every beauty there is an eye somewhere to see it.
Ivan Panin

A half dozen gratitudes for the commonplace bits of beauty my eye has seen on a mild winter day...

1. Sunrise glowing like this, just for a few minutes...

2. Bluebirds calling and singing, as if they didn't notice the snow.

3. Soft spring-promise green shining on the meadow willow.

4. Late winter afternoon sun sparkling on a chattering creek...

5. Momentary parhelion shimmering along the mountain just before sunset...
from the guest room window.
And I almost missed it.
Almost.

6. A delicately beautiful sunset streaked with every shade of blue.

For most of these bits of beauty, the space between seeing and not seeing was moments...
a glance, and then a second glance. The briefest pause...and oh!

How many times do I miss the opportunity to see and to give thanks because I'm in too much of a hurry to notice, moving too fast to catch the glimpses of glory?

That's why I need to wander and wonder. Because if Ivan Pavin is right, and "for every beauty there is an eye to see it," I want to be that eye.

Let me be singing when the evening comes...or at least humming. HumminB.

2 Comments

More thoughts on pause: "Cloudy with a chance of joy..."TED talk link.

1/30/2018

1 Comment

Need another nudge in the direction of “nowhere?” In his TED talk, Cloudy with a chance of joy, Gavin Pretor Pinney suggests that “to tune in to clouds is to slow down, to calm down; it’s like a bit of everyday meditation.” (I highly recommend you take ten minutes and 50 seconds and listen to this!)

Maybe on these bitingly cold mornings (here in central PA) you’re looking forward to that summer vacation, thinking about how you’re really going to take advantage of the chance to do nothing. But don’t forget to look up NOW, in this moment! You never know what you might see...

Late afternoon parhelion..."formed by refraction of sunlight through ice crystals high in the earth's atmosphere."

As Pretor-Pinney puts it,

“You don’t need to rush off away from the familiar,
across the world, to be surprised.
Pay attention to what’s so commonplace, so every day, so mundane
that everybody else misses it.”

"(Clouds) are in fact the most diverse, evocative, poetic aspect of nature." G. Pretor-Pinney

"Cloud-spotting legitimizes doing nothing...and sometimes we need excuses to do nothing...

We need to be reminded that slowing down and being in the present,
not thinking about what you've got to do
and what you should have done,
but just being here,
letting your imagination lift from the everyday concerns down here...

it's good for you,
it's good for the way you feel,
it's good for your ideas. It's good for your creativity.

it's good for your soul."
Gavin Pretor-Pinney

So, go ahead, pause and look up.
Wherever you are, look at your patch of the sky and marvel at what you see.

Breathe in, slow, deep breaths, and breathe out thankfulness for the infinitely beautiful sky above you, for the creativity revealed in shape and form and color and movement.

Psalm 19:1 The heavens are telling the glory of God.
(Clouds too? Yes, I think so!!)

HumminB

1 Comment

Be still - further adventures in going nowhere.

1/24/2018

1 Comment

All this month, we've been talking about stillness, the Resolution Revolution - Resolving to do more nothing. It's not always easy, sitting in the silence, but it's always good. Here's what happened to me one day when I finally sat down to pause midday. ("Just sit here and be still," I said to my busy, chattering soul, "for five minutes.") Here's what happened.

Clouds stretch along the far side of Stone Mountain like quilt batting, hinting of a transient mountain ridge beyond what we know.

As I stare, the ephemeral beauty glides slowly left - east - across my view. I’m pleased to have detected the incremental drift, and then something else grabs my attention.

Although sunrise glow happened hours ago, I perceive soft colors in the clouds –
back lit patches of delicate aqua,
deep blue-sky background,
distinctly pink shading,
dashes of golden yellow that look surprisingly warm, considering the wind chill is five degrees.

I wonder if this is a special phenomenon -“Midday Cloud Colors,” or have I never before noticed because I am generally just glancing instead of gazing? I realize again

how good it is to pause,

how hard it is to pause.

Breathing helps. Pulling in long, deep draughts, and thinking...grace, all is grace – the breath, the opportunity to pause, the eyes to see clouds.

Breathing in grace, and it’s You again, Jesus, grace of Presence, presence of grace. I comprehend for a moment, for this moment, that it’s always You, always present.

Although I forget and forget and forget, yet once again it's – grace - here You are!

Breathing out, praise.
Praise for pause,
deep gratitude for the utterly steadfast nature of Your love,
appreciation for Your Abiding Presence.

Breathing in grace; although I am at times faithless – yet – You are faithful.
Breathing out thanks for hope – for Your promises fulfilled, in progress, yet to come.

Today again, I say Yes to the deep peace of pause.

In the adventure of going nowhere, I have once again found You.

HumminB

1 Comment

Be still, even when you're on a ramble...

1/14/2018

3 Comments

"What’s a ramble?" One of Youngest’s friends posed this question recently when someone in our family used the word. He’s a very bright student, and I was surprised that the word was foreign to him. But upon further consideration, I realized that the concept is quite uncommon in our hurry-up, purpose driven world.

Here are a few definitions I read today:

Ramble:
(noun) a walk without a definite route, taken merely for pleasure.
(verb) to walk for pleasure, typically without a definite route; to wander around in a leisurely, aimless manner.

So, rambling. I can type a definition for you, or I can take you along on today’s ramble:
I’m heading up the mountain on the road less traveled...

I wander past Becky’s little stream,
and think how much my grandson would love
the dinosaur ice teeth that have grown along the edges.

I pass the woodland meadow where stalks of colorless goldenrod bend in the snow, and I remember their splendor just a few months ago.

Change. Relentless. Unstoppable.

In the woodland meadow and in my life. And, in both cases, I can chafe at the changes I don’t like or look for the myriad reasons for gratitude. Today, I’ll choose gratitude for life’s little pleasures, such as...

1. The air is brisk and sharp, and I don’t think the thermometer will hit 20 degrees today. But, the wind isn’t biting today, and the sky is azure, and I’m glad to be outside looking straight up.

2. I’m glad to see the shiny berries on Debbie's bush; they add a splash of color to the world, and I’m glad the birds didn’t get them all.

3. Ice is nice. Yes, yes, I know it’s cold, (although not as cold as last week?!) but without the cold, I’d never find sights like these.

Notice, this delicate crystal collection has gathered on the tip on a maple leaf.

I continue along the way less traveled, through the deepening blue shadows of a late winter afternoon, and I realize that I really want to hear an owl calling...the resonant whooo-whooo, floating down the mountain through the icy air is always haunting and beautiful. On this mountain, I’ve most often heard owls in conditions just like right now - cold, late afternoons in January and February.

But all I can hear at the moment is the sound of my own footsteps, crunch crunching along the frozen path.
I realize something:

If I want to hear an owl, I’m going to have to stop and listen.

I say a little pray, which isn’t very spiritual, something like, “Oh God, I’d really like to hear an owl today...” and although I’ve only once caught a slight glimpse of a shadowy form winging away from me in deep dusk, I add something about seeing one too. “That would really be something, God.”

I continue on my way by fits and starts...very gentle ones, of course, because I’m trying to be quiet which is almost laughable given the conditions underfoot. And the condition of my feet, which is to say very large and not always the most graceful. I’ve always been a bit on the clumsy side.

Just this week, I was walking through the downstairs reading a magazine and not giving any thought to my path because a kitchen remodeling project was in the final stages and the room was completely empty of furniture so the floor could be replaced the next day. Completely empty of furniture, I say, but an immovable roll of floor covering...when I was picking myself up from the floor, I was glad to be mostly intact except for my pride. The next morning, my gratitude list contained a detail that is always true but for which I don’t usually give thanks- “my arm is not broken.”

But it still hurts.

This is the same person now picking her way along the trail, navigating patches of snow covered ice, slick leaves, frozen springs.

It is a little tricky because when I am walking I can’t hear anything, and I want to keep watching for wildlife, but then I can’t watch my steps!

I am mindful of my feet because I don’t want to fall, of course, (but also because I’m afraid my kids might decide to buy me one of those medical alert systems for seniors if they find out about that kitchen floor dive or today’s treacherous adventure...maybe they won’t read this!)

And then it happens. I’m stopped, waiting in the stillness, when I hear an owl, far to my left, along the ridge. Such a beautiful sound. I wait a bit for an answering whoo-whoo-whoo, but it's too cold to wait long, and I hear nothing. Every few minutes, I pause to listen, and I hear it again. Memorable, melancholy music. The truth is not lost on me that I must be still to hear the owl call. He might very well be hooting more often, but I cannot hear him unless I am still.

Once more I pause on the icy path, waiting for another call, looking around for other birds. A chickadee scolds close by, and somewhere to my right a woodpecker is grubbing out a snack before dark. Looking ahead, I wonder about a strange “knob” in a distant tree...which turns out to be...a Great Horned Owl!!

The picture quality is low, but my delight is sky high...I watch him for awhile, then proceed up the trail.

Silently, he glides away, wide beautiful wings angling that large body effortlessly between the trees.

He arcs around me in a huge half circle, then disappears.

My gratitude list lengthens with the tree shadows in the setting sun,
and reaches heavenward in heartfelt thankfulness
that God was listening when I prayed,
and I was listening, watching when He answered.