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Sabbath A jazz trio weaves a bright tune with upright bass and piano and drums, spilling out of the speaker on the wall and over us like a drug. Slowing. Savoring. Sunday Morning. The buttery sweet scent of a Dutch baby lingers in the air. It was my first attempt and it drove Rowan to a bowl of store brand cap’n crunch. Evelyn showered me with compliments that made me feel guilty. Am I so fragile? Does she already feel the female emotional load at age 5? A lone orange juice bottle is all that’s left on the table. It catches sunlight from the windows that look out over the dying September garden. One corn stalk thumps and brushes against the window pane as the wind lifts and drops the dried out weight. Thump. Brush. Thump. Evelyn whirrs room to room, pausing with each pass to tell me of her new project and plans for the next. She’s on her way out with water to paint the porch with chalk, then she’s back in with details about an up-do she wants me to create later (French braid with ribbons into a pony that we curl with the iron), then she’s upstairs singing to herself off key in the bathroom, then back down with a glint in her eye as she bounds off on her next adventure. All the while Rowan sits contentedly at my feet with the Rubbermaid bin of legos building small intricate worlds. I can’t finish a paragraph of my book without the interruption of another question I can’t answer about the inner life of storm troopers. But it doesn’t matter to him that I don’t know. He just wants to wonder aloud. He wants me to be curious too. I try to be. Upstairs Drew putters through his morning routine to the soundtrack of a podcast that echos down the hall, warbling the words so that all I can catch is the cadence. Long monologue, clever cohost comment, laughter, repeat. His booming laugh punctuates a long pause and I feel a smile curl on my lips too. I sit in the middle of it all, curled up on the couch with Meredith’s manuscript and a mug of tea, content save for the preemptive nostalgic longing, knowing that even an hour from now it will feel like a dream and I must capture some part of it: the smell, the joy, the golden light.

No matter how intently I focused on the brightness, the shadows converge. It’s simply not possible to move through life without bumping up against these dark forms and ripples that filter and bend the light. As I turn my gaze from the single minded conviction of what “ought to be” and encounter what I thought were shadows, I realize my eyes were actually being blinded, not illuminated. There is a whole universe waiting to be taken in and explored. *new post* ✨ link in bio #evolvingfaith #faithshift #christianity #nondualthinking #reconstructingfaith #embodiment

I moved my desk up to my daughter’s room this week (far out of sight of the laundry and dish piles) and it’s the first time I’ve put my butt in a chair to really write since spring. Summer rhythms are complicated. We’ve done a lot of good resting and playing and learning and creating over the last two months and I am so grateful for the gift of time, but I’ve also got that itch to get back to work pulling and pushing together the words to describe it all. They’ve been bubbling up out of me for a few weeks, but always at the most inopportune times so they get scribbled on the edges of coloring sheets and grocery lists, half sentences that leave me scratching my head when I return to them later. So, I’m back in my chair. I’ve got a new planner and a blank steno pad and I’m ready to weave fresh routines to help catch the questions and memories and wonder before they fade, before the productivity push of autumn sets in and I need a shove back in this direction of absentminded musings and delight. ☀️ How do you savor the moments and memories? Do you have rhythms for checking in, reflecting, or celebrating what you’re wondering and learning in seasons of rest? I would love to hear about the questions that are emerging for you!

From Rowan, age 5: “Okay, so we need to get the grown ups to give their money to the other grown ups over there who are helping to get the kids out of jail so they can see their moms and dads again. Did you know those kids are sitting in cages and the police grown ups are just looking at them and not helping? We need to get them out!” Let’s do this, grown ups! #familiesbelongtogether #togetherrising #standforkids

“There are so many stories more beautiful than answers.” These words by our beloved Mary Oliver capture so well my journey out of an oppressive, patriarchal, gas lighting, black and white culture and into the vibrancy of storytelling and curiosity and growth. I still wrestle daily with an internal voice that tries to invalidate my own experiences and those of others in a relentless pursuit of singular answers, so this has been a great addition to my mediation space this spring. It has reminded me to both hear and celebrate unexpected stories and experiences, and to trust their inherent truth more than whatever is neatly packaged answers are being sold to me. I’m so excited to send it off to @badasscrossstitch for the @badassherstory collaboration! Thank you @lovepeacefelice for kicking off our Lexington stitching crew. 💛 #badassherstory #maryoliver #embroidery #meditationquotes

I was raised in a community that taught me:⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ If you want it, it's almost certainly selfish. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ If you don't want it, it's God's will for you. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ If you needed it, God would have already provided it for you. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ If your desire is from God, be faithful and he will provide it. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ If you are suffering, God is pleased, now you will rely on him more. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ If you are happy, you are consumed with the things of this world. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ If you have questions or doubts you aren't submitting to God - to us - you don't need to understand, just obey.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ I'm only just beginning to realize the reaches of these lies and how they have kept me bound to a toxic theology long after I intellectually walked away from the community. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ It is still ingrained in me to silence my intuition or pain, to shame my need for a boundary, to question my own motives. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ I tell myself, "Well, they don't understand or agree with the need for the boundary, so I should just accept whatever of my terms they are willing to assent to." ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ I tell myself, "I should be grateful they aren't treating me (or others) worse."⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ I tell myself, "I guess I'm not really hurting, I guess this isn't as bad as I thought."⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ With this dismissive inner voice, it is so easy to become locked into relationships and patterns that exploit our self-denial. When we cannot trust or value our intuition, our own wisdom, we are ripe for abuse. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ But there is a simple and powerful antidote to this toxicity: sharing our stories. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ When we speak our pain, our longings, and our joy aloud we are freed from the construct that tells us to stay silent and small. And, as we listen to and affirm others, we reclaim our power to be life-givers. We learn to wrestle with rather than explain away the complexities of life - the beautiful diversity of our experiences and emotions. ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣How would your life change if you could freely share the stories you carry? What’s stopping you? ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣

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Julianne Vantland

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