Hallowing Routines

As a homeschoooling family, we have the luxury of sleeping in.  I don't enjoy this luxury myself anymore for a couple of reasons.  Their names are Gabriel and Verity--middle boy and middle girl.  These two are my early risers.  They are also my noise-maker and talker, respectively.  I like to joke that I make myself rise early to enjoy my five minutes of alone time each day.

There are days I handle this better than others.  Sometimes (often) it just makes me grouchy.  I haven't had my coffee and there's a small boy whisper-screaming at the cat or a small girl wanting to tell me her dream or some other long, drawn-out, complicated type of story.

This morning, I wake up happy and the boy is up and he is singing.  Softly.  Which is unusual and beautiful.  And I don't feel weighed down by exhaustion.

I've come to realize how much energy or the lack of it accounts for my moods.  It's the end of December.  We are all probably burned out by now.  When I am tired for days, weeks, I can feel discouraged and hopeless.  I just have to remind myself that it will pass and when it does be grateful that it has.

I also have to remind myself to slow.  I have a tendency of wanting to take advantage of even the slightest bit of energy and get everything done, make up for the inactivity of my fatigue and do it all but then I wear myself out and it becomes a cycle.  I rush around the house if I don't deliberately make myself relax, slow my stride.  So, I practice paying attention to how the carpet feels beneath my bare feet, the sound of the water running in the sink, entering into whatever mundane task I'm performing.

This morning, I read of hallowing routines.   All of these small things throughout the day.  If I enter in, I could make these offerings.  I can say thank you for the song of the boy, the story of the girl.  I can watch the coffee pour from pot to cup and hallow the washing of dishes if I choose.  I can offer my weakness to God and I can also offer my strength by trusting Him with it.

Grounding

"For every man, the world is as fresh as it was the first day, and as full of untold novelties for him who has the eyes to see them." -Huxley

For a while, several years ago, I woke up alone in bed every morning with gratitude on my lips.  I would look out the window at the backyard and my first thought would be, "Thank you, God, for Your loving-kindness." It began because I just fell in love with the word, loving-kindness and the concept.  I don't remember in which version of the Bible I read it but it's from Psalm 17 and David is asking God to show him His loving-kindness.  So, I started asking for that every morning and He started showing me in small and large ways throughout the day, then slowly the prayer turned into thankfulness regarding His kindness.  I practiced saying it first thing when I woke until it became a habit.

These days, it's not so  natural--if I remember, I say it before I get out of bed. Lately, (let's blame it on winter) I've been waking achy and rather ungrateful.  Still, thanking God for another day but maybe not with as much sincerity.

Sometimes, I wake up full of fear for no good reason, not even recognizing it as such until I've had time to sort my thoughts--and a cup of coffee. And if I fail to sort my thoughts and pray, I wind up losing moments, mornings and entire days to routines, as I like to call it, but really my 'routine' consists of rituals designed to occupy my mind and veer it off any course that might prove insightful, thus possibly painful.  It's cyclical and complicated.  A simpler way of wording it might be to call it 'avoidance.'

To avoid this pattern, I've been practicing grounding myself.  I ask myself, 'who, what,where, when, why, and how' and I run through the five senses.  Then I can hear the soft rustle of leaves in the trees instead of my inner voice asking if I should attend to my fingernails or my hair first.  I can quiet, for a moment, what I call my 'mean voice' that rattles off my to-do list, scolding me for slacking and points out that the coffee table is a mess.  The voice that whispers stupid things like, "The kids won't like their Christmas presents" and "Maybe David's cheating."  Yes, crazy-town.  And these are still just surface thoughts.  Beneath these are fears of the future; of my disease.

So, I practice being right here, right now, noticing.  Myself and my surroundings.  The birds this morning are quiet even, with just a chirp here and there.  Let my mind be like that more and more. Maybe, I'll never entirely be rid of the 'mean voice' but if I can learn to engage more and more the right now, maybe she'll speak less and less.  I may never have a nothing box like the men in my life say they do.  I can't even fathom such a thing, but I can direct my mind toward the scent of the rain, the breeze, and God's loving-kindness.