A Saturday Caesura
It is a post-rain grey Saturday morning. On our fence to the south, three fat baby crows sit and preen and pretend to ignore a redwing blackbird who darts in to taunt them. To the east, the sun presses in behind the sheet of grey, adding some tentative texture to the otherwise flat sky. The views to the north and west are predominantly green-on-grey, lightly animated by the breath of a morning breeze.
I am grateful for time to sit and notice these very ordinary things.
The flurry of wrapping up a school year has left me looking wistfully at the apparent leisure afforded those baby crows. I certainly lack the energy of the mischievous redwing. It was an exhausting year, and my mind feels like the sky today, grey and flat and washed out. It was also an encouraging year, and my heart is bursting with the joyful colour my brain lacks. I am humbled by the notes, emails, and conversations with students who said they appreciated my class for all the ways it challenged, stretched, and encouraged them. Teacher-moments to treasure for sure.
But what to do with the grey-brain of fatigue? The brain that has read words and more words, but struggles to craft any of its own into meaningful thought. The brain that can create lists of things that need to be done over the summer, but then fogs in when it sees how long the list quickly becomes. The brain that easily clouds over with the drizzle of doubt and who cares if you feel like you have nothing to say because no one really reads your words anyway. Yes, what to do indeed.
I don’t have a fully defined answer because…well, grey-brain, obviously. But today, I am going to be entertained by baby crows and feel the breeze and listen for yellow warblers and gaze at the miracle of a growing garden and the brilliance of orange poppies and sketch something and maybe read someone else’s beautiful words and simply taste the goodness of the Lord in this oh-so-grey day.
And maybe I’ll do the same again tomorrow and the next day and the next day.
A Saturday Caesura
Wind weary we are. When normal prairie winds brush across the land, we put on a hat or tie our hair back and get on with life. But when big weather systems start jousting for territory, winds become aggressive, blasting, relentless. And we become weary. Weary of the moaning and blowing, of the whip and lash of hats and hair and jackets and snow and branches and shingles and siding. And our wind-weariness bleeds into our other weariness of all the Stuff and Crazy and Chaos, and we just want the only wind to be the quiet, steady breathing of our world and our lives at rest.
So when we are weary, what do we do? How do the windblown walk without listing and faltering? How do we, the world-weary, live without being torn from our roots and flapping twisting breaking crashing?
We keep showing up.
We keep doing what matters, even if it feels ragged and frayed. The doing becomes more than itself. When we keep creating and working and learning and praying and loving and caring, our roots find purchase in deeper soil. When we keep showing up for each other, our words of respect and encouragement become sturdy windbreaks behind which beauty and grace can flourish. We can breathe here, together.
So here’s my advice to myself at the end of a wind-weary week: when everything is big and blustery, find the small and calm. Show up there. Enlarge those borders where you can. And if you can’t enlarge, fortify. Small doesn’t have to become big, but it does need to be wind-resistant. ▫️
all who are weary and burdened,
which if we are honest,
is all of us:
fishermen and tax collectors,
doubters and zealots,
betrayed and betrayers,
women and children,
lame, blind, lost, bullied,
teachers, preachers, seekers,
carpenters, welders, garbage collectors,
doctors, mechanics, managers.
Regardless of skin colour,
earthly status or physical health,
or anything else —
the invitation is always, “Come.”
Come to me; listen and live,
follow and see what I, the Lord God,
have done…am doing…will yet do.
Come and find rest in me.