I’m in the Laundry Room. Where are You?

Friends Meeting

Charlotte Friends Meeting

This is where we go to Quaker Meeting for Worship, when we go. Which is almost never these days, but I digress. It’s a craftsman-like building nestled in the hilly woods of Northern Charlotte. The worship room is octagonal, the better for sitting in a circle to look at each other while we listen for the voice of God. It is surrounded on three sides with ceiling-to-floor windows, and the center of the octagon at the top is glass as well. So you can look up and outside and around and into the eyes of the others and see God everywhere you look.

One day in 2006, I was having a really hard morning. A lot of stuff had happened that year. We lost some grandparents, Carey lost his job, and we lost a baby. Well, it was a second-trimester miscarriage. Maybe not even a real baby, we don’t even know. Then I got really sick with an abscess and thought I had breast cancer, and also I spent two nights on a train with a toddler and a younger toddler and also got kicked out of my grandma’s house for letting my son wet the bed on the waterproof mattress cover. Whatever. It was rough.

So I’m sitting there that morning in Meeting for Worship and I’m looking out at God and everything and listening, and wondering why everything is so crappy. It’s a grey day, full of clouds and dreary. I’m looking out the window at a branch outlined against the sky and there’s this faint gleam in the distance, almost like the sun is trying to peek through. And I keep hoping, hoping for that glimpse of sunshine.

And I tell that to God. I tell him that I’ve had enough and won’t he please just let us have a little sunshine. Something to lighten up the gloom. The sun does not peek through the clouds. The gleam remains distant, far off.

I close my eyes and I lean back in my chair. I stop begging and I start listening. And when I open my eyes, I’m looking up at that octagon of glass in the ceiling, up at the grey sky. And that’s when I see it. There is no ray of sunshine poking through the clouds. The bright spot is still far in the distance. And in a flash I realize: The light is already all around me. I look around and we’re all bathed in it, all those familiar and beloved faces, bright with the diffuse light of that particular day, every one of us luminous with it. There is no one ray of sunshine singling out a section of the room and making the rest dim—the whole room is one warm, even tone of light.

The light is diffuse and it’s spread out and it’s beautiful and it’s RIGHT HERE, all around me, right now. All I have to do is stop straining to see some distant bright spot and notice what’s right here.

I strive to live inside that epiphany every day, remembering to notice all the light around me RIGHT NOW, this minute, instead of always looking for some distant beam in the distance. And most of the time I fail. If only my youngest son were a little older, I think to myself, we could go out on dates without hiring a babysitter. If only this particular client would pay faster, money wouldn’t be so tight. If only I had already lost all the weight I’m carrying around unnecessarily. If only this or that thing had happened differently, everything would be so much better.

Fortunately, I’m reminded pretty often to stop and notice the light. Carey recently wrote about Plato’s idea that we are all just prisoners in a cave, watching the shadows of reality dance on the walls, and occasionally one of us has the gumption to climb out and look for the real light of day, which is somewhere up above us. The climb is arduous and everybody keeps calling you back down, and you’re never sure how long it will take, but eventually, you’ll get there—and suddenly you’ll be flooded with dazzling light beyond your imagining.

Silly Plato.

Maybe we *are* all just prisoners in a cave, watching shadows of reality dancing on walls. Maybe some of us are climbing. Maybe a very few select of us are glorying in a world of sunbeams far above. Maybe. But here’s the thing: Firelight is beautiful too. So are cold stone walls. So is climbing. So is lying down. Maybe the whole point isn’t to get to the top, or to get ANYWHERE in particular. Maybe the point is just to be HERE, wherever HERE is, and learn to love the particular type of light that we already have. And if we want to climb, then to enjoy the climb, because you don’t really know WHAT’s going to be at the top of that climb, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because you’re NOT THERE YET. Where you are, is HERE.

So. Where are you? I’m in a small room with my bottom pressed uncomfortably against a hardwood floor and my back slumped against a bookcase. My laptop sits at an angle in my lap. Beside me is a pair of slippers, a backpack, a white plastic basket full of clean laundry. It’s unusually quiet, due to the fact that the children are still asleep. Also there’s a pile of dirty laundry in the corner. This is the laundry room and office. This is a place of Mundane…

Transformed by the beauty of paying attention. In the corner, the washing machine is making clothes clean and fresh with contented little swishing sounds. Two large windows reveal the sky’s gradual turn to pale blue, the trees shading into green as the sun rises somewhere unseen. I hear my rooster crowing, over and over, “My yard! My yard! My girr-rl! My yard! My yard! My girr-rl!” The room is still dim and the dimness covers everything with softness and accentuates the light gleaming off the mirror.

My hands are small and quick and they look smooth and pretty in the dusky light. They’re incredible little pieces, and I’m grateful that they were included in the package when the sacred garment of my body was being assembled. My lips are chapped and my toes are moving as they always are. And it’s one minute before seven when everything will change, when I will plunge into the busy-ness of the day and the quiet morning beauty will change into another type of beauty. And so now I hit publish.

Where are you?

5 Comments

  1. Jaimie says:

    I had the experience of begging God for help a month ago. I was in the car at a red light. I’d been crying the whole drive home. And I think I can safely say I have been given help now. Little things have happened. It’s remarkable really, how 6 or 7 little things can completely turn me around. But then, 6 or 7 little things had totally destroyed me. I won’t say some kind of appreciation of the present would have snapped me out of the desperation, because all these “little things” had to do with relationships, friends lying to me, friends abandoning me, and that’s the worst kind of problem I think. Or one of the worst.

    But I like what you said here, about seeing the light around me. I guess that’s what got me through that hard time, although on some level I was still miserable.

  2. Curiosity Cat says:

    Aw, Jaimie. I’m sorry to hear how hard things have been. Sometimes it takes years to process the things that happen to us, and it’s always a journey. And sometimes just asking for help, and then being open to the possibility that help may come, is enough to get us through.

    Last year was pretty rough for us–lots of emotional stuff. In the midst of some of that, I pulled out the Grace essay (one of my favorites still) and polished it up and posted it here. I still refer back to that periodically. I’m always looking for where the help is, especially when it feels like it’s not there at all.

    Another thing that helps when things are intense (I just learned this technique recently) is “pendulation.” You start by identifying the physical sensation associated with your emotional distress (for me, intense emotional distress manifests as a sick sensation in my gut down almost inside my pelvic ring–the more intense the distress, the lower the sick sensation–other people experience it in their chest area or even their head or extremities). Once you’ve identified and recognized the physical sensation, you then look for a part of your body that feels fine–a hand, a nose, a big toe, whatever. Focus on the part that feels fine, think about how good it feels for it not to hurt, and then when you feel the unpleasant sensation nagging at you again, go back and focus on it for a moment. You alternate between focuses–on the negative physical sensation and the positive. It works really well to calm the intensity of the negative emotion (it won’t make it go away, especially if it’s really intense–just helps to calm it). We’ve been training our kids to do it with physical hurts, and now they do it for themselves and recover very quickly as a result.

    In a way, it’s kind of the same as seeing the light around you–without ignoring the presence of the darkness too. I think that’s really important, not to ignore the darkness. But to also recognize the presence of the light.

    I like what Glennon at Momastery says about life. She says it’s “brutiful”–beautiful and brutal. And it is. Life is hard. And she also says, “We can do hard things.” I love that. We can. And it’s beautiful. Anyway, I repeat those words to myself almost every day: Life is brutiful. We can do hard things.

    Thanks for letting me be part of your journey. I’m glad things are a little lighter for you now. We all need breathers. And thank you for being so faithful in commenting on my blog. I love hearing your thoughts and insights.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>

  • A Few Beautiful Things

    Inspiration and Community for Writers
    Fun prompts, great community, opportunities to be published.

    What Happens Now
    A tale of survival and recovery and beauty. You'll be angry and glad and amazed.

    Officer Superhero
    This one makes me laugh and cry at the same time. If you're a mom, an NVC advocate, or human you should definitely not miss this one.

    Sowing Dreams
    Hope and tears from this one. If you know an autistic child, love someone, or have ever yearned for more hope, this one is for you.

    Writing is a Beautiful Violence
    This pretty much sums it up.