Am I boring or a mystic

With each passing year, I find my desires grow simpler. Just this week, my husband and I were offered free tickets to go to an event at the French embassy. Excited by the prospect of a cultural exchange to spice up our weekend, I decided that we should go! It was a Friday, following a long work week and hosting family. I was in the office for a day long meeting and as I hunched over my laptop in a windowless conference room, my exhaustion became palpable. I developed a nagging headache that started at the base of my skull and worked its way up to my temples. On my train ride home, truly all I wanted was to put on my fluffiest robe, eat eggs and toast, sit on the couch with my husband, talk about our days, and go to bed at 9pm.

This feeling keeps creeping up in me again and again. At the opportunity to see a show or take a trip, my anxiety and ambition say yes and the depths of me say no. I’ve become more comfortable admitting that my favorite things in life are so accessible, mundane even. A night at home with a good book and some herbal tea, a potluck, the farmer’s market on a Saturday morning, coffee with a friend, a long walk. These things keep my soul tethered to itself. They keep my mind steady, my desires aligned with my capacity.

This is infinitely true when it comes to my experience with the divine. The presence of God finds me in the quiet of my morning coffee, the robins in the park behind my house, the smell of soil after rain, the sound of my mom’s laugh, my husband’s hugs. It is the simple sensory experiences of being alive that are pathways to encounter. It’s both the living and the participation in the flow of love. In the buying a coffee for my un-housed neighbors, in calling a friend, painting, or cooking tortilla soup for new parents. This is what I’ve come to understand as everyday mysticism.

Theologian Howard Thurman (1899–1981) demystified mystics as people who have a personal religious experience or an encounter with God. This is radically unembellished and implies anyone can be a mystic if they are open to the experience. Mystics know how to quiet the surface noise enough to hear divine presence coursing below daily life. In this way, simplicity as a practice requires the cultivation of an inner stillness. To quiet the chatter. Then the sameness and plainness of life suddenly becomes profound. The bush will burn as you learn to walk in the mysticism of everyday.

This Body

Oh, this body. This body my companion. I confess I’ve become quite adept at ignoring you. Back, when you ache, I take a Tylenol. Oh eyes, when you burn, I drink a coffee. Heart, when you race, I rush to cross things off my to-do list- a temporary balm to sooth the restlessness.

Almost everything that I experience and fail to put language to will shows up in my body. Tension goes to my shoulders and neck. The muscles winding up so tightly and a headache that starts at the base of my skull and creeps around towards my temples. If I eat poorly, too much sugar and not enough water, it manifests in my skin- my pores clogging up and flaking. My sinuses will rebel for not enough sleep, my nose running like a faucet. Demanding I stay in this weekend. This winter, a sharp pain while pulling on socks awoke me to the reality that my heels are cracking open. Bleeding. I had neglected to give my feet they extra care winter demanded- exfoliants, thick moisturizers, and long baths.

In 2022, I accepted a job that required my family to relocate to Washington D.C. The opportunity of a policy job in the city where policies are made compelled me, and the part of me that’s named ambition won the argument against hesitation, loneliness, and fatigue. With restlessness guiding me, we made the change. There were a hundred small things that, when added together, exceeded my capacity to cope in this transition. Family death, scary diagnoses of loved ones, and a relentless travel schedule provided the backdrop within which my baby roots were ripped- and the onslaught of decisions began. Should we sell our house? Buy a House? Or Rent? What Neighborhood? My new job began chaotically. I dove headfirst into a dysfunctional team and a role that required me to think about the horror of climate change all day. Through it all, I allowed myself no margin- I carried on head down and filled my schedule to the brim- I excelled at work, upped my physical fitness, plugged into community organizations, planned a trip to Japan… eventually, my body said no. It began with heartburn. Then stomach pain. Then crippling stomach pain. Bloating. Constipation. Fatigue. Hair loss. My gut would churn after every meal, cultivating an aversion to food that led to undernourishment. I was underfed, over exercised, over extended, and deeply lonely. In spite of my ailments, we opened our home to host friends and family weekend after weekend. We traveled abroad. Made new friends.  We explored museums, restaurants, and local state parks. My memories are a haze of discomfort. I was going through the motions. Screaming into my pillow and crying in the shower before catching the train downtown to show my mom the Washington monument. I was unwilling to admit that I really didn’t feel up for any of it. I was craving an empty schedule and bone broth.  

In an effort to find relief, I spent the year of 2023 going to doctors. My PCP, a naturopath, a gastroenterologist, and a chiropractor. All the tests in the world revealed that my body was definitely not functioning correctly, but a root cause evaded us. In the end, my GI doctor concluded it is neurological- essentially the nerves in my stomach are in a wad- no longer properly communicating to my muscles to, you know, digest. To make a bowel movement. To do the things we take for granted.

As I write this, I am three months into a nerve medication that has been helping some of my symptoms, but I am in the middle of this story- the path before me feels long. There is no redeeming arc that I have lived and can now share. All I know is that I am tired. And I am going to nap once I finish this.

Through it all, I’ve started to wonder what it means to honor my body. I’ve let my mind and my heart (figuratively speaking) drive the ship of my life. If I want (in my mind) to travel to every continent before I’m 30, then let’s save and book flights! If I want to work an impressive, demanding job, then watch out! If I want to experience living all over the country, then pack your bags! If I want (in my heart) to be a person of faith, generosity, and community, then we will be involved in faith organizations, give to charity, and volunteer. I will recycle, compost, eat vegan, learn Spanish, and call my friends and mom regularly.  

My mind and my heart lead me to believe that I am both bigger and smaller than what’s true.  I begin to believe that I have to be more than anyone could ever be. Yet I am also unworthy of simplicity. Of limiting my reach to what I can hold. Of putting things down.

Perhaps we live in bodies because our bodies force balance. Our bodies bring us back to the soil and ground us in the truth of what we could realistically expect. Our bodies cry out no while our mind and heart say yes.

I am in the habit of only listening to my body when it screams. When I have a raging fever or cannot get out of bed. What if I listened to my body when it talked? Or, better yet, when it whispered? What if I took my body’s cues as information to be revered? To be heard? Perhaps even treasured? Would the landscape of my pursuits look different?

I am coming to the conclusion that this has to be how we live. To live in reconciliation with our bodies we have to honor them. We have to listen. 

Shifting

Recently, my spirituality has felt a shift. The shift, like all change, has left me feeling disoriented and fatigue, but I also can’t shake the feeling that where I’ve landed is infinitely more expansive- and healthy.

I no longer find myself praying to an abstract external presence. I don’t perceive God as a guiding light completely detached from my own intuition, incumbent upon me to find. And obey. Or else the presence will become further. Hazier.

I’ve begun to understand that Christ is in me. My gut. And in everything- always. The divine in me- and you- Christ- is the fabric of the cosmic collective. God is intimate.

What if Christ is not only Jesus in history, and God in heaven, but also grace experienced now? What if Christ is radical compassion? Mysterious peace? a love that mends?

This shift demands self-respect- and comes with an invitation for descent- past the constructs of personality- to the core of essence & being. To find that it is holy there. That Christ is revealed in the spaciousness of the deep- and we are free from the expectations of others and the constructs of success that have informed our marks of worthiness. All of living suddenly feels like an inside job- where gratitude grows.

This shift demands a change from individualism to collectivism. From seeing things as separate parts to components of a whole- from hierarchy to community. This shift demands reverence for all whom we encounter. Awe and respect for the holy of holies that can be found there. Changing mundane interaction to mystical encounter. Insecurity to appreciation. This shift brings about radical inclusion- and mobilizes social justice- always.

This shift demands profound honor for earth- for Christ in mountain. Christ in tree. Christ in wind. Christ in water. Christ in bug. Christ in soil. The first incarnation of God. We must love and weep for and protect the earth that holds us. The earth that nourishes us, despite enduring, careless exploitation. This shift challenges anthropogenic orientation. This shift broadens our understanding of “the least of these” to include the trees, rivers, rocks, and animals that have no voice for self-advocacy. This shift demands mourning. This shift demands simplicity. And action.

Living in this oneness- with oneness being Christ- ourselves not excluded- that is the shift that is healing and guiding me.

Repotting

I repot my plants when they seem ready- their roots crammed against the walls- health declining- or stagnating-

The replanting must be done gingerly, delicately- and then, to grow again into their new space, the plants must be tended to-- with water and sun, of course, but mostly they just needs some time to settle. Too many consecutive replants will weaken her, decay her- stillness is required to grow into her new space.

In the “growth only happens when put outside your comfort zone” narrative of sport and work, we forget that the true growing occurs once you feel comfortable in this new space. Its after the shock and disorientation of the fresh wears off that your roots can dig down into the soil- it is only when you feel safe that you stretch out- releasing your defensive clam-y posture. And this safety precedes grounding, which precedes self-compassion, which precedes genuine transformation. 

Courage is necessary for growth – I will not argue otherwise. But it takes courage to dig into your current circumstances. To name what is hard and accept it. To honestly cope. And in this type of courage, growth is natural, not a ripping at the seams.

In choosing to stay, we are choosing a presence that grows from within- a presence that does not require perfection. Digging in means saying no to chasing satisfaction in circumstance—in new places, jobs, relationships, or travel plans. We are forced to find stability within ourselves. And it’s from stability that we can care carefully. We can know ourselves and work with tools that we understand. We can build something to last.  

Hardly Deciduous

I don’t think I’ve really rested in over a decade- like a deep, restorative, takes time to get the nutrient and flavor sort of rest- like water, spice, and bone sitting on the stove for 12 hours- nearly bone broth- diffusing what I imagine hardiness smells like.

I’ll confuse rest and fun quite often- their similarities lying only in an absence of work, but nowhere else in their essence. With fun bubbling and rest steeping- rarely yielding something similar.

On a recent, rainy, Sunday in late fall, I found myself on the couch, restless about my to-do list, yet unable to dredge up the energy to mobilize. I started reading about perennial plants and their dormancy. For these plants, dormancy declares when to prepare their soft tissues for freezing temperatures, dry weather, or water and nutrient shortage. Instead of attempting to grow in hostile conditions, plants hunker down, storing up energy for when the growing conditions are better. This period of arrested growth allows roots to continue developing and thriving. In dormancy, these plants are thriving underground- despite their outward declaration of scarcity. These months of steely survival produce everything needed for another spring.

If plants were insistent on production, it would not only be inefficient, but also harmful. If plants were to remain actively growing in the winter, the water stored in their stems, leaves, and trunks would freeze, damaging the bark and tissue.

This is why, when a freeze occurs in late spring or early fall, panic ensues in the gardening community. The guest room bed sheets are brought out of linen closets, carefully draped over tender plant flesh.

Yet, do we consider this same harm to the tender parts of our soul? In the dark, cold lonely seasons of our life, must we insist on growing? Productivity at all times, of course. I will get a new certificate at work! run a faster mile! and learn some basic Japanese! Oh, and have fun! Adventure! buckets lists! new hobbies! new friends! What if, instead, we practice dormancy. We take intentional, self- indulgent care of oneself. And simply wait until the season turns a corner. 

Of course, not all plants are deciduous. Even more, evidently some plants can manage when planted in different climates. Tomato vines, for example, live several years in their natural tropical/subtropical habitat but are grown as annuals in temperate regions. In my feverish addition to ambition, my instincts have dulled to winter’s call. I’ve somehow transplanted my soul to Miami - with ever-present warmth and light disrupting my natural rhythms. I’ve been obedient to alarm clocks and florescent lighting for far too long. In the constant pursuit of summer, the resilience of my roots has been compromised, and I’m susceptible to pests.

Ironically, all projections say Miami will be underwater in 50 years, yet new beachfront condos are being built every year. In the pursuit of entertainment and pleasure, we miss the signals. We miss the invitation to a contemplation that is born in the dark.

Of course, radical rest requires breaking down where my identity is mixed up with my output- and, from this space of detachment, I can finally surrender to the call of retreat and then flow out again into the energy of warm evenings.

This breaking down has been the greatest work of my life. Genuine surrender takes time, or movement, or breaking.

For me it’s always been the breaking.

In the breaking i’m not as sturdy as I used to be, but far more honest. I feel authentic, but also lopsided - and leaky- nodding in respect to my own beautiful limits. And then. in the still, dark, cold- there is mending.