On Being Mortal
[a few all saints sunday + [more] post-sabbatical words for the journey shared during our 11.5.23 gathering]
How does it feel to be mortal when you believed you had a place to go?
Some far-off heavenly portal where you could finally learn to take it slow
Take it slow, now
Take it slow
Savor the moment to the marrow
Sink your teeth into the bone
I know that they said the road was narrow
But there's no reason you can't take it slow
— Audrey Assad
We cannot control the volatile tides that life brings, but maybe we can learn to build better boats.
— Stephen Lewis, Another Way
… ground your hope in the Eternal.
— Psalm 130:7a, The Voice
On Monday morning, July 24th, after months of preparation, I woke up to my first morning of a 3-month sabbatical. I had originally planned to get the heck out of dodge that day, but I waited too long to book a room at my favorite retreat center so I decided to start sabbatical at Atlantic beach. Just me, my beach chair and Lessons in Chemistry, the fiction novel I would read just for fun (for those who don’t know, I have a non-fiction addiction!).
As I started the car ride, I plugged in my sabbatical Spotify playlist, and before I even hit the Matthew’s Bridge, the tears began to fall. Weepy is a word I would use to describe many of my solo drives during this time away. I was mostly weepy out of an enormous sense of gratitude, but there was more to it than that. I realized that in starting sabbatical, I was entering the wilderness. So much of what had defined me & given structure and meaning to my days was being set to the side. Someone else would tend to it.
Because I had not been in the habit of letting go, it felt a little like I was being put in timeout. Apparently, time out is not just for toddlers. It‘s not just for sitting alone and thinking about what you’ve done.
It’s for helping us remember what it means to be human.
How does it feel to be mortal? I heard Audrey Assad sing this question as I made my way to the beach that first morning, then later through the Sierra Nevada Mountains & the majestic redwoods & toward the most beautiful prayer labyrinth I’ve ever visited on the coast of Santa Barbara & to many other places. It was the most magical wilderness experience, and yet it was still the wilderness for me. It was still that uncomfortable place people have entered since the beginning of time to remember what it means to be human.
We have spent the whole last year around a theme of reimagining faith, life together & a better way of being human here, and it was in stopping all of the planning & doing that I received a crash course. Here are a few lessons learned there:
To be human is to recognize what is enough. Being mortal not only means we will die, it implies our time, our bodies, our energy & our attention are limited.
Travel teaches this. Everywhere I or we traveled together, there was so much to explore and no way we could do it all. We had to prioritize, to pick & choose, to admit when we were too tired to do another thing, to say “this was enough & this was for us” whether we did what everyone said was a “must do” or not. To be fully human is to know enough - a part of being human that if ignored, will kill us and is killing our planet.
To be human is also to be ourselves. Anything else is just exhausting.
On sabbatical, I had a creative director (Ally Markotich) and over 6 sessions we journaled, reflected and created together. I named my muse “The Midwife of Presence & Possibility” and seeing her come to life has helped me come home to who I am and what is mine to be & do.
What helped me see more clearly was removing myself from so much mental (mostly social media) clutter. It helped me recognize how much I can still be swayed by what I see other people doing or by the expectations I think people have of pastors or by my own desire to be seen in a certain light. Apart from all that noise, I found that there are really only a few things that are mine to do. I also realized that while I value deep connection, I do not value constant connection - in fact, it wears me down.
To be human is to meander. I don’t need to tell you that life is not linear, but maybe you are like me and need to be reminded that some of the best moments are unplanned. I took a long, windy path to visit a little chapel in the woods near Lake Tahoe, I took an “Alternative Route” to drive through the Avenue of the Giants (a road lined with giant redwoods - I pulled off tons of times & stood in silent awe - one time I heard in my heart: I brought you here for this).
Along that same route, I sped passed an exit with a sign that said “Drive Thru Tree” and did a U-turn because why not?! As I squeezed my oversized rental SUV through this giant tree and heard the side mirror scrape, all I thought was how am I going to explain this extra Budget Rental Car Company charge to Bob, our Well treasurer extraordinaire? (which thankfully did not need to happen). I was reminded that being human means leaving more room at the margins to explore, to daydream, to go slow, to do u-turns & to just be. It means giving ourselves more grace to move at our own pace & to stop comparing ourselves to everyone else.
To be human is also to admit we are not as in control as we think we are. Not only were my well-laid-out plans rearranged many times, I also found myself more often being led, instead of being in the lead. Whether painting, being taught archery, or being guided through the Sistine Chapel, I learned to be on the receiving end, which is exactly where I belong anyway. I am always and ever only one who is receiving something. Sometimes what I receive is meant to be shared; sometimes, it’s not. I am not in control, but I can be a conduit.
When I am being human, I know that I can’t save anyone from the turbulence. All I can do is my little part to help us build better boats. I can keep paying attention, keep practicing, and keep making space for us to ground ourselves in the Eternal.
In the wilderness, at times it felt like nothing was happening, and I was just out there having fun (and there was plenty of fun) and well, that alone would have been enough. Oh, that’s the other thing I heard again and again and again:
this - this life - the days we have on this planet - they are meant to be enjoyed!