The day after my back roads experience, I sat in the same glider chair in which I rocked my babies, and stared out my bedroom window. Instead of wide-open spaces, my view consisted of our pitiful yard, on which my husband works so hard every summer to make grass grow; our neighbors’ houses; and a dense thicket of trees. I pondered when the madness to create a bigger, better life began.
I suppose there’s not one moment when my husband and I made the decision, but a cumulation of small ones, usually made up of little jealousies and desires for more. We’ve built a life that is nothing short of exhausting. I scold myself because I should be grateful. Then, I remember what I’ve learned in therapy and from listening to Rob Bell and Steve McVey: don’t should on yourself. Instead, I allow myself to feel what’s beneath the should — a longing for simplicity and deep connection and space to breathe, three things that are nearly impossible to come by when you’re busy building a bigger, better lifestyle.
In her new book, Hallelujah Anyway, Anne Lamott wrote, In rare friendships we know soul reaches out to soul, like deep calling to deep. I’ve had that kind of friendship, and I, too, know it is rare. People seldom have such friendships because those friendships take time and effort to cultivate. Most of us don’t make the conscious choice to do relationship work because we’re too busy working our fingers and souls to the bone in an attempt to have more, thinking if we have more, we’ll be more. Nothing could be further from the truth.
The Christian culture in which I lived and breathed and found my being always told me that my relationship with God would suffice for deep calling out to deep. Maybe there’s some truth to that, but it’s not the whole truth. The whole truth is that we are humans needing human connection, sharing human experiences, being vulnerable with one another. That’s how soul reaches out to soul. The older I grow, the harder those relationships are to find, yet when I see them or experience them, it’s like finding a diamond amidst miles of dirt.
The ache for simplicity and soul satisfaction grows larger and becomes harder to numb with trivial pursuits. The desire to create, to connect, to cultivate life insists on having its way each time I still myself long enough to recognize it. It’s been seventeen years since rocking my first baby in that glider chair, and I realize life is passing at break-neck speed. I am reminded to do whatever it takes to slow down, to simplify, to be.
