Now Is Not The Time
When you can't tell the beginning from the end
“This looks like the end of the story; but it isn’t.”
Beatrix Potter
It’s been nearly a year since the first time I talked about it out loud. It came up while I sat on the couch studying the glass eye of the moose head mounted above the fireplace, but it wasn’t until late last September that I caught the first real glimpse of what would become my new trajectory.
I was just reading somewhere about how we often know change is coming long before we see any evidence of it in our actual lives. We sense it, or maybe, we get veiled glimpses of it before it comes to us.1 I often describe that sense of impending change like an inner restlessness, a rumbling in spirit. Sometimes it makes me downright antsy, unable to get still or quiet enough. I visualize these ambiguous seasons of change as giant tectonic plates beginning to shift beneath the surface of life. As much as I want to be someone who leans into a season of uncertainty with full vigor, the truth looks more like bracing, than embracing.
When the plates of our lives shift, we experience tremors at best, or earthquakes and Tsunamis at worst. Sometimes—or most times—we can’t aptly name which it was until the debris has settled, and we can take stock of where we landed. Sometimes, discerning what’s-what takes years. Maybe even our whole lives.
Last August when I sensed something shifting, I started praying about the feeling. “What’s happening here?” was a regular prayer I prayed, some days out of genuine curiosity, and other days out of fear and frustration. It wasn’t too long before God answered with an obscure word, “Nimble”2, and that, it seems, was the beginning of the beginning.
//
Last weekend, we spent the day with my middle son at his new, soon-to-be home-away-from-home. It was a new student orientation weekend where University people assured parents and students (but mostly parents) of the many academic and social safety nets the college has in place for our incoming freshmen. Administration and faculty encouraged us to “trust the process” of this monumental transition. They warned us there might be unhappy phone calls, bouts of homesickness, and a grief that would keep us awake at night. I didn’t need them to tell me any of this. We are all feeling it already, the low rumble of impending change, the transformation of our family as one of us prepares to leave.
This very moment, a thunderstorm is building outside my home office window. The dark wall pressing in, the sky rumbling. Between my candle flickering here on my desk, and the storm rolling in, this is the poetry of life being written before our eyes. God and His theater…
//
It’s been 25 days since I stepped away from the hubbub of various social media channels but I have not been able to settle down on the inside. The last 3 weeks have been full of all manner of rumblings. I’ve kept up with my walking routine, but most of the rest of my days have been a whirlwind of things mostly unplanned. I thought we would slow down when June hit. I thought we might come up for air. Instead, it turns out, that the shifting continues. I’ve spent days wondering and trying to sort out the why’s of this season, trying to declare a purpose for the obscure word—nimble—but then just today, while looking for something else, I stumbled across this passage in Letters To A Young Poet,
“Why should you want to exclude any anxiety, any grief, any melancholy from your life, since you do not yet know what it is that these conditions are accomplishing in you? Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where everything comes from and where it is headed? You do know that you are in a period of transition and wish for nothing as much as to transform yourself.”3
Before I say more, I want to first say that solid arguments can be made for wanting to exclude anxiety from one’s life, and as one prone to melancholy, I know that it’s possible to entertain the shadows more than it is healthy. But with these realities in mind, I can’t help but nod at the heart of this message which is, that transformation is a squeeze. It’s uncomfortable and lonely. We are easily distracted by trying to figure out why the squeeze is happening, and are eager to declare (prematurely) its purpose.
Last summer when I knew that change was more than a whisper on the wind, when I understood that I had an opportunity to lean in to an unusual invitation to do things differently than I was used to, I thought it would be exciting. Fun, even. I tried to face it enthusiastically. And for a while, that’s most of how I experienced those rumblings.
But these days it’s hitting different. Grief ebbs and flows. It’s hard to make changes that put you out of your comfort zone. It’s hard to say no to good opportunities because you know that saying yes this time is actually not the right move.
Discernment is difficult.
Being quiet is challenging.
Waiting is boring and frustrating.
And with all that swirling, it’s challenging to resist critiquing yourself in the process.
Am I doing this right? (Whatever this even is?)
Am I missing something?
Did I hear that right?
What am I doing?
What have I done?
As the storm deepens outside my windows I read Rilke’s words of encouragement,
“Do not scrutinize yourself too closely. Do not draw conclusions too quickly from that which is happening to you.”
Just as I was spiraling, Rilke’s words reminded me to pause—to stop trying to draw conclusions in the middle of this moment. There will be time later to reflect back on this season, to parse out what is worth keeping, and what is worth letting go of. But today is not that day.
Today, the rain falls on dry ground. We will see what comes of it in due season.
I’ll be hosting the Art portion of the Long Table Retreat with my friend Summer Joy Gross, at The Black Barn in Long Grove PA. in September. Registration is open—come join us!
- just released Rise: A Journal For Perseverance, a new journal in her growing collection. I have one and everything about it is lovely, from the gorgeous Pantone color of the year (“Dawn”), and the gold on the cover, to the lay flat design, this journal might be my new fav.
The latest issue of Cultivating is out now. The theme this season is “Courage”, so if you’re feeling a little anxious, or in need of some strength to help you get through the season, borrow a little courage from the many writers offering their encouragement to you.
I’m an avid podcast listener and recently discovered this one. I love the relaxed format and open-ended conversations, and honestly, I love conversations about things we can learn from failure. As the saying goes, “Failure is our greatest teacher.” Listen with earbuds in if you’ve got kids are around.
How’s your summer is shaping up so far, and what you’re reading/listing to these days?
I’ll say right now that we don’t always know change is coming. Sometimes we are sideswiped by spectacular, brutal turns of events that we couldn’t have ever imagined. Life can change in a split-second—every human knows this already—or, God help them, will know it soon enough.
Letters To A Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke
That last storm image. Wow, it’s breathtaking. What a reminder that storms are layered. Like change, they contain a multitude don’t they? I’m writing about the same subjects these days, too. Thank you for sharing the Rilke passages. It’s been a long time since I’ve read Letters and you’ve inspired me to revisit. Thanks Kris.
Kris, sometimes I feel like you and I are walking a similar path, but in two different time zones. I can relate to so much of this.
The word God gave me for this year was "change", and I've been trying my darndest to figure out what it means.
Your reflections here are super helpful and encouraging, reminding me to not try so hard to figure everything out, letting God take the time He needs to reveal it to me.
Ps true confession, I've never read Rilke's letters to a poet. I really need to get that book!