The online Advent practice for today asks that I “sit in my cell for a half hour and do
nothing.” I can do this. I start by
sitting and looking at the tops of the bare trees out the balcony door window
that is in my study. I watch the tips of
the branches sway in the wind at the backdrop of an all gray sky. Misty rain speckles the glass on the
door. I listen to the tinnitus in my
right ear. It is on high pitch but it doesn’t
seem to matter. A few minutes pass.
Then I hear a voice: “Your
cell phone is ringing.” I attempt to
ignore the proclamation, but the urge to know who was calling seems greater
than my time of doing nothing. I’ll go
make a cup of tea. This will help me do
nothing. I find my cell phone. The call
was from an online guidance counselor about my degree program. It was important and I note what she said on
a sheet of paper then go back to my cell.
Maybe I should write a short email to the counselor to say I got her
call. This takes about 20 minutes
because I have to search the internet for some information I want to share with
her.
Now my tea is cold,
but it’s okay. I look out at the tree
tops again. Everything is as I left it a
half hour ago. Too bad—I could be done
by now, but I’m starting all over. I
observe darker lower clouds passing overhead that look like smoke from a
fire. There was a comment about “fire”
in today’s Advent practice. When on
fire, “stop, drop, and roll… cease the frantic motion that is
fanning the flames.” Okay, I can do that.
Suddenly
my spouse, charges in the room and announces, “I’ve finally finished the
eulogy! Want to hear it?” Why yes… of course I do! She is a minister and is so good at writing these
things. Another 20 minutes have passed,
but I can still do this meditation practice. I close my door
and lock myself in. It’s 1 p.m. I stop fanning the flames. In the distance I hear a fire engine.
I take
two shell peanuts from my breast pocket that I was keeping for the back yard squirrel
and eat them. I put the shells back in
my pocket. I continue to look out the
window and try to get the crushed peanuts out from between my teeth with my
tongue. I methodically chew the little
bits that are left and swallow them.
There is cold air coming in from around the door sill. The wind continues to shake the tops of the
trees and pull the dark smoky clouds across the sky. I close my eyes and try to shut it out. At arm’s reach, I grab the blanket off the
rocking chair and drape myself, head to foot.
Thoughts begin to creep into my mind—Those few grumpy people who are
disgruntled with me for one reason or another—Why do they bother me at this
very moment? Send them away. I feel
the soreness in my muscles since I’ve been wearing a FitBit and walking and
exercising more. Send it away! I can almost feel the
cortisone shot that entered the left knee this week. Send it away! And that tinnitus is still blaring. Send it all away. I still chew on tiny pieces of peanut. This is a mixed blessing and it keeps my mind
from coming up with new thoughts that I will only have to send away.
“Are
you there God? Don’t you want to say
something?”
“No.”
Sometimes
all God wants is our presence. I stay
with this thought for a long while. Then
a memory comes to mind of my first time in centering meditation that was also
suppose to last a half hour. It was
during my spiritual direction training and one of the other students fell
asleep and started snoring. There were
about six of us in the room and I remember opening one eye just a crack to see
if there were any reactions. The snorer
was slumped on the couch and those around him were seated upright with tiny
grins at their lips. I remember how
ironically the time seemed to pass.
Just like now.
I look
at the clock on the computer and its 1:36 p.m.
I made it. What I report back to
the online practice group remains a mystery.
