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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, “a time of tension between dying and birth.” 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 “being still” 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 “All lines must keep moving.” 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 – 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–

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Pay it forward

Cindy on January 21st, 2009

Last year, a dear friend of mine fell from a ladder while working on a home-improvement project. She needed emergency surgery to repair her shattered knee, and had to spend weeks recovering at home with a battery of medical equipment.

My injured friend had a family to care for — not to mention a full-time office job that had to be put on hold while her injury healed. Meanwhile, she practiced her physical therapy, learning how to use crutches and trying not to collide with the furniture. But her biggest challenge, as she put it, was “learning how to give up control” while she rested on the couch with her leg propped up.

Nobody likes being injured or ill, but I’m convinced it’s twice as hard for mothers who suddenly find themselves incapacitated for weeks at a time. It doesn’t matter if we’ve been hit by a bus or a flu bug. Moms are programmed to be nurturers and fixers. We roll up our sleeves and pitch in when someone needs to be fed, bandaged, or chauffeured to softball practice. We’re more comfortable offering help than asking for it. Sitting still goes against our maternal grain.

While the moral of this story could be: “Girlfriends, never do home repairs that require a ladder,”I promise it is not.

Watching my friend move gingerly on her walker, I was reminded of the time I found myself in the same position seven ago after I had bilateral hip-replacement surgery.

A serious health crisis can be an excellent teacher — albeit a tough one. And this much I know for sure: I never would have grasped the full meaning of the word generosity had I not limped my way through several months of surgical rehab. During that time, a number of incredibly nice people conspired to make my life easier. Neighbors drove my son back and forth to school. Friends baked casseroles and delivered them to my family while I recovered in bed.  In particular, I remember the savory chicken noodle soup a friend dropped off at exactly the moment I craved the taste of comfort.

I often wondered what I could ever do to return so much kindness. The answer came from one of the terrific nurses at William Beaumont Hospital who took care of me after my second surgery.

“Watch for opportunities to help someone else,” the nurse told me. “Be there when the time is right.”

Even the smallest acts of kindness, after all, are links in the great chain of generosity. Whenever we receive an abundance of love or care, our well overflows and we have more to share. Better yet, real generosity is boundless. It isn’t about keeping score or simply repaying the same people who’ve done favors for us. (I’ve been thinking about this a lot this week, after hearing President Obama’s call to community service.)

So, as soon as I learned about my friend’s accident, I headed straight for the kitchen and did what I’ve learned to do best in this type of emergency: I made enough minestrone to feed a family, then delivered it in Tupperware containers to my friend’s house. The following week, I made chicken soup and a batch of stew, alternating with other friends from church who had offered “meals on wheels.”

I don’t deserve special recognition for doing this; cooking for my friend was a selfish act. It made me feel better (or at least not so useless) in the face of her misery.

Recalling her long weeks of recovery, my friend told me recently that she couldn’t imagine how she’d ever repay all the generous people who’ve been so helpful. I told her that she doesn’t owe any of us anything in return, and I meant it.

“Next time someone else falls from a ladder,” I added, half seriously, “it will be your turn to bring the soup.” And I’m sure that’s what she’ll do.  – Cindy La Ferle

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