Ponder: to consider something deeply and thoroughly; meditate Пятница (PYAHT-nee-tsuh): Friday in Russian-------------------
Last week was our 27th wedding anniversary and we celebrated it at our happy place. A little house on the Oregon coast. It's a place we've been to in years past; where we go each October. It's familiar. It feels like home.
We have a routine. We know what the house does and doesn't provide, so we bring a few essentials. We stop and get groceries on our way in and we ready the house when we get there. And the next day, we go to our favorite coastal bookshop and puzzle store. And we sit on the deck that faces the ocean. And if it's raining, like it was last weekend, we sit in the sunroom at the back of the house. And watch the ocean. Sometimes we play Scrabble. We often read or write. We always talk. Sometimes I do a puzzle.
We usually have our yearly business meeting at some point--where we talk about the practice and any issues we need to work on, change, etc.
What we really do when we are there, is rest.
Last weekend, I spent hours--literally hours--sitting in my sunroom, because it was stormy. I sat and watched the ocean. I napped to the sounds of the waves crashing. I prepared meals and did some of those necessary housekeeping tasks, but I was always drawn back to my spot.
In the moment when the sun finally peeked through the clouds, I went outside and stood underneath the beams. Letting them warm my face. And I felt peace.
The Doctor often joined me and we would sit together in silence, just watching and listening. Holding hands, snuggling, and sometimes sharing a thought or two.
I had closed the doors to the television cupboard. I played no music. I was barely on social media (and didn't miss it). I sat in stillness.
Stillness. To sit in stillness is such a joyful experience to me. Mostly because those moments are so fleeting in my busy life and bustling home.
Sound is all around: vehicles passing by, appliances that hum even if they're not actively working, the dog, the humans who live here, and the lights, all emit sound. The energy that encompasses our presence can be restless and disrupting to others. The quiet resonates. Even the act of being needed; by people, creatures, chores, and events creates sound. Being needed is often deafening.
While I understand that some people crave sound and it helps them; white noise, background noise, music on headphones, I am not one of them. The Doctor sleeps with white noise, I sleep with ear plugs.
I hadn't realized for a long time how much that sound and noise was intrusive to me. Until I had a weekend to bask in the stillness of time.
Last weekend, I read no books (I did purchase several though...). I did no puzzles (but, I did purchase one...). When I say I literally spent hours watching the ocean, it's the truth. I watched and observed and listened. And I heard the ocean say to me that I needed to find moments of stillness in my daily life. That until I could live next to the ocean permanently, I needed to find it in my heart wherever I was.
That is so difficult. So very difficult. I am landlocked in Idaho. There is no ocean here. We have beautiful rivers that aren't terribly far away and a lake, but no ocean. And going to these places every day or even every week isn't always possible.
I came home last week and I sat outside with Cocoa. Because I had missed her and she had missed me and she loves it when I sit in my swing and she lies on the patio surveying her domain. But as I sat there, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that the wind in the tree was the ocean. That the sound of cars on the busy road a block away was the waves. And I couldn't. It wasn't the same.
I came home and laundry beckoned, and the trash needed to be put out (which The Doctor and The Artist did) and the office phone had messages that needed answering before we went into work on Tuesday and I found myself resentful of these intrusions, rather than being grateful that I had clothes to wear and a practice that supports our family and allows us to get away to the ocean.
And I cried. Because I missed it so much. Because while I'm grateful for the work that supports our family, I despise healthcare and other than some really nice patients, I find so little value or satisfaction in it. This week was especially trying because of insurance companies and difficulties in getting issues resolved. And I know that being negative about working in healthcare isn't going to help my search for stillness, for peace. To find that, I can acknowledge the difficult and try and change it, but I can't focus on it. Camping out in the valley of despair gets you nowhere. Trust me.
So, I am going on a journey. A journey to find moments of stillness every day. To find it sitting outside with Cocoa and being grateful for the clean air and the breeze in the trees and the swing that my children gave to me. To find it at work caring for patients, but then keeping the office at the office and each weekend taking a drive with The Doctor, if we can't take the whole weekend. And driving to the river and sitting there listening. To find it being with my family and talking and enjoying each other and being grateful for the laughter.
To make a better, more consistent, effort at meditation and journaling.
To find it while sitting at my table, working on my latest puzzle and listening to the sounds of the ocean in my earbuds.
The search for stillness is going to be a process, I think. It's not going to be a one-time miracle of awakening. It will be many. But I will find it. And I will embrace it when I do.
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