I sit upstairs on the floor in an empty room. The sun’s January light, shining warm through the windows, blankets my shoulders and hands. Fulton, our dog, lies next to me, and I study the olive tree’s branches arching toward the sky, the myriad groupings of tiny green fingers curving upward toward layers of blue, and wonder about writing. Not necessarily the kind of writing we do when we put words to paper or fingers to keys. I wonder about the kind of writing we do when we listen to our own thinking and imaginings.

In a moment of “reading,” of taking in information—our own thoughts and opinions—we are processing what we think, and, in turn, whom we believe we are. We are assessing our values—what we care about and what we don’t.

I consider how easy it is to dismiss the value of our own thoughts, how we edit and censor and dismiss our observations. It is not that we necessarily minimize their value in comparison to another’s, but that we deem them invaluable, in general.

How can we appreciate the value of a life—of our lives—if we live unaware of what we feel and think?

It is still, now, in my home. The washing machine—tucked into a closet in my kitchen—has stopped its thunderous whirring. The oldest college kid, home for his five-week break, college roommate in tow, pounded his feet out the door a half hour ago.

I sit in the front room, looking out onto a quiet street, watching the thin branches of abutilons under the window sway in the morning air. The only sound is the heating vent warming the room, a gentle hum I can scarcely hear. Even the dog has given up his whine for a treat and is sleeping on the rug in front of me.

It is calm, but I am not, and I focus on breathing. One deep breath. Then another. God is teaching me peace—what it means, in all circumstances, to trust Him more than me.

Lord, there is nothing wrong, and yet I confess that, even in tranquil moments like this one, I feel like I must fight within me to experience peace.

I remember the promises He has told me at the beginning of new years—promises to be with me in all circumstances. Two years ago, at the beginning of 2020, He whispered how He wanted to teach me stillness, that "deep knowing, peace within you, even in moving.” And last January, 2021, He told me how He wanted us to do everything together. “No more will you choose yourself—and your belief that you are alone—rather than looking to Me.”

The words are air. I didn’t know I needed them like I did. Gulping breaths. Into mind and heart. Space too full. Noise. Noise. Noise.

The noise of a mind unsettled. The noise of hopping around—thinking that completing one task and then another will do the settling. But all that happens is discontentedness. I am not present for….what?

So many things.

Be attentive to what is happening in you, not just around you. But yes, be attentive to what is happening around you and how that affects what is in you.

Honor your mind. Honor your heart. Honor the holiness of this day by being attentive. Eyes and ears. Breath. These fingers, these hands.

I read an article. An entire article. But I do it while standing in the kitchen, leaning over the counter like I do.

I seldom sit—so often I am caught between one thought and another, one task and another. I resist being caught up in one activity, choosing, rather, to do many things at once, in a stop-and-start fashion. Not exactly frenetic.

But.

I am not at peace.

For I am not really even here.

There might not be anything wrong. You might be okay—holding tragedy in one hand and hope in another. What if how you are—emotionally and spiritually—is not a state that can accurately be measured? What if, when a dear friend asks you, “How is your heart?” you can bumble around for a bit, do your best to share how you feel and what you think, and be okay with it? What if it is perfectly fine to not have the answers to your questions all figured out?

Almost a decade ago, on my previous blog, I wrote a 30-day series of posts that focused on the idea of forgetting myself. The irony wasn’t (and isn’t) lost on me—writing personal reflective essays on the value of one’s focus on God rather than on the self. I did this for the secondary purpose of trying to kill, once and for all, the false self’s tiring struggle with comparison, insecurity, and self-condemnation.

How is your heart?

I am okay.

Am I okay?

I sit in an empty house, an outdoor teak table pulled inside, a temporary place to sit and prop up my computer, a place that is in a state of becoming, a place of dreaming, a place undeserved but accepted with shaking hands. We were given this new home in mid-October, a home less than a mile from the little 100 year-old bungalow where we’ve lived for the past 15 years.

It is house I’d noticed for more than a decade on my early morning runs, when the sky was still pink—and on walks with our dog or when running errands downtown. It is a block away from our old condo, the first home we owned and lived in with our three then tiny kids. A house inspired by its original English-style cottage built in 1934, with a garden out front that looked like magic and with leaded front windows that shone when light hit the diamond-shaped glass.

My father-in-law, for crazy and beautiful reasons, had been wanting to give us a gift—and, on a Thursday afternoon, when we saw that this house was offered for sale, he went with us to see it. Suddenly, a few days later, on a Sunday, the offer was accepted, and on the 18th, we got the keys.