Tarry

All this hurrying soon will be over. Only when we tarry do we touch the holy.

RAINER MARIA RILKE

The New Oxford American Dictionary defines tarry as a verb meaning to stay longer than intended; delay leaving a place.

The Synonym Finder lists such words as: remain, stay, abide, dwell, reside, live, settle, anchor, plant oneself, be established.

The word abide has long fascinated me. Wordy people will get this, others maybe not so much. Some words are just really evocative and "fun" to mediate on.

I recently hosted an evening in which a card reader came to do just that: read cards. She had with her Tarot, and two other alternative decks. I chose one called Ask Your Guides Oracle Cards. She did a 7-card spread: that which is passing away, that which is bridging, and that which is coming. 

That which is passing away, is, fortunately, exhaustion.

The Divine Helpers are here - step back and let them do their thing. It's not all up to me. "Overdoing is fear in disguise." She said I had an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. She also emphasized that I've been using distraction to keep me from focusing on what I really want.

As my friends, Greg and Terry, said, "I hope you didn't pay too much for that reading." Sometimes we do have to pay to have pointed out for us, what's right in plain sight.

Seven seasons of "Sister Wives" can't watch themselves, and that's why I'm here. While I know TV is a distraction, it is also a way of resting, a way of healing the exhaustion, a way of getting water to the roots that have been thirsty for a long, long time.

Time spent with Kody, Meri, Janelle, Christine and Robyn (and their 18 kids) while fascinating, is not helping me to to touch the holy. It's been helpful, and I would't call it a waste of time, for it did just what it needed to do, but now it is to move from being idle, to tarrying.

Good Question

Over the years, I've created a private sanctuary in my closet. When we remodeled the house many years ago, there was some weird space left over, only accessible through the bathroom. Because of the sloped ceiling, large window, and odd-shaped space, there was really only room for one rung, so although it's a walk-in closet, literally, it's not all that usable as a closet for clothes (although, that's where all my clothes are).

It has become my prayer room. I have a soft place to rest, a shoe-rack-turned-bookcase, an altar for candles and holy items, and the most brilliant part of all, a mini-fridge and coffee maker. Flicka and I are able to get up before everyone else, come into the sacred space and start our day with prayer and cuddles.

The best part about it is, there isn't a reason in the world why anyone else would ever go in there. It's not on the way to anything, it's, in fact, hard to get to. It's inconvenience is its genius.

Wil used to come bounding in and disturb the peace, the minute his eyes popped open. I've re-trained him not to do that until 6:30. He's on his own until then, and so, the earlier I get up, the longer I have in the prayer room. Today, Flicka and I were in here before 5:00, the dark and quiet of the morning, the low-vibration of the Earth, the feeling of Sunday, palpable and calming.

I remember the "Seinfeld" episode where Jerry, Kramer and George are in the back of a taxi, and are talking about the different ways days-of-the-week feel. Kramer can "feel Tuesday" and George and Jerry think he's odd for doing so. I can feel each day-of-the-week, week-of-the-month, and month-of-the-year. Through the window, I see the turning of the seasons, the ebb and flow of sunrise, the differences in light and dark. There is a pattern, a rhythm, and tempo to the days, months and years.

This morning, I was in prayer and "heard" the question, "Do you have a cross inside?" I first was confused as to whose voice it was I was hearing. Was it external? Was it my sub-conscious? Was it Mary's? Being the very literal person that I am, I first thought of the crosses I have on the inside of my house. A moment later, I moved to the question of where and what my internal crosses may be. Of course, there are many. Enough to reflect on that question throughout Lent. 

Yesterday, I saw my best friend from junior high. We were only active friends for two years, before I moved away. But, those seventh and eighth grade years were biggies, and much of my personal work has come from the effects of those years. Some years of our lives are more concentrated than others, more full of upheaval, change and transition. We move through understanding in stages, and the "crosses inside" must be peeled back, layer by careful layer.

I'm grateful for the both the literal and figurative time and space in which to examine, and re-examine,  the cross(es) inside.