Stillness as Adventure
Words have not been jumping out at me lately.
While my best friends set out for grand adventures, sign up for risky travels, and board planes, trains, and buses, I make my way down a path that is inward. My adventure is to get smaller; I beg my roots to grow down and weave me into this one space of soil. Atlanta. Seminary. A smaller space of ground than I feel comfortable in. A narrow goal that doesn't sound like a grand adventure at all.
It is harder for me to stay put than it would be to wander.
And in the silence that comes from the ordinary, I sit and wait for words to come. They don't.
Somehow I have this sense that great writing comes from great adventure. All of mine has, I think. So I wait to speak until I have something to say, and the words retreat.
My soul's eyes strain on the horizon for a glimpse of Russia. It's been so long. Even a destination like Portland or Charlotte, El Paso or Vancouver. The Redwoods and Sequoias of California. The beach or the Rockies. There's gas in my car and music on the radio and it's too cold to stay in Atlanta any longer.
Sit still. I sit here and grow more still, letting those thoughts float off to their destinations without me. No revelatory words fill their space in the silence, so I remember how to refocus on the tasks at hand. Today I write a paper. I read about ethics from Bonhoeffer and evil from Girard. I manage a yoga studio by ordering paper towels and answering questions. I let my world get small and leave the future unplanned, not because I don't have dreams, but because I belong in the now.
When I first moved to Atlanta I was firmly planted everywhere else. I believed in the dream of graduate school as a stepping stone to the rest of my life, as a brief layover on my way to better things. I never intended to set down my suitcase, just explore for a while until the next plane took off. But summer turned to fall turned to winter, and now the trees are blooming again, and the rush of newness is fading as I settle into a routine that isn't glamorous or exciting. It's just life. Life in the midst of Georgia pines and southern skyscrapers in the city where traffic is everything and people are from everywhere. My adventure is to stay put. My risk is to get really settled here.
The most meaningful chapters of my story have been set in Russian mountains, Israeli deserts, and Tennessee hills, so this one will be quieter. I will learn that movement can only really come from authentic stillness, and words do not come from the loud chatter of exotic locations. At least, not always. They can come from the silence too. And if they don't, I'll be still anyway. Because my propensity for fearless travel is just one expression of my freedom; another is to grow roots down deep until no revelatory words come, just the silence of waiting to hear the Lord tell me today's quiet adventure.
I met someone last weekend who didn't know I'm new to Atlanta. He said he assumed I was a Georgia girl, and a smile spread across my face, because in that moment I could feel my feet planted firmly in the small space of ground beneath me.
While my best friends set out for grand adventures, sign up for risky travels, and board planes, trains, and buses, I make my way down a path that is inward. My adventure is to get smaller; I beg my roots to grow down and weave me into this one space of soil. Atlanta. Seminary. A smaller space of ground than I feel comfortable in. A narrow goal that doesn't sound like a grand adventure at all.
It is harder for me to stay put than it would be to wander.
And in the silence that comes from the ordinary, I sit and wait for words to come. They don't.
Somehow I have this sense that great writing comes from great adventure. All of mine has, I think. So I wait to speak until I have something to say, and the words retreat.
My soul's eyes strain on the horizon for a glimpse of Russia. It's been so long. Even a destination like Portland or Charlotte, El Paso or Vancouver. The Redwoods and Sequoias of California. The beach or the Rockies. There's gas in my car and music on the radio and it's too cold to stay in Atlanta any longer.
Sit still. I sit here and grow more still, letting those thoughts float off to their destinations without me. No revelatory words fill their space in the silence, so I remember how to refocus on the tasks at hand. Today I write a paper. I read about ethics from Bonhoeffer and evil from Girard. I manage a yoga studio by ordering paper towels and answering questions. I let my world get small and leave the future unplanned, not because I don't have dreams, but because I belong in the now.
When I first moved to Atlanta I was firmly planted everywhere else. I believed in the dream of graduate school as a stepping stone to the rest of my life, as a brief layover on my way to better things. I never intended to set down my suitcase, just explore for a while until the next plane took off. But summer turned to fall turned to winter, and now the trees are blooming again, and the rush of newness is fading as I settle into a routine that isn't glamorous or exciting. It's just life. Life in the midst of Georgia pines and southern skyscrapers in the city where traffic is everything and people are from everywhere. My adventure is to stay put. My risk is to get really settled here.
The most meaningful chapters of my story have been set in Russian mountains, Israeli deserts, and Tennessee hills, so this one will be quieter. I will learn that movement can only really come from authentic stillness, and words do not come from the loud chatter of exotic locations. At least, not always. They can come from the silence too. And if they don't, I'll be still anyway. Because my propensity for fearless travel is just one expression of my freedom; another is to grow roots down deep until no revelatory words come, just the silence of waiting to hear the Lord tell me today's quiet adventure.
I met someone last weekend who didn't know I'm new to Atlanta. He said he assumed I was a Georgia girl, and a smile spread across my face, because in that moment I could feel my feet planted firmly in the small space of ground beneath me.
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