A Surprising Reminder

       I thought I would write about my post-surgery checklist, my attempt to keep my days full so I wouldn’t descend in binge-watching Seinfeld all day on the couch. I have four main daily goals: workout, practice music, writing, and estate planning. But I have nothing to say about those.

       Before my foot/ankle surgery two weeks ago, when I made my list of goals, I assumed this slowed-down recovery time would be rich with insights and ideas. But the truth is, my journal is surprisingly thin lately. Most of what I’ve written is about mobility and medication and daily details. I anticipated more. I’d hoped to be more productive.

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       Cyndi once shared a poem with me by Danna Faulds, titled Walk Slowly:

It only takes a reminder to breathe,
a moment to be still, and just like that,
something in me settles, softens, makes
space for imperfection. The harsh voice
of judgement drops to a whisper and I
remember again that life isn’t a relay
race; that we all will cross the finish
line; that waking up to life is what we
were born for. As many times as I 
forget, to catch myself charging forward
without even knowing where I am going,
that many times I can make the choice
to stop, to breathe, and be, and walk
slowly into the mystery.

       “It only takes a reminder to breathe, a moment to be still, and something in me settles.”

       Those are good words. They took me back to a morning in the Guadalupe Mountains, at the junction of Tejas and Juniper Trails, when I sat on a fallen log planning to spend some time writing in my journal, but instead, I simply sat still and breathed and listened for a half hour and allowed the sounds of the forest to soak into my heart.

       The significance of the moment surprised me. I’m so process-driven in most of my life I seldom stop and listen just to stop and listen. It turned out that “doing nothing” was important to this “doing stuff” guy.

        That trail junction became a thin spot for me. I stop and sit every time I hike past that fallen log.

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       Cyndi and I have been listening to a daily devotion phone app that my friend Jeff Andrechyn introduced to us, called Lectio 365. It begins each morning session the same way: “As I enter prayer now, I pause to be still; to breathe slowly, to re-center my scattered senses upon the presence of God.”

       Good words: I pause to be still.

       So here is my challenge to myself for this summer: to listen and breathe, not try to force the insights or plan good writing.

       Sit and breathe and wait.

“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.” Psalm 119:32