A Communal Liturgy of Hope

When you look for words and find only quiet

Part of what it means to be a soul minimalist, for me, is to write so that griefs, celebrations, milestones, and other life experiences have a way out, so all of the input has a place to go. Sometimes it works out that way. And other times, like today, I have to write as a discipline, to see what’s there, to work my way out, to start.

I’ve been planning to get myself and as many of my people into the Path of Totality for the solar eclipse for seven years now. It’s been marked on the calendar since the last total eclipse in North America in August 2017. We booked our hotel room a year ago. We took Luke out of school for two days to make the trip. We were ready.

A selfie from the worst possible angle. I must really love you.

As we watched the final sliver of the sun disappear behind the moon through our eclipse glasses, every cell in our bodies facing the same direction, every agenda on hold, every conversation halted, every concern of our lives suspended, we took the glasses off as the view through them got dark. We stared straight up at that black circle moon and that starburst sun, surrounded by sunset in every direction.

And can I tell you I spontaneously erupted in laughter and also glee, my body compelled to offer something outside of logic?

And can I also tell you that I kind of already forget what it was like?

How can I both fully remember and also almost forget? These words have helped the most:

“I will never forget those moments from yesterday as long as I live and yet, as soon as the first sliver of light returned, the memory of darkness had already begun loosening its grip.”

—Lore Wilbert

The crescent shadows minute after totality.

I’m so glad Lore wrote this because it affirmed my own experience. I will never forget and also I may not remember.

In that small acknowledgement, other loves and losses come to mind: how we can’t go home again, how we can’t fully remember our loved ones who have died, how we can’t re-live the I do, the I love you, the baby years, the first hello, the final goodbye.

Learning to live in this right now moment has healed us in so many ways by keeping us present and aware, tending to our nervous system, being grounded in the here.

But living in this moment also means letting go of the one that just was, even when that moment was spectacular.

You couldn’t quite catch it all the way. And now it’s gone.

Yesterday as I packed up my bags for the next leg of my trip, as I chatted with the Uber driver who, BY THE WAY, was DRIVING during the eclipse yesterday (“If all these people are coming in for the eclipse, I may as well make some money during it.” He’s not wrong), as I caught up on a few work things and a few family things and prepared myself for the next several days of teaching, I still carried a hush on the inside from it all.

It was wonderful. I was tired. Some of us were together. Others were missing. I wanted to capture it all. I knew I couldn’t. I was mildly concerned about damaging my eyes. I was annoyed by the sound of the highway nearby. I was grateful for a clear, sunny day.

This week’s episode of The Next Right Thing is all about The Kind of Quiet that Wakes us Up: the quiet of healing, the quiet of grief, the quiet of waiting.

Sometimes, it’s the quiet held together on purpose to pay attention, to offer direction, to listen for action. This week, the kind of quiet that is waking me up is the internal hush that came over me and millions of others as we watched the total solar eclipse.

Even in the midst of the eclipse-themed meals and cocktails, the t-shirts and the key chains, the activities, festivals, music, and posters. Even in a world that seems intent on lulling us to distracted sleep, there continues to be a sacred invitation to wake up.

“There is so much around us that is trying to put us to sleep. In the quiet, we wake up.”

—Wess Daniels

In some way we are all the town, making our eclipse-themed desserts, taking the invitation to quiet awe and adding music and face painting and group games at four. We’ve got the t-shirt and we’ve made the playlist. We are decked and dazzling.

But if you, like me, sense like some parts of your life, inner or outer, are feeling a bit over bedazzled, or if you’re looking for words to explain it or figure it out, maybe try looking for the quiet you’re avoiding.

Because there is a way of living that lulls us to sleep with activity, distraction, entertainment, worry. Sometimes even my own compulsion to explain, understand, and capture an experience can be its own kind of distraction. And what I need to wake me up isn't an alarm clock but a whisper, a waiting silence, a quiet, communal expectation.

The kind of quiet that wakes us up could be the kind that accompanies us in the midst of our busy life as we wait for something over which we have no control.

It's the kind of listening we do when we are exhausted and want despreately to believe that God is doing something on our behalf.

It’s the kind that surrounds us, without and within, as we wait for our body to heal on a timeline that is always longer than we'd hoped.

And it's the kind we may hold communally as we listen together for how we might be called to action in response to love.

This week the work of the people was to watch the sky, a communal liturgy of hope. I loved it and experienced it and also at times felt like an observer of myself rather than my actual self.

When you live your life expecting to be quietly disappointed, it can be hard to celebrate when the good thing actually happens, when the beauty is unveiled for real, when you ask and you get a yes.

This, too, is something I need to spend some time with.

As you discern what your next right thing might be today, consider this one question: Where am I avoiding silence?

The next time you notice yourself reaching for the phone, pushing down emotion, or clicking the play button again, consider what came to mind just before the reach, the push, the click.

Here’s to noticing without judgement, shame, or solutions. I’m always glad you’re here.

epf

When was the last time an experience hushed you on the inside? When do you notice yourself avoiding silence on the outside?