Don't Just Do Something; Sit There

Just a couple days ago I read this quote from my favorite magazine, "Don't just do something; sit there." It is of course a twist on the old challenge to get off our rumps and get going.

The quote was part of an article on how to deal with significant change in our lives. The author had recently lost her job and put together a list of suggestions for others navigating the choppy waters of transition.

I jumped on this article, because our family has been going through so much change this last two years. We've moved twice. Dwayne's gone back to school. We've had a daughter. And in just six short months, Dwayne will graduate and we will be moving again. This time to a destination that we can't even begin to guess at. We could move to another part of LA, or we could move out of state completely.

The options are limitless and while this uncertainty does inspire a certain amount of excitement in me, it also inspires the low pitch rumble of anxiety, churning and rolling like molten lava beneath the surface.

I don't want to loose more friends. Will I be able to make new friends? Will I like the new community we live in? Will I be able to continue my work? Will I be able to find a writing community? Will I be able to raise my daughter with out ANY family around?

The article talks about how in the midst of change we often spin out in a tizzy of activity, trying to create some sort of routine or sense of purpose for our lives. The result is exhaustion.

This part of the article put words to my experience. Since moving to La Verne, I've felt myself reaching out for all kinds of new commitments. I should join a Mommy and Me Class. I should volunteer at the Ruth House. I should start a mom's group. I should join a small group. I should, I should, I should, and all of these "shoulds" are wrapped up in the knowledge that in just six months, I'll be gone again.

All of these are feeble attempts to feel connected in a time when I feel so disconnected. And also an attempt to silence the voices in my head telling me that the answer to my sense of loss is to serve, serve, serve.

What a relief to be reminded that it's okay to let the terrain of my being lay fallow for a while. I need time to put roots down.

Of course, in the silence, there's no escaping the creeks and groans of uncertainty. Being still allows you no distractions, just the pain of healing.