Lately, vol 2.
A collection of musings from the drafts folder and beyond.
A few weeks ago, I graduated from this season of therapy.
I say this season because I know there will come a time, maybe even in the not so distant future, when I will need to call up my therapist to schedule an appointment. The door isn’t closed, just pulled to, and I’m grateful for that.
We began the session by remembering some of the big and small things that have been brought to light in that tiny office over the years—the complicated dynamics of marriage and family, navigating the pandemic and life in this particular political moment, faith deconstruction and the loss of our beloved church, endless lamenting over my lack of discipline and fretting that every last drop of my creativity had dried up, the car crash that nearly killed us and left me afraid to sleep in my own bed or go near the windows in our house (trauma is so strange), and most recently, the overwhelming existential dread I felt about turning 35.
I’ve said things inside those four walls that I would never dream of saying to another living soul—things that have been welcomed and received and held with care to and in the light.
The Quakers have a saying, I’ll hold you in the light. Sort of a rough equivalent of the phrase “I’ll pray for you,” which is ever ubiquitous in the evangelical world, but as with a great many sentiments that become trite with time, a simple shift in the language can have a seismic effect for meaning and understanding.
We hold things to the light as a way of witnessing how they’re marked—to determine authenticity. And we hold each other in the light as a way of bearing witness to so many stories and scars and delights and longings, as a way of beating back the darkness and despair that pervade the world and our every day lives.
Therapy is one of a small handful of places in my life that I can truly say I have been held to and in the light. Or, some days, gently shoved in the light’s general direction until I figured out how to step into it for myself.
It isn’t that I don’t feel the dread anymore. Quite the opposite, I think I feel it as strongly as ever—this unbearable sense of unfinishedess and relentless understanding that even if I could get everything I want in this life with a snap of a finger, it still wouldn’t fix me.
I want so damn much. How infuriating. How embarrassingly human of me.
At the end of the day, mostly, I just want to be content.
So much is in need of fixing, but maybe my wanting isn’t. Maybe it will never go away, and maybe that’s okay.
Back in April, I quietly began visiting a new church for the first time in nearly a decade. I said I would give myself the summer before I filled out a visitors card or thought about committing to anything. This church is nothing like the tradition I was raised in—nothing like the denomination that left me feeling like a round peg in a square hole. There is quite a learning curve. I confess, as I sat in the pew that first Sunday, I pulled out my phone to search which shoulder do touch first when I make the sign of the cross? and is it disrespectful to make the sign of the cross if I’m not confirmed in this tradition?
In the weeks since, I have cried while receiving communion, as the gospel is read right in the middle of the congregation, while passing the peace, and as I turn to page 355 in a well worn copy of The Book of Common Prayer. Everything has a purpose. I’ve met lovely people who remember my name and whose names I remember.
I said I would give myself the summer, but here we are at the end of June, and it feels a bit risky to say, but I find myself wondering if I can hold out that long.
We celebrated our 13th wedding anniversary this week. I don’t know a lot about marriage, but if I could go back and talk to my 22-year-old self before I walked down that aisle, I know without a doubt what I would say.
There are so many things you feel certain of now.
You think this will save you, but it won’t.
Everything will change.
You will change. He will change.
It will be hard. Don’t be afraid.
The fruit of the Spirit is still love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
It will also be beautiful. There are so many ways to keep growing together.
There are so many ways to keep growing.
Currently:
Reading: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks
Listening to: Chris Renzema, always. Also, Taylor’s “I Knew It, I Knew You.”
Watching: Season 4 of The West Wing
Delighting in: Propegating my pathos plants
Looking forward to: A no-buy July
As always, I'm glad you're here. I'd love to hear what your life looks like lately. Holding you in the light, too, Erin