Making Space
At 6, 10, 11, I would walk the beach where the water made salt frost on the taupe sand, frothing in a small, bubbling jubilee I had to look for, or miss. Carrying a thin driftwood stick, frayed at the end, I would draw letters and swirls in the wetness, letting the sea pour into them and wash them into something new, or old, or conformist, or steadfast. The ocean has its tides—a decent way to make a living.
I am glancing over my shoulder. Then, I see that I had a great expanse throbbing in that mechanically engineered joint where the sternum meets the ribcage; the costal cartilage holding everything together like a wingnut; that is where great expectations spin on axis. The turning slowing down every day I live, great music box motion churning out its calm melody and getting very tired. Or is it, perhaps, that the music never ends, but instead, the internal galaxy is curling in on itself, as Einstein proved about infinity, and the sublime plateau I stood on as a child is now so filled up with progress, and industrialism, and instantaneous breaking news, that today, all I feel in that glorious space is my gallbladder?
I always had time to think back then. I was not the child running laps, having a breakdown, planning military-style advancements to convince someone to buy me sugary breakfast cereal at the grocery store. I was the child who found time to be jealous of an autistic boy because he knew how to spell “maroon” at age 5, and I did not. Even now, as a young woman, I fill most of my days with purposed thought, often crossing under the pool divider into the deep end of over-analyzing. I am comforted on an intensely deep level by Mary Oliver’s poem, I Go Down to the Shore:
I go down to the shore in the morning
and depending on the hour the waves
are rolling in or moving out,
and I say, oh, I am miserable,
what shall—
what should I do? And the sea says
in its lovely voice:
Excuse me, I have work to do.
The liberation here is that there is space for two ways of thought: To think, to worry, to be uncertain; but also, to set down the details and hold your course, to get work done. Like a tide, giving and taking, fluid living. For me, to have a thriving life, I need both things. I need purpose, a project in which to engage, a plot of soil to get my hands into and see what grows. But more than that, probably, I must have clear, uninterrupted swatches of time in which to think. A couch where I can simply be. A walk alone so I can focus on how air feels in my lungs. Time to shovel small heaps of open space, one by one, into that sternum galaxy to keep the sublime globe moving inside me.
The last two years have been filled with an excess of thought, uncertainty, desperate prayer and conversations. What I did not notice is how much debris was poured into me. What weight. Very recently, after years of blueprints sprawled across my table, a window flew open, the good air captured my plans, a cardinal came inside, and Spring happened, as it always does (but I am certain she outdid herself this year), and there is the most incredible and immense prairie in me, again. I say again, because it dwindled so gradually I hadn’t noticed the freedom I had been losing. Now, there is so much space in my body, in my mind, and, more importantly, such a pouring in of newness, I have a sense of being out of touch with myself.
What I mean is, I do not want to skip gratitude.
The joy is tangible, and what I have been doing is practicing creating space for my thankfulness. I am uncertain if there is a correct way to respond, so it looks different each day. One night I laid flat on my back in my bed and focused on the feeling of relief, as if acknowledging my situation would be enough. I have been singing. Once I stood in the shower and looked at my feet; red, steaming vegetables on the banquet table of God. I have less to pray for; I must seek new ways to connect with Christ.
A few weeks ago, I had a vision of myself standing in a field of wheat that came to my waist. Everything was the color of cumin, and swaying slightly, like how it feels when you listen to jazz. I don’t know what my expression looked like. My hair was curled. It was a picture of being so close. I have spent so much time running my hands under couch cushions looking for the wheat, and now, I have shocks lined up in my hallway, which is why I am acutely aware of the need to practice gratitude and remember how it feels to have unencumbered joy.
It feels a bit like the way the sea smells. You’re going along and, suddenly, the air feels different, tastes different, smells different. Your skin and hair changes, your view of life changes. You have time to walk, and find some driftwood, and carve something in the earth. You have the perspective to watch it be undone, and to still look up into the wide air and say, thank you.