If any of you is lacking in wisdom, ask God, who gives to all generously and ungrudgingly, and it will be given you. – James 1:5
I’m still overwhelmed. Even consistent meditation cannot extract me easily from over-obligation. I wonder if I can ask for wisdom, retroactively?
The foolishness I reel from today actually rolled out of my mouth nine months ago or more, when I said yes to too many projects. When my calendar pages looked so clean and clear. I forgot that they really, already, had obligations attached – like PTA meetings, and science fair projects, and a mother-in-law’s birthday, things that should carry the joy of relationship, but, in the context of too much, become one more burden that I might drop. Silly me, foolish me… to think that I might forget that I would be living day-to-day realities in even the unmarked calendar months ahead. Continue reading
I am deep within the woods, encompassed by green and damp and shadow. The quiet hum of nature surrounds me and the path I walk opens up just a bit to a small clearing with a stump in the middle: a forest altar. I have not seen this particular one before, but know their holy purpose.
As long as my breath is in me and the spirit of God is in my nostrils, my lips will not speak falsehood, and my tongue will not utter deceit. – Job 27: 3-4
I am in a cold wood. The wind is brutal, but I’ve found a small enclave where the rock and brush surround me close enough to form a shield. I hunker down and hold myself close, burying my head between my knees, leaning back against a large tree. I breathe. Once. Twice. Now a deeper breath. My heart slows a bit. I begin to relax. 
When tragedy occurs, it seems we must hurry to find someone or something to blame, removing our own guilt and complicity, our responsibility for response, by pointing outside ourselves. What else are we to do with our anger and fear, but place it at a safe distance?
My fingers are cold; my whole being is cold. The warmth of my own blood has retreated deep within me and I so I sit, cuddled up beneath the oak tree at the top of the meadow. My blood runs slowly through my veins, sluggish. It doesn’t want to venture out to bring life to my limbs. I huddle down, and try to draw warmth from myself, but there is none to draw. I feel tired. Sleep beacons me, calling to me to retreat from my day before it has even begun. 
Physics is right.
Quiet Hope 