"All around me are familiar faces..."

Well, it was bound to happen. I think I am going to take a leave of absence from facebook for awhile. Of course, I will be around for ministry purposes, or to stay in touch with friends I don't get to see any other way, but other than that, I plan to be absent. I won't be posting my comings and goings, nor will I be keeping up with anyone else's.

I want to spend time with people face-to-face. While facebook has been great for getting back in touch with people I love and miss in my life, I also find myself watching people say things they probably wouldn't say to someone if they were right in front of them. I'm tired of the unnecessary anxiety I feel when I see people post thinly veiled comments about other people, the state of their own relationships, or the state of other peoples' relationships. I'm tired of my own reaction when I see people pass judgment, lash out, or passive aggressively attack other people. And since I'm calling it like I see it, I'm tired of my own passive aggressiveness, as well.While there is so much good that happens because of facebook, I generally walk away disappointed that more people don't use it as a platform to encourage and uplift each other.

Because I would so miss my favorite part of facebook--looking at everyone's pictures--you can now find me on instagram @stephkonvicka. I don't know why I didn't join sooner, but I'm there now!

Want to get together and hang out face-to-face? Me too. Give me a call. I'd love to sit down and visit. 

Currents

The view from my kayak

A lot can happen in a matter of a day's time. On Sunday, my husband and I decided to take out the kayaks and  head for the river. We spent a few hours mostly letting ourselves be carried by the current of the rain swollen Colorado River. We didn't have to work hard to make our way down river and it was nice to just let ourselves be carried, giving us a chance to direct our gaze to nature. And boy, did she show off. The spring rains provided a lush, deep green landscape full of life. We witnessed turtle after turtle lazily slide off their logs, plopping noisily into the water below them. A pair of baby Teal paddling along the edge of the bank.   Butterfly after butterfly floating effortlessly across the water. We watched a fat Blue Cat rise to the surface, disappearing as quietly as he appeared. And there was the profusion of Morning Glories, cascading down from the very top of a tree, as if a living altar had sprung from the river bank to climb toward Heaven. All of this made me quiet, stilled my soul. I did my best to breathe it all in and exhale thankfulness, trying not to think about the following day. Thankful for an afternoon just to be carried.

Monday's view

Then Monday came. Full of insurance questions and talk of radioactive materials, decay, damage. Risk management. Waiting in admitting. Waiting for a room. Waiting for doctors. Waiting, waiting, waiting. With each step of the process, our anxiety grew. We joked with each other to cover our frustration and fear. I had only to stretch to feel the slight ache in my shoulders, reminding me of the previous day that seemed so far away.   And when I left the hospital without my husband, I sat in the parking lot for a few minutes and cried. Leaving him there to be cared for when that had been my job was harder than I thought. What if they get his diet wrong? What if he has a reaction? What if he is scared? Lonely? What if this treatment doesn't work? Yesterday's gentle current was gone and I was being caught up in the rush of uncertainty. But I stopped myself before I could be swept away by the swiftness of the unknown. Closing my eyes, I breathed in deeply and exhaled thankfulness once again, thinking about our previous day. A gift from a gracious God. Remembering the beautiful blooms of the Morning glories, I was thankful that if we choose to do so, we can carry our altars everywhere. Even when we have to drive away.

Stop rearranging furniture

One of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, has a new book out called Some Assembly Required. I look forward to reading it, but spent a little time last night flipping through one of my favorites by her, Bird by Bird. This book is equal parts writing guide and life instruction manual. I think that may be why I love it so much.

While reading, I came to a chapter on Voice that I have reread countless times. For whatever reason, it resonated with me more deeply than ever. She says:

We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise, you'll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you've already been in. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping that one door shut. But the writer's job is to see what's behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words--not just into any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues...But you can't get to any of these truths by sitting in a field smiling beatifically, avoiding your anger and damage and grief. Your anger and damage and grief are the way to the truth. We don't have much truth to express unless we have gone into those rooms and closets and woods and abysses that we were told not to go in to. When we have gone in and looked around for a long while, just breathing and finally taking it in--then we will be able to speak in our own voice and to stay in the present moment.

And maybe that's it. The present moment in all of its fleeting glory is the gift we are given. It is what we get when we decide to stop rearranging furniture and instead decide to pull back the curtains and throw open the windows on the rooms we convinced ourselves were off limits. This is what I want for myself, to breathe in the dark places and watch the light flood in.

The Waiting Place, Part III

Tonight my husband lies in a hospital bed just a couple of feet away from me as I write this. He is resting on the edge of what feels like is going to be a long night. An extension of a long day. I am tired and feeling a little more vulnerable than usual. And I have been plenty vulnerable lately.

Today we crossed a threshold in our Waiting Place. And I have to say that it is a relief I can't quite verbalize.  I am all about forward progress, and until today we have only been taking baby steps toward wellness for many months now. Baby steps can wear a person out. Today was a big step forward.

Who knows, in a week we may get news that makes the relief of today nothing but a vague memory. But to be honest, I don't care what we learn a week from now. I care about today. I care about the man lying in bed a couple of feet away from me. All I know is that today is better than yesterday. Tomorrow can worry about itself.

In Reality

I have lost eight pounds. Granted, in comparison to some of my friends who have lost significant amounts of weight recently, this is just chicken feed as my granny used to say. But having lost significant amounts of weight in the past, I know that starting is the hardest part. That's when you have to get real.

For me, the reality was that I had let life beat me up. Instead of looking at life as a challenge--an adventure to be enjoyed-- the way I used to, I began to see it as something to endure. So I hunkered down and waited for the next attack. And to no surprise, each one came, and each time I balled up tighter in my foxhole. Life had gotten hard and scary so I hid. Literally and figuratively. I was a runner through most of my thirties and I ran freely. Joyfully, most of the time. Then I grew fearful of what could happen while I was out there. It is hard to run while carrying the weight of the world on your back. I learned that the quickest way to lose your love is to become afraid of it.

About a month ago, someone asked me what had been going on in my life. I told her the circumstances. And I told her how I felt. She said she knew that she didn't know me that well, but she didn't think that sounded like me. The cowering, the hiding, the lack of joy. She made a few more comments and suggestions and because I can't let many posts go by without mentioning yoga, I can tell you, that is how I ended up sitting on a mat, crosslegged, learning how to breathe.  Fear drove me there. Fear of people and circumstances, but also the fear of staying the person I had recently become.

I'm learning how to breathe again. I am learning how to sit still, mentally and physically and be fully present. I am learning to close my eyes without bracing myself for attack.  I am learning which boundaries to keep and which to relax. I am learning how to lean into that which is difficult and breathe through it. And I am learning that my reality is not good, nor bad. It just is. I am learning to let go, but knowing I had to take hold first. Life is so much easier to fight for when you stop fighting against it.