11 May 2022

I’ve spent more time in the past week relaxing, just sitting and looking and thinking, than perhaps I ever have, even as a child. I have lived most of my life in such a hurry, with an unnameable pressure propelling me forward, a voice in the back of my mind telling me that I’m running out of time. But for the first time, I have a lot of time. And I’m allowing myself to embrace, in the words of the mantra tattooed on my inner arm, this, here, now. At present, I’m sitting on a woven chair outside the house of the wise woman who first shared that mantra with me. I just took a long nap, and now I’m sipping black coffee with sugar (one of the new things pregnancy has given me is a love for sweet and a dislike of bitter) with a chapati and a stack of books next to me, watching monkeys leap from tree to tree, some with small babies clutching onto their bellies for dear life.

I’ve learned a lot in the past couple years, and it feels I’ve been purposefully led to a juncture in which I have the chance to decide what type of person I want to be. It’s been a dynamic season, to say the least — a time of much change within myself, in my relationships and in the world at large.

About a year into graduate school at UofM, I admitted to myself that I hated it and was kind of miserable. I felt inadequate and intimidated by all my classmates who were passionate about the topics we were learning about, who seemed so determined to build careers in the environmental field and make a difference in that way. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about the issues or want to fix them; I just couldn’t force myself to share the same passion or vision for my life. I was tired of school and didn’t have the drive and enthusiasm about it that I had throughout undergrad. And I still had another year to go.

Around that time, I also met Ben, who made me the opposite of miserable. I love food, especially breakfast. I always clear my plate. But for the first time in my life, when he picked me up and took me out to breakfast, I hardly touched my country skillet; I was enchanted and just wanted to talk and listen. I knew then that he was probably it for me.

3 months ago, I took a pregnancy test, and it was positive. I immediately called my sister, panicking. She told me to breathe, and that it was going to be okay. Then I went and told Ben, and we decided we were going to figure this out together. Those initial few weeks after finding out were rough, but from the start, we’ve just been grateful for each other and for the fact that we had known we wanted a family together.

We also decided early on that we weren’t going to stop living our lives or having dreams because of this change. Which is why, at 17 weeks pregnant, I’m sitting here in Mukono, Uganda, on a solo pilgrimage in my favorite place in the world. I left Uganda in March of 2020 amidst the worldwide panic about Coronavirus, leaving what had been one of the best seasons of my life to enter what would become one of the hardest.

In a poem that I love, Mary Oliver narrates her morning walk around a pond, where she observes the moss and the oaks and the crows and, from these natural things, gleans insights into abstractions like patience and dreams. She says “if the doors of my heart ever close, I am as good as dead.” And now I can’t help but wonder if I’ve spent most of my hurried life with my heart-doors only half open, my observations often distracted, my reflections often fleeting.

God has given many hints and instructions about slowing down, resting, being still, contemplative, patient, grateful, worshipful. Those are the instructions I’ve most enjoyed reading or thinking about, but in practice have often neglected, giving more of my efforts to virtues like working hard, using my time wisely, or being more disciplined — not bad things in themselves, but dangerous if unchecked.

In her book Liturgy of the Ordinary: Sacred Practices in Everyday Life, Tish Harrison Warren writes about this call to be still, saying “I have to learn to surrender, to give up my slimy illusion of control, and relax into beauty… It takes strength to enjoy the world, and we must exercise a kind of muscle to revel and delight… We must take up the practice — the privilege and responsibility — of noticing, savoring, reveling.”

And so I sit in Uganda and ponder anew how I want to live. Whether it’s the way some houses are built over the course of many years, sitting unfinished with rebar sticking up out of concrete slabs until the next round of construction can be funded; or the way the cashier at the grocery store shuffles slowly to another counter to borrow a card reader and I realize this extra 2 minutes is costing me nothing yet making my blood boil a little; or the unfathomable abundance of greenery and life that is familiar with the patterns of rain and sunshine here, I realize I’m in a place with amazing teachers about the stillness and patience I so desire to integrate into my being.

When I was a little kid, my favorite cartoon was Peter Pan. I sympathized with him; I didn’t want to grow up. I wanted to run around barefoot in the Arkansas grass forever, climbing trees and playing make believe with my friends and siblings. I’ve remained sentimental and nostalgic in my adult life, which is why this new season feels so daunting. A few months ago, I was just a young woman imagining what my life might become. And now, suddenly, I must let go of my independence and freedom. I have about 5 months left before I’m a mother, before it’s never ‘just me’ again, and I’m a little bit terrified about that.

I think back to the night before my first trip to Uganda in January 2016, and I can still remember exactly how I felt. I laid in bed that night, excited and ready to start a new chapter, to ‘find myself’ in a way. I had my whole life before me, and the world felt so open. This time, Uganda, round 3, is different. I laid in bed the night before leaving, aware that this time would be a sort of closing of a chapter, the chapter that began with that first trip. I did find myself, learned the joy of solitude, and spent a good 6-or-so years in that. This trip is a bookend on a season of my life marked by independence, and there is some sadness in that. But there’s beauty and rest in it too. It’s what John O’Donohue calls a threshold, “a frontier that divides two different territories, rhythms and atmospheres.” And though there is sadness in closing a door, I’m also being rejuvenated and reminded of all that I get to take with me through the next door of my life. I don’t have to completely let go of myself and my identity; it will just look a little different now.

So I mean it when I say this trip is a kind of pilgrimage, a coming back to myself, a re-centering and a sense of closure. I could see this pregnancy as forcing me to grow up very quickly, and that is the reality. But a concurrent reality is that this is also a chance to see the world afresh, to relearn a childlike sense of reverence and wonder, and to give rest and stillness another try. Sometimes I still hear that panicky voice telling me I’m running out of time, but I’m learning to make peace with it. Of course, we are all running out of time, and we don’t know how much we each have left. But recently I’m finding that fact to be more of a comfort than a warning. It’s simply an invitation to be present to the day before me. By the grace of God, I can truthfully say I am at peace, full of gratitude and wonder for all that my life is becoming. I’m thankful for the 5 more months I’ve been given to allow and nurture these changes in my mind and soul, knowing I get to carry them with me into motherhood and give my family my fully open and present heart.

~ ~~

Excerpts from “Thresholds” by John O’Donohue, from the beautiful book To Bless the Space Between Us:

A threshold is not a simple boundary; it is a frontier that divides two different territories, rhythms and atmospheres.

At this threshold a great complexity of emotion comes alive: confusion, fear, excitement, sadness, hope.

It is wise in your own life to be able to recognize and acknowledge the key thresholds: to take your time, to feel all the varieties of presence that accrue there,
to listen inwards with complete attention
until you hear the inner voice calling you forward.

To acknowledge and cross a new threshold is always a challenge.

It demands courage and also a sense of trust in whatever is emerging.

This becomes essential when a threshold opens suddenly in front of you, one for which you had no preparation.

Because we are so engaged with the world,
we usually forget how fragile life can be and how vulnerable we always are.

It takes only a couple of seconds for a life to change irreversibly.

Suddenly you stand on completely strange ground and a new course of life has to be embraced.

You look back at the life you have lived up to a few hours before, and it suddenly seems so far away.

No threshold need be a threat, but rather an invitation and a promise.

Whatever comes, the great sacrament of life will remain faithful to us, blessing us always with visible signs of invisible grace.

We merely need to trust.