Now, What? (the answer is simpler than you think)
After creating a wedding venue, after building 28 6-foot long benches, after a wedding and the clean up, a honeymoon and the catch up back to regular life, I was exhausted. I’m used to doing a lot and pushing myself to keep going. I felt like I should keep going. That’s my “usual” way of existing, but when I came back to the farm, I felt . . .
strange.
Not uninspired, but sort of dull. I asked my new husband, “Now, what?”
What urgent, vital thing do we have to do next? What time-bound achievement has lined up in front of us to conquer? I didn’t have an answer. We had done all that needed doing. We had conquered all that needed conquering and now, we had to pull ourselves out of the insistence of the rapids and float in the river of calm. But, we didn’t know how to do “calm.” Rest felt harder than work. Calm felt bizarre and uncomfortable.
When I was training for Ironman, my coach told me that the most dangerous mental timeframe was not during the months leading up to the race. It was not race day either. It was the day after the race, when all the effort was over and you had to sit with your success or failure and figure out what what it all meant. You had to stop achieving and sit with the achievement, or lack of it. You had to be still on the other side of the mountain of effort. Many athletes sign up for the next race during this time. They have to be working toward something, so they find something worthy of more work.
Writers have the same sort of quandary. When a book gets published, when the first few poems find a home in a journal, when the achievement is achieved, something happens in our brain that feels like pressure instead of joy. Maybe we’re always looking for the next big thrill, or maybe, we’ve set ourselves up to climb a bigger, higher mountain and we’re not sure we have the right gear for this one. Win once, and you should win again, right? There are expectations, both from other people and from ourselves.
I think we’ve forgotten how to savor things. Our push-pull, go-go-go world doesn’t take kindly to pausing, to slowing the wheel enough to step off the ride for awhile. In my unsettled state after my wedding, I looked for advice. What I found was simple, in a profound sort of way:
Make your world small.
My body needed rest. My mind had forgotten about the rejuvenating power of simply sitting in a beautiful place and noticing what was around. The shape of the clouds. The colors of the sunset. The slight breeze that carried a hint of autumn. I sat on the front porch of the farmhouse with Pippy and Lucie (our farm cats) stretched out beside me, and looked at the rural beauty of the landscape. I felt something relax deep inside my spirit. My world at that moment was only the porch, the cats, the rocking chair, the birdsong, the grumpy groundhog sitting near the stone wall, and the sun filtering through the magnolia tree. It was small, but it was not insignificant. I asked my eager “doing” mind to take a break, and let my “being” mind take the stage. The frantic search for the next big thing quieted, and in its place, a sense of wellbeing. It was exactly what I needed.
I return to that spot frequently, as the lesson is one I have to keep relearning. When I sit there, my mind and body remember why. My breathing slows. My heart finds a simpler beat. I am small in my small world and it is enough.
When you’re asking yourself, “What, now?,” maybe the answer is “wait,” or “be still,” or “breathe.” Maybe you can find a small spot of beauty and reclaim your sense of joy. Maybe your next big thrill is is a gentle reminder to not forget who you are.