11.21 // Indoors

This time of year is for those of us who are secretly melancholy at heart. We enjoy a good fog, a nice drizzle, hot coffee, and some story to escape into for a bit. Maybe a snack.
Its the sweet calm before peppermint and pine and garland.
Everything is simple and chilly and wonderfully dreadful.
And so we lean into our souls for reflection and poetry and whimsy.

(We are entering the last month of the DECADE, after all. Now is the time to look out over the toppled corn fields and wrestle with time and the clicking of the proverbial clock— to wonder at it, grieve it, bathe in regret, and maybe even craft an altogether new persona for the next ten years. A little dramatic? Of course, but again, thats what this time of year is for. Angst and hot drink and great song writing.)

But its been gray and hazy for several days now, and instead of feeling the release from summer’s ambition and the gentle call to bake and paint and read, we’ve all started feeling trapped— meaning the boys and I. Actually, now that I think of it, its probably just me.
I haven’t left the house in about a week— minus the two doctor visits where my snotty and bumpy three-year-old simply moaned incessantly and cried out, “I want to go home!” And I (kindly) argued with nurses and doctors over medicines and follow-up visits and specialists and diagnoses. So yes, not exactly enjoyable, leisurely outings.
Its been pajamas, a top knot, and endless episodes of “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.”

The slight insanity that is brewing, well, I’m calling it “Parsonage Fever.”

Because its one thing to say to one’s self, “You know, I could go to the bank and grocery shop and pick up this or that today. But its raining and cold, so we will stay here, eat toast, and do a puzzle by the window.”

And its an entirely different thing to realize, “Well, shoot. I have not idea how to get two tots and a baby and a full grocery cart through this mess. And my middle kid still refuses to wear shoes because of all his purple blisters that are now beginning to crust and scab. So I guess we will do another puzzle, sterilize each piece with Lysol, and then rummage through the fridge to find random snacks that will appease everyone.”

Yes, the luxury is in the option.
The glory of rainy, foggy days is the choice to waltz through the haze or hide inside.

Having sick kids and a little baby, well, thats a hostage situation.

There hit a point this afternoon when I took John Taylor and hid in my bedroom with a full bowl of peanut butter pretzels and my dear friends, the Gilmore Girls (don’t judge). And it occurred to me that this is often how we deal with pain, whether it is our own or another’s that affects directly or indirectly.

When pain enters our lives— or at least, my life— it is a natural tendency to bunker down, pull away, and face it in privacy, alone. I choose this more often than not whenever I am physically exhausted or emotional troubled or wrestling something difficult. I shut out (maybe even avoid) and then find a way to cope. Only after this time inside can I return to the outside world and face reality.

I guess this reaction is rooted in vulnerability. (Cue Brene Brown, right?) The last thing we want in the midst of our pain is to invite more possible pain. If I am hurting and then show it, and then it receives doubt or rejection or (and this is the worst) some trite, unsolicited advice, I am left more hurt than I was in the beginning.
And in order to avoid this second round of hurt, we turn inward.
We stay indoors.
Inside out houses, our rooms, our own hearts.
(Maybe this post is an effort to challenge this tendency?)

Now, everyone deals with pain differently, and each way is actually valid. I didn’t grow up feeling this way, but I now know its true. We need to process pain and vulnerability in ways that are healthy and true to our personhood, rather than ways that are forced or prescriptive. To push people inward or outside of themselves in these tender times can be manipulative and harmful— just like I can force Ben’s tender feet into his snow boots.
We have to walk with persons through pain.
And as we walk, we have to refuse our natural instinct to fix, prescribe, or judge the validity of their suffering.

Instead, we wait for invitations to speak into pain. We ask questions and trust that what our loved ones say they need is actually what they need. We pray for them, whether we are sitting beside them or whether they have tucked themselves away.
This is how we can begin to love when there is pain amongst us.

I often consider labor as a great example of this.
(And if you are a guy, I guess this doesn’t exactly serve you, but you get the point.)
Some pregnant mothers invite half their living relatives into the room with them when they give birth. Everyone is at the house afterwards. Some stay in spare rooms or in the living room once the baby is brought home. And the whole event is like a big party. They move through their pain quite easily. They know what they need and how to ask for it. These people can experience their authentic emotions (including pain) with others around. The presence of a crowd does not hinder or complicate their pain in any way.

And I envy those people.

Because there are also others of us, those who like to writhe in pain alone. In fact, we need to be alone. There is no other way to actually go through it. We can’t handle the cameras or bystanders or some polite cheering section with pompoms and pennants. No, in these times of labor we need to turn inward and deal. And after the baby comes, the postpartum period tends to be the same way. In this time of immense, immense vulnerability, healthy recovery requires a cocoon of sorts. We need to gather ourselves, face ourselves behind closed doors, and in that quiet place we realize what we even need. In a crowd, our own needs and path to healing would be muffled, overwhelmed by those we love, even with their best intentions.

We simply face our pain and heal in totally different ways.

Some people can live their pain right out in the open.
And then they heal out in the open.
And others turn inward to deal with pain.
And they begin to heal there, too.

I’ve thought a lot about those of us who feel a need to withdraw.
What drives us into private spaces? What calls us inward? Why do we handle pain in this way?

Maybe its pride. Maybe its fear. Maybe the withdrawal is an attempt to protect an idea of ourselves that we want to project to the world. Maybe its simply because we don’t have enough energy to handle all of the eyes, the opinions, the voices. And its possible we turn inward because we are naturally less connected to our own bodies and feelings and much more aware of everyone else’s. Turning inward helps us heal.

I had an old college roommate who called it “going into my shell”— as if she was some kind of turtle, retreating into safety when the world felt too much.
And there are many days when I use her exact phrase to describe my own processing and healing.

And so enters the examen.
On days when I am confronted with pain— either my own or someone else’s pain, like Benson’s sickness— I am invited to name the dissonance that moves me inward.
I am called to explore it without condemnation or shame.
I can take hold of it, see all of its dimensions, motivations, reasons, and origins.
And then, after I am know it and name it, I can allow the Spirit to move the pain, to bring it to full life again.

The examen keeps me from simply moving inward and then avoiding.
Instead, it invites me inward to name and then begin healing the tender ache.

I have found these images from Jennifer Willhoite very helpful. She has a great Etsy shop with images, tools, and cards that guide us through the examine— including (a) naming our places of pain, (b) allowing the Spirit to mend them, and finally (c) setting holy intentions for the next day.

And so the “Parsonage Fever” continues tonight, and into tomorrow, too.
I am praying for more healed blisters and some uninterrupted sleep.
But I am also making sure I linger around the dissonance tonight— not because I am experiencing immense pain right now.
But because there is always room for more healing.
We are always invited to enter the “indoors” of our hearts, name any pain from this drizzling day, and then say “YES” to the healing that is always willing, always ready.