Words emerge from silence. I’ve been finding my roots in silence again. Knit from 7 to 8 today. Candy said, “You’re here bright and early! Are you planning to finish your project today or something?” I just laughed.
C. stopped by on her way back from SPIN, her stationary bicycle class at the Y, and sat on the wet bench with me. She spread out a page of newspaper ads for me to sit on while I debriefed her about my lovely weekend in Poulsbo, WA. She said that our sick neighbor had gotten the results from the scans, and her tumor had shrunk by 1/3. “She’s devastated,” C. said and explained that she had been hoping for news that the tumor had completely disappeared. “She had her own calender, expectations of when it would happen.” Letting go of the stories we tell ourselves about the future is probably the hardest form of relinquishment…I’m terrible at it. All I can do is notice when I’m drifting into dreamland, and jerk myself back to reality again. It requires a tremendous effort of will not to borrow happiness from the future to sustain one’s self in the present. But I don’t think true happiness is possible without this concentrated effort which Walker Percy compares to threading a needle. When I let go of my dreams for the future, my hands open to the bounty of the present. Lately, these gifts have overwhelmed me with joy. In the monastery, we called this attitude towards life, “accepting what is given.” A certain pliability in response to life’s movements is essential. Fiat mihi. Be it unto me according to thy will.