🌑 Glimpses of a Hushed Sun 🌕 (Erin Jean Warde)
What if we let our bodies–the fullness of ourselves in flesh–listen to the voice of the sun, however hushed it may become?
🌑 GLIMPSES OF A HUSHED SUN 🌕
This weekend was a tough weekend for many reasons. One, I was in a conversation on Friday that triggered me in my grief, which really seemed to set the tone. I spent most of the weekend simply… tired.
For the past few weeks, I’ve felt something shift, but not in a good way. To be clear, I can still feel the immediacy of grief from my sister’s death lifting, ever so slightly, but without leaving me completely. I’m grateful for a slow lift, but also in some ways, I wonder if I’m grasping at it, trying to hold the grief closer to me, knowing grief is the price we pay for having loved. Because if grief is the price we pay for having loved, shouldn’t we labor long with grief to prove we did, in fact, love? These are just a few of the questions I feel turning in my head full of sand.
Yes, for the past few weeks I’ve felt something shift, but not in a good way. The only way I know how to describe it is to say that I feel… comatose. Remember when Instagram filters were all the rage? I feel like my life has been covered in the worst one, hearkening back to a day when we’d rather wash ourselves out than show ourselves plainly. There is still a filter over everything, and at least one tone is grief, but other tones have joined with grief to take over how I see myself, how my day to day life feels, what I consider my life when I wonder if life is really worth it after all.
I’m not without hope, I just feel… robotic. Like I wake up in the morning, go to work, end work, then disappear into screens without much desire to do anything else, before I go back to bed. Then, I wake up in the morning to rinse and repeat. This rhythm has felt like the opposite of what I hope for in life. I find myself staring into the group of trees in front of my window, seeing how they sit against these overcast Tennessee days, and I wonder: Is this what life is about? What if I don’t just want to live, but thrive?
There’s part of me that knows this is what happens when the time changes. EJW, honey, every single year you feel this way when the time changes… don’t you? Or is it different this time? In whatever capacity I have to access memory, this feels different. It feels like it can’t possibly just be the seasonal affective disorder that always comes for me.
I’ve noticed that I don’t really have desire for… anything. Which becomes something really, really important in that it is a bad sign for me. When I don’t have desire for much of anything, I don’t feel like I have anything to look forward to.
And I learned many, many years ago that one of the most vital ways I care for my mental health is by having something to look forward to.
I bring this up often with the people I work with, whether spiritual direction or recovery coaching, because I think having something to look forward to helps us manage the day to day of our lives, especially the really tough days, because there’s an inkling in the back of our souls (which is our “something to look forward to”) that reminds us–when it is our biggest fear–that life won’t always be this way.
When we have a tough day, we can look into the calendar and say, “only ____ more days until [something to look forward to].” This helps us hold the difficulty of the day, without letting it overtake us. I think it helps us hold how two things can be true: we can have a really bad day and also believe that a good day is on the way.
A huge challenge with the robotic life I worry I’m living is also: the weekends. I want those precious days to be times of not just living, but thriving, however I often find myself so burned out that I resign myself to couch rotting. This is the lack of desire rearing its ugly head. None of the books seem all that interesting (mind you, I’m still currently flipping through 3, because I’m nothing if not belligerent), nothing on TV feels like it lights a spark (except my weekly dose of Survivor), nothing I plan to make for dinner seems to matter that much. I feel like I am in neutral, going through the motions, and other sayings we were told to avoid in youth group. I worry I am lukewarm and destined to be spat out of the mouth of God.
So this weekend, especially considering how deeply I was triggered in my grief, I struggled. I struggled mostly with not knowing how to spend my time. And yet, something fascinating happened, in the sense that I think when our bodies speak, they always have something fascinating to say.
A little backstory: I have not regularly used an alarm to wake up for about 5ish years. When I got sober, my body started waking me up at dawn, and after many mornings of waking before it went off, I stopped setting one completely. The big exceptions are when I have to be somewhere fairly early in the morning (like the time I made a 7AM blood work appointment because I had to fast and wanted to get it over with), or when I am traveling. When I’m traveling I can’t trust the natural cues that typically wake me, so I set alarms to be careful (especially since I’m typically traveling for work events). But still: when it comes to waking up in my home on most days, I have not used an alarm in about 5 years. And I’ve never missed anything. Period.
Saturday night I went to bed, looking forward to church in the morning. My typical night time routine is that I take my sleeping pill and get into bed around 9:30. No need to be exact, but with that general timeline, I’m typically fast asleep by 10.
I woke up Sunday morning…. At about 10AM. I slept 12 hours. For the first time in many many many years, I woke up too late to make it to church.
The thing is: I knew I was tired, in the way that we know we are tired so we share memes to Instagram stories that cast a stealthy “lol” onto the end of our general human condition. I knew I was tired in the “life is hard lol” way.
I didn’t realize I was tired in the My Body Demanded Twelve Hours Of Sleep way. I didn’t realize I was tired in the I Relate To Rip Van Winkle way.
But, apparently I am; apparently the body hath been keeping the score. There had been a deep, brooding exhaustion inside me, multiplied by mornings where, even when we knew the sun would be scarce and confined, we hadn’t fully planned for a day with none.
I sat slackjawed Sunday morning and, in a moment of losing my mind thought, “what happened?” Honey, you know what happened. Life happened. Have you taken a gander at the past few weeks? Now that you have, have you looked at the next few coming up? Did you realize Thanksgiving is next week?
I spent much of Sunday quietly punishing myself. It takes work to overcome the messages that demand we constantly be productive. (This is the same voice that tells us to ignore our bodies, and after enough listening to this demonic parody of truth, you’ll wake up 12 hours later and late for church, too. Period.)
I started to think about bears. How hibernation is a natural part of wildlife. How agrarian life was so heavily influenced by the sun, that when the days felt shorter, cut back by the now scarce and confined sun, people let that natural shift change their day to day lives. When darkness became louder in the natural rhythms of the day, they listened to it. They let it change them. They let their bodies–the fullness of themselves in flesh–listen to not the voice of productivity, but the voice of nature.
What if we let our bodies–the fullness of ourselves in flesh–listen to the voice of the sun, however hushed it may become? What if we noticed how an overcast day lets us rest longer and accepted the gift? What if when the evenings of dark come, we remembered how the moon always promises we won’t face them without a night light to comfort us?
I pray you are given the chance to settle into your body.
To rest in the ways your body and soul need rest.
I hope you are able to catch glimpses of a hushed sun,
Invitations to rest in the shadow of the clouds,
And that comforts may reach you, even in the darkest days and nights.
With love & care,
EJW
P.S. We often talk about the days shortening, but what about the weeks? Months? Years? I won’t be writing for the next 2 weeks. I’m sorry in advance! I’ll be doing Thanksgiving with my mom in Alabama, then I’m back home for just a few days, before I head out to a speaking event. It’s hard to believe, but after that speaking event I’ll come back for 2 weeks worth of essays, then I’m out again for 2 weeks due to Christmas holidays. So, to put it simply, it feels like I have mere weeks left of the entire year of 2024? Impossible. Thank you for your patience with me and my times away for the holidays. I am grateful for you. I am holding this community in my heart, too, with prayers that you will have space to rest next week. <3
GROUNDED IN ADVENT
I want to highlight this group spiritual direction offering through Stevenson School for Ministry!
The Rev. Erin Jean Warde will hold a virtual space to offer care and support during the Advent season. We know the season of winter can evoke grief, sadness, depression, and more—Grounded in Advent provides a group spiritual direction opportunity for those who find this to be a tender season, emotionally and spiritually. During group spiritual direction sessions you can expect an opening grounding exercise, time to share the joys and challenges of your life alongside others, and time for closing prayer.
This workshop will meet for one hour weekly on Zoom on December 4, 11, and 18, from 2 to 3 p.m. Eastern.
GOOD NEWS & GRATITUDE PODCAST
I’m thrilled to share that the podcast I host for United Thank Offering—Good News and Gratitude—has lots of new episodes for you to explore!
An Introduction to Prayer and Gratitude
Practicing Gratitude Amidst Stress
An Introduction to Navigating Burnout
Good News from Callie Swanlund: From Weary to Wholehearted
Cultivating Resilience to Face Burnout
And new episodes release every Tuesday! Subscribe via your favorite podcast app (mine is Spotify) to get alerts when new episodes arrive.