Being still
Cindy on February 22nd, 2009
Waiting is the yeasting of the human soul. — Sue Monk Kidd
One of my favorite traditions at our local church is the silent meditation service held during the Lenten season. The midweek candlelit service is organized by church members, and sometimes an organist provides soulful background music.
The service is offered during Lent because it is, as T.S. Eliot wrote in his poem, Ash Wednesday, âa time of tension between dying and birth.â It is the perfect opportunity for reflection; a time to meditate on the fearsome darkness of the tomb and the pending miracle of Easter.
While a silent service is simple enough to plan, it isn’t as easy to carry out. Few of us are comfortable âbeing stillâ in a sanctuary with other people sitting near us. We expect to be enlightened, educated, entertained, preached to, or otherwise distracted from the white noise in our heads. Meditation makes us fidgety.
As Sue Monk Kidd notes in her midlife memoir, When the Heart Waits: Spiritual Direction for Life’s Sacred Questions, one of the guiding principles of American culture is âAll lines must keep moving.â Even when we’re home alone, we rush to fill the void with mindless activity or television. Kidd says we resist getting quiet because we’re afraid to confront our own darkness.
Yet real miracles occur during moments of being still â and waiting in the dark. Spring bulbs do their hardest labor underground before blooming. Our minds sort out conflicts in dreams while we’re sleeping. Likewise, the work of spiritual growth and healing is done in silence.
The time I woke up alone in a dark hospital room immediately comes to mind.
It was just past midnight, a few hours after my second hip-replacement surgery. Barely conscious, I awoke to discover my legs were strapped to a large foam wedge to keep me from moving. While I realized this was essential to my recovery, I still felt trapped and terrified. Equally scary was the sensation of waking up alone in a strange room. (I didn’t recall being wheeled in after surgery.) And while most hospitals are buzzing with activity during the day and evening, the earliest hours of the morning are eerily quiet.
Breaking the silence, I shouted for help and pushed every button within reach. It was the first time I’d experienced a full-blown panic attack. When my nurse arrived, she explained that my panic was probably triggered by withdrawal from the anesthesia. She promised to check back periodically. Meanwhile, I kept a light on above my bed. Afraid to fall asleep, I kept vigil until daybreak.
By the time the sun rose, my drug-induced paranoia had worn off, and I accepted my temporary state of immobility. And in a luminous moment of grace, I suddenly knew I’d been given a second chance. I knew that I would heal and walk again. It would take time, but everything would be okay. And it was. Three days later, I was released early from the hospital to recover in bed at home.
A week before that last surgery, my friend Jenny had sent me a note of encouragement, which included a quote by Patrick Overton. Here’s how it begins:
When you come to the edge of all the light you have and must take a step into the darkness of the unknown, believe that one of two things will happen to you: Either there will be something solid for you to stand on, or, you will be taught how to fly.
I’ve posted that quote where I can see it on my desk every day. It’s the one I like to remember when I’m stumbling in the dark or feeling stuck — or waiting impatiently for a new season to begin. — Cindy La Ferle
–This essay appeared in slightly different form in The Daily Tribune (Royal Oak, MI) and is included in my essay collection, Writing Home–
February 22nd, 2009 at 3:30 pm
Waiting, patience, light & dark do seem to be the themes of this time of year. I have started re-reading Eckhart Tolle’s “Power of Now” and the passages about being present and letting the light shine on your true essence fit beautifully with the coming of spring.
February 22nd, 2009 at 7:31 pm
I also have found that growth occurs when we take that leap of faith without knowing how/where/when we’ll land. Thank you for setting a thought-provoking stage for Lent and the arrival of spring.
February 22nd, 2009 at 10:12 pm
The quote by Patrick was the one I had taped on my wall in the room I used to seclude myself away from my husband when he became uncontrollable with his dementia. I knew it was only God’s hand that was helping me through the trials.
February 23rd, 2009 at 9:54 am
There are so many ways we might stumble in the dark, figuratively and literally, even in small ways in day to day life. What a wonderful quote to keep in mind, to give us the courage to keep our footing as we move along our paths.
February 24th, 2009 at 9:26 pm
Cindy,
Thank you for this poignant story about your surgery and how it affected you. And I love the quote you share. Very powerful! To find that place of inner stillness, of acceptance of the moment as it presents itself, is such a beautiful spiritual practice. I think I will turn that thought into a new mantra – “Stillness is mine, one breath at a time.”
xxxooo
March 1st, 2009 at 9:02 am
I used to go to a traditional Quaker meeting, altho I am no where near religious and it is the only type of group service I can tolerate. It was beautiful to just sit and reflect. That sure sounds like a difficult time for you- handled with aplomb!
March 2nd, 2009 at 4:33 am
A beautiful story you’ve given us here from your hospital experience.
And yes, I agree with you on communal meditation services. At first all the tummy gurglings etc can make you self-conscious, but as the silence settles, there’s something about that shared humanity which deepens it.