Wing-Walking

“All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.”

~ Havelock Ellis

There’s something called the Wing-Walker principle.

Often featured stunts in airshows of the past, wing-walkers were those daredevil folk willing to crawl out of the cockpit of an airborne biplane, and walk on the wing. Those watching from the ground, as well as the walker on the wing, knew that imminent death was a possibility.

The wing-walker principle, as explained to me, is that you never let go of one handhold until you have another one to grab on to. Makes good sense to me.

This same principle holds true on more than an airplane wing.

Life often feels as precarious as being out on an airplane wing, high above the ground, and the wind ready to blow you to kingdom come. There are times when it feels like you won’t survive, and that death is a real possibility if you can’t find something to hold onto.

When big change is upon us, what we’ve held onto in the past may not be able to sustain us where we are going, and In order to make our way forward, we have to find the next handhold.

Not the next ten.

Not even the next two.

Just the next thing to grab onto that will help us to hold steady in the gale force winds that threaten to push us off into thin air. That handhold could be the next phone call, decision, step, action, or piece of new information that will allow us to let go of the old, and begin to take hold of the new.

One handhold at a time, until we are again on solid ground.

Sit Down and Rest

 “God saw all that He had made, and it was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning--the sixth day...By the seventh day God had finished the work He had been doing; so on the seventh day He rested from all his work.”

~ Genesis 1:31 & 2:2

When I stepped into the atrium of the Glyptoteket (an art museum in Copenhagen, which, incidentally, is funded by the Carlsberg Foundation - as in the beer) the space took my breath away. There was something about it that made it impossible for me to do anything but sit down, and rest. 

We eventually continued our tour of the museum, lingering in front of sculptures from the ancient world. But that atrium space kept calling me back. To sit down, and rest. The air was soft, the light gentle, and the temperature warm and cool all at once. It felt like sitting in the midst of God’s newly created world. The world that was proclaimed good. Very good in fact. The one in which to remember to sit down, and rest.

In the Biblical story of creation, God brings the world into being, creating the heavens, the earth, and everything in them. As She looked over His work at the end of each day, She would proclaim it good. Very good in fact. And then...and then...on the seventh day, He does the unthinkable...She sits down (taking a little literary license here) and rests. 

We are all tiny little creators, bringing our own worlds into being. Like the creator, we work to create the world in which we live. But unlike the creator, we often forget to look out over our work and proclaim it good. Very good in fact. Also unlke the creator, we forget to sit down, (same license taken here) and rest. 

Sitting in that atrium, I was reminded of my desire to do good work. To work hard at doing work worthy of being called good. Very good in fact. The kind of work after which it feels good to sit down, and rest.

Very good work.

Followed by rest.

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. World without end. Amen.

Winter Outside. Winter Inside.

It's early in the morning, and as is our custom, my husband Tom and I are taking time to do a little reading, attempt to meditate, and savor that first sacred cup of coffee. The view out our great room window, however, is depressing. It has been raining for days. Never quite cold enough to snow. Never quite warm enough to melt the dirty white patches underneath the pine trees, remnants of that first pristine snowfall on Christmas Eve. The dismal weather set in a few weeks ago, and isn't showing any signs of lifting. 

Dark. Gray. Gloomy.

I have an interior sense of gloom and sadness that has settled in, and it isn't showing any signs of lifting either. Familiar with depression, this scares me just a little. It's hard to find the motivation to do almost anything, and the pressure to just do something is building. A month of 2018 is already behind me, and what do I have to show for it? What if the words don't start to flow onto the page again? What if the ideas I've been nurturing never flourish? What if the seeds I've been planting never put down roots and become something alive and vital?  

The view out our window only reinforces my internal dismal weather pattern.

Dark. Gray. Gloomy.

Wrapping my hands more tightly around my coffee cup, I say to Tom, "My insides feel exactly like it looks outside". 

Dark. Gray. Gloomy.

He doesn't say anything, and my internal ground-fog  settles in lower.  As is his way, he is slow to speak, and when he finally breaks the silence, here is what he says;  "This is the only time of the year that the earth gets to just be. To simply lay there and soak up the rain. It is almost as if you can hear the earth exhale a sigh of relief at the forced rest of the winter months. Nothing to do but quietly receive." Tom is a geologist and has spent his life studying the ground beneath our feet. As a man who has lived his life close to the earth, he has learned to recognize her ancient wisdom, her deep knowing that there is a time for everything, and a season to every purpose under heaven. 

I try to let his words sink in, and attempt to do nothing but quietly receive the perspective he is offering. Looking out the window again, something shifts inside. I begin to let go of the fear that the sun will never break through my clouds, and find instead a small handhold of faith that in good time, it will. Rather than anxiously hold my breath, I slowly exhale, and find a quiet sense of relief. Instead of grasping at straws, I take a stab at receiving the gifts of quiet and stillness that this dark, gray, and gloomy day might offer. 

There is a time for everything, and a season to every purpose under heaven. Including this one:

Dark. Gray. Gloomy.

And it is not for naught. It is for the purpose of preparing the earth for what is still to come, nourishing her for the work of the coming season. Looking out the window again it dawns on me that it would be wise to listen to this ancient wisdom. Heading upstairs to my desk I decide that this must be the time to faithfully show up at my desk, trusting that the words will again begin to flow.  It is the time to purposefully water the ideas that are quietly germinating. And, this is the season to nurture the seeds that are too busy putting down roots to show themselves above the quiet earth in which they have been planted. 

There is a time for everything, and a season to every purpose under heaven.

Amen.

Time For New Stories

As I reflect on this new year, I want to share a singular thought that keeps coming to me—2018: The Year of New Stories.

I’ve decided to consider what old stories are ready to be put to bed. Those stories that might have served me in the past, or maybe never did. The stories that I don't want to take with me into 2018. And, with more room in my heart, mind, and soul, what new stories might I be able to write? To tell? To create? To live? 

Our stories can keep us stuck in old patterns, and confine us to small dreams and fruitless actions. Or, they can open the doors to new ways of being in the world and in relationship with ourselves and with one another. New stories offer us a vision of how things could be, and invite us to take daring and necessary leaps of faith. Sometimes they even weave new patterns in our hearts that allow us to make peace for the first time with who we are in all of our glory and our brokenness. 

As 2018 begins, I find my heart overflowing with gratitude for you...for those of you who are near and dear, those with whom I have only recently crossed paths for the first time, and, for those of you I may never meet but who share this planet we all call home. You matter in so many ways, and my life is abundantly filled with love, deep joy, and meaning because of what each of you bring to the world.

As human beings we are storytellers at heart, and we see ourselves in one another's stories. May we be bold, and bring forth stories worthy of telling for years to come.

With abundant gratitude.

Molly

Photo: Tom Pierson