{pretty, happy, funny, real}: finding contentment during sleeplessness

| a weekly capturing the contentment in everyday life |

I haven't been sleeping well lately.  It's pretty typical this time of year when all of my kids are flung hither and yon, getting situated into new places for the fall.  Ticking one more year off the calendar of parenthood unsettles me, interrupts my sleep, makes me restless, sad, and, often, anxious. And it's our baby's last year of high school.  My last year to send a child to high school.  And our son is getting married in less than 5 months.  All joyful things, but seriously messing with my mama mojo.

There are other things going on, too.  As Brian nears ordination, we're ready to think about what's next, maybe even where's next. This is definitely unsettling in a way that's hard to put into words.  Literally.  Every time Brian and I try to have a heart-to-heart conversation about planning our future we end up sputtering half-finished sentences, unable to conclude anything.  I end up near tears, and then we can't speak again for hours.  The question feels impossible to answer. So, yes, I'm losing a bit of sleep these days.

My daughter brought us gifts from her summer in NY, books that seem to match us each perfectly (thank you Broome County Public Library book sale!).  For me, she chose Garrison Keillor's selection of Good Poems for Hard Times.  Last night, awake around 4am, I read this unseasonal, but completely recognizable lament from a favorite poet:
Ice Storm
Jane Kenyon

For the hemlocks and broad-leafed evergreens
a beautiful and precarious state of being. . . .
Here in the suburbs of New Haven
nature, unrestrained, lops the weaker limbs
of shrubs and trees with a sense of aesthetics
that is practical and sinister. . . .

I am the guest in this house.
On the bedside table Good Housekeeping, and
A Nietzsche Reader. . . . The others are still asleep.
The most painful longing comes over me.
A longing not of the body. . . .

It could be for beauty-
I mean what Keats was panting after,
for which I love and honor him;
it could be for the promises of God,
or for oblivion, nada; or some condition even more
extreme, which I intuit, but can't quite name.

I lose sleep unable to name what's next, and who I will be next.  What's my role in our future?  We'll celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary this fall, Brian's ordination to the priesthood, our son's marriage & college graduation, our youngest child's high school graduation -- just to name a few milestones ahead of us in the coming months. I am deeply longing for something I can't quite name.  

While I lose sleep at night, I feebly practice contentment each day. Here's a few snapshots of the past couple of weeks.

| pretty |

estate sale goodness

Can you believe my luck?  I could have purchased several more! I figure if I'm going to paw through some dearly passed lady's stuff, the least I can do is rescue (and read!) her books.   

| happy |

boys' lunch

a day on South Congress with Elayna

Sabbath dinner with our godson Emmett (and his sweet sister, Lucy!)

a trip to NYC with his girls

Brian and his kids this summer

I gathered a few snapshots from a some of the moments Brian got to spend with "his kids" this summer. He is so good at giving them his time and care.  I love this about him.

| funny |

new talent at open mic

Andrew hosts a weekly open mic in Austin.  He had a request for a time slot from one of Austin's newest comics.  Of course we couldn't miss her set!  You can watch it, too, at this link.  (spoiler alert:  She kills it!)

| real(ly?!?)|

our 4th anniversary in Austin

It's hard to believe, but it's true.  August 11th marked our arrival to Austin four years ago.  Here's a reflection I wrote on our one -year anniversary and one I wrote on our two-year anniversary.  Also, I never get tired of reading the posts the whole family pitched in to write back in 2011, during our week trip from upstate NY to our new home: Murphys Take Austin (Tamara-Day 1, Days 2&3,  Days 3&4, Andrew-Saying Goodbye, Brian-Day 5, Kendra-Day 6, Alex-Day 7, Natalie-Settling In onday morning thoughts: dancing bear act, crash helmets and a Doxology

Have you captured any contentment this week? 

 I'd love to hear about it!

| Join in at P,H,F,R to see other wonderful people practicing contentment. |

upon 2 years in Austin [a week late]

I wrote this on Sunday, August 11 and kept trying to find time to edit all week. Finally deciding to just go ahead and publish with my apologies for a teensy bit of naval-gazing.

House #1

Two years ago today, August 11, 2011, we drove the last stretch of a 1,650 mile trek from upstate New York to central Texas.  For three days our two-car caravan -- parents driving the front vehicle, sons driving the back vehicle -- zig-zagged west across the southern tier of New York state, south through the wildflowers and Bible-thumping billboards of Ohio.  After a leisurely lunch in the Over the Rhine neighborhood of Cincinnati, we wheeled across the Ohio river into Kentucky, sleeping in Louisville one night and Memphis the next.  Our last day, August 11, we drove over the Mississippi River from Memphis into Arkansas.  Other than a few moments around Little Rock's skyline Arkansas was 500 miles of rice fields and trucks.  We almost missed the signs announcing we'd crossed over into Texas, our new home.

The several times we've driven this route, we've built up an unexplicable loathing for that bridge carting us from the streets of Memphis to the rice fields of Arkansas.  Today I wonder if that's because leaving the Tennessee border leaves behind the last vestiges of landscape that feel even mildly familiar to our northeast.  New York doesn't have blue grass, but it does have rolling green hills, doesn't have the Mississippi delta, but has the Hudson and the Susquehanna and the Chenango and the Delaware and the St. Lawrence.  New York doesn't have one single flat landscape.  Not one cactus, scorpion, longhorn steer or cloudless sky.  New York does not have brown grass and neighborhoods that burn down from drought-induced fire.  Cross the stark state line from Arkansas into Texarkana, Texas  could have been leaving planet earth for all our experience of 100+ degree temperatures, limestone and brown fields.  If it weren't for the ubiquitous McDonald's greeting us on I-30 nothing about that state crossing would have been recognizable to me as "home".

Even now, I feel silly saying so.  But in two years living in Austin, I know my best moments of my best days have been the ones I could close one eye and squint at a landscape and make it look familiar.  In the fall, it's the days I walk a sidewalk and find enough fallen brown leaves to crunch under my shoes.  I can close both eyes then and just hear home.  In winter it's the days my husband allows me to crank up the air conditioning so we can light a wood fire, close the blinds and pretend we're getting warm from some ghost of a howling wind.  Then I can close both eyes and feel home. Summer is unspeakable; we drive out of Texas like a mess of Austin's infamous Mexican free-tailed bats.  

field of April bluebonnets, Belton, TX

Ahhh, but spring.  Spring in Texas I wander around wide-eyed at the wonder of non-humid sunshine and squares of wildflowers quilting the entire sorry landscape with simple glad beauty.  Spring wins me over.  Spring keeps me here.  

Spring and the whims of an unpredictable God.  

When Brian finished his degree while I took care of four babies at home we predicted he'd get a teaching job in a school we'd stay in forever.  Looked forward to the years our children would pass through his history classes in middle school.  I picked out our first home in that small town of 5,000 neighbors and two stop lights almost entirely for the long staircase banister I could imagine our kids posing for their prom pictures.  At the time they were 4, 6, 8 and 10.  

Now we live in a city with 400 times more neighbors than our first house.  We took prom pictures of our son under the branches of a gnarly live oak tree.   New York state does not grow this tree.  New York's trees are intoxicated with rainwater and never need gnarl themselves around to suck up drops of water from arid soil.

spring flowers growing in limestone, Belton, TX

The first months we lived in Texas, Brian took to quoting Clark W. Griswold: "If I woke up tomorrow with my head stapled to the carpet I wouldn't be more surprised than I am right now." Two years in and this still sounds about right.

At a family gathering when our oldest son was  twelve, he prayed a prayer we've never forgotten:  "Thank you, God, that you are so unpredictable."  Yes, the God who surprises us led us through twenty years of marriage thinking we would be one sort of family and in the last three years has totally upended what we thought.

For starters, I said I'd never marry a pastor.  Now my husband spends every waking free hour completing a seminary degree and various requirements for ordination in the coming year, all while serving as Executive Pastor at Christ Church of Austin. Three words in his title alone surprise me as much as a staple to the head. There's the Pastor title and then there's Christ Church.  I grew up distrusting all denominations, flinging my non-denominational freedoms like some sort of suffragette.  Six months ago I was confirmed in the Anglican communion.  When my husband is ordained he will be an Anglican PRIEST!  Priest was almost a curse word where I grew up.

This is all so hilarious I keep forgetting to laugh.

Brian's confirmation, February 2013

So now we're Anglican and Brian's going to be a priest.  And we live in Austin. For years we lived with a community of people who loved us so well, we still can't believe they don't hang out with us on the weekends.  

Truth is they loved us well, but they could not name us in this calling. It's taken almost every single day of the last two years for me to accept this fact.  One of the men who loved us best laughed the last time I talked to him and asked why he'd never affirmed Brian as a pastor.  He still didn't see it  

Maybe for the same reason prophets get sent to caves to hear the still small voice, we got re-planted on the surface of the sun as a better option.  May our limbs grow gnarly sucking all the life-giving liquid out of this place.  And, in the process, adding to its beauty.

Quercus fusiformis : the live oak at the Alamo, San Antonio

I've struggled these two years feeling like we gave up too soon.  I'm pretty sure some of my closest friends in New York would agree with that statement. We were unemployed with four kids.  Maybe we should have stuck it out?  I'm pretty sure that community of friends and family would have supported us until Brian found some sort of income.  And, maybe Brian would have landed a teaching job -- even though half the degreed teachers we knew were underemployed or facing layoffs.  Maybe that shouldn't have mattered.  Maybe sticking with friends was the most important thing.  Maybe Brian shouldn't have offered up his ministry job on the layoff block when our church budget made a beeline for the red?  Maybe he should have rallied support, forced his way onto the payroll.  Maybe he should have thrown over a few tables like I often begged him to do during our sleepless, late night arguments.  

Maybe so.  Right this moment I'd be sitting in my favorite spot -- at the back of our sanctuary, pleading with God to make Himself known to us in our corporate worship. Maybe then I'd know that lunch would be predictable, our kids' weekend social life would be predictable.  I'd have a wealth of options to help me get them to all the places they needed to be during the coming week -- aunts, grandmothers, co-workers.  I'd be able to pick and choose my own set of unpredictable decisions.  Whose bonfire would we hang out at this weekend?  What cross-country social connection would I make through the amazing unseen world wide web?

Just that one decision. That one unpredictable connection opened the door for us to move to Austin.  I guess we're never completely free from the whims of our sovereign Lord.  No.  We did not give up too soon.  We would have had to slam the door in God's face to stay in New York.  This is the truth of it.  

While I write these words I'm sitting on the ninth floor of the same hotel we stayed in when we first landed here. I'm looking at a river green and brown and low.  This morning I walked alongside, straight under the bridge that houses for the summer those million and a half Mexican bats.  My head was down and I didn't realize I was walking underneath, reflecting on the two years we'd lived here and simultaneously trying to figure out why Austin in summer smells like bat guano. 

Kayakers and people standing on boards paddling themselves downstream make colorful slashes in the water.  Weird Austin people who behave like sunbathing in 106 degree weather is nothing.  I am not one of them yet.  Maybe never.  I mean who knows how long we'll actually live here?  Maybe our unpredictable Sender has plans for the other side of the world.  Or New Jersey.  This month He's sending one of my best friends and her family to Africa, via France.  I'm pretty sure she'll be surprised for a long, long time.  

-----------epilogue-------------

The afternoon of our second anniversary in Austin a glorious, mundane Sunday afternoon. Our son and his girlfriend chauffeur us home, with a stop along the way at a local pancake house.  He's returning to Houston for year two of college, eager for new grace in a new year.  We pray blessing over the two of them, anoint their hopes with benediction and lemon poppyseed syrup.

We watch golf. Doze on the couch. Wait out the sweaty sun for our evening walk.  New friends moved into the neighborhood over a month ago and we want to welcome them.  I fill a paper sack with symbolic housewarming gifts:  bread (that no one be hungry), salt (that your lives be full of flavor) and wine (that your work and friendships prosper).  I add a bar of dark chocolate for good measure.  It's a tradition from Jews, Christians and fans of Frank Capra.

We walk the five neighborhood blocks to introduce ourselves, sit until dark on their front porch sipping the cheap wine we gave them, swatting mosquitoes and swapping our "moving to Austin" stories.  

"How long have you been here?"

"Two years.  Two years today, actually."

"And how'd you get here all the way from New York?"

We give the brief version because Brian's got an early morning flight and the mosquitoes are biting.  We include the painful layoff at our former church, the year Brian taught as a long-term substitute teacher knowing he was supposed to be a pastor, the weekend prayer retreat with good friends confirming we would not attempt to leave New York until all four of our children graduated from high school.  The time I just happened to listen to a sermon from my friend's church in Austin, the one where the rector just happened to mention the goal to hire an Executive Pastor.  The sending a resume on a whim.  The moving our entire family to Austin less than three months later. The three houses we've moved in two years.

House #3

Our short answer could have been, "The unpredictable God sent us here."

I couldn't have planned a better two-year celebration.  We hug good-bye, talk about our next get-together -- hopefully soon -- carry empty wine glasses into the kitchen.

And then Brian and I walk home.

8 lessons from 9 months doing stand up in Austin, TX [guest post by Andrew Murphy]

I asked my son, Andrew, to tell us what he's been learning the past nine months since standing on his own two feet stepping into Austin's celebrated stand-up comedy scene.  

Like every other time he's written for us here, he raised the bar for my own writing in this space. Thank you, Andrew!  (p.s. You make me proud)

8 lessons from 9 months doing stand up in Austin, TX

Before I list some lessons, let me preface them by saying I didn’t make these up on my own. All these lessons were gathered from my original skewed stance on how comedy works, and if more seasoned comedians didn’t put me in my place and share some wisdom, I wouldn’t have grown at all in the last 9 months. Also, this is a poorly written article. It’s hard for me to be subjective when I’m writing about my favorite thing, but hopefully some of this still resonates with you. Thanks for reading and thanks to my parents for seeing my passion and engaging me in discussion.

8. Never Expect Anything

I’ve probably done over 150 open mics and shows at this point, and there’s never a day when I don’t leave my house—my material rehearsed and prepared, amped up on caffeine and short on sleep—that I don’t have lofty expectations for how awesome my set is gonna go over and how full and excited the audience will be. Then, right before I go on stage, there’s never been a moment when I haven’t instantly dreaded doing comedy and contemplated quitting or pulling the fire alarm right before I go on. It’s in these moments that it’s important to remember to abandon expectations and control only what I can control. Have confidence in your jokes, take a deep breath and remember that you’re doing something you love…

7. “The Audience Is Never Wrong.” Eh, sure they are.

 …But say the audience isn’t full and/or excited. Maybe I’m doing an open mic in a coffee shop where most of the people are sitting at back tables and doing homework. Or maybe it’s in a dingy bar where the patrons have wandered in from the street, ready to interrupt. I have to be careful to remember that if my set doesn’t go well, I can’t scapegoat the people for not laughing. This will give me false confidence and stunt my growth as a performer. However, “the audience is never wrong,” is a dangerous motto to have. That sort of excuses heckling and crowds with a strong taste for racist jokes. At the very least they may just not be listening. They are human beings after all. In situations like that, I’ve started to shrug off a bad set and assess what I could do differently, while not molding into whatever that particular audience needs me to be. It’s a delicate balance.

6. It’s not okay to be offensive. However, no topic is off limits. And “Too Soon” is a crock of malarkey.

- There’s nothing okay about making mean-spirited cracks about recent tragedies. There’s also no proper way to make cracks about darker subjects like abuse, sexual assault or civilian casualties. However, once you can acknowledge that such topics involve layers and layers of complexity, there’s still a way to inspire laughs out of the darkness. I’m in the often polarized camp that believes a comedian has the ability to joke about anything. At the same time, unless you acknowledge the effect that topic has on people, and the history involved with tragedy, you probably shouldn’t joke about that topic. Most “offensive” comics are the ones who have been around for years and years. The reason they approach dark material is because, frankly, they know how to delicately construct a joke. Until I learn that skill set, I won't dig myself a hole.

5. Networking is important, but friendships matter most.

- Networking is very important. When the industry folks and bookers are around, find a genuine way to show your face and get your name out there. But once you start sacrificing friendships with other comics to achieve that, you’ll become miserable and your love of what you do will diminish in the process. I need to work on this goal more than any other. I’m doing the thing I love, so the idea of not having companions who love the same thing sounds like it could lead to depression and isolation. The comics I hang out with now may not have a ton of opportunities at the moment, but when they do, they’re going to share them with the people who matter most to them. Just being funny and funny alone will not assure me much of anything in the scene.

4. You are going to bomb. That bad news is, that’s not such a bad thing.

- The first mic I ever did actually went very well. What I failed to realize at the time was that most of the laughs I was getting were coming from other comics who knew it was my first set, and were frankly just being generous. However, I still had the thought that I would NEVER BOMB. That’s actually a goal I had for about a week until I did my next open mic and failed miserably. No one in the history of comedy has never tanked. The good news is, it’s not always a bad thing. In fact, it’s one of the only ways to learn and grow as a comic. The sad truth to stand-up is that you don’t really learn anything from a good set. It’s more of a celebration of what you’ve gathered through bombing so many times. Once you get over the lie that bombing is the worst thing that can ever happen, accept that it happens to everyone, pull up your pants and move on to the next set, all of a sudden taking risks on stage will be less daunting. Bombing always feels crappy, but you’ll go farther as a comic if you remember that it’s not the end of the world. In fact, if you lose your fear of tanking and get over your aversion to silence, trying new material will become more and more of a natural process.

3. Boredom is contagious

- Recently I did the same exact set that I did in the Funniest Person in Austin contest at a packed open mic. The same jokes that convinced the judges to put me in the top 3 performers of the night and advance me to the semi-finals. They tanked. All of them. I tend to forget that every show yields new audience members who don’t know who you are, and have no expectations for what your material will be like. That’s why the best comedians in Austin are the ones who walk on stage and perform years-old jokes like it’s the first time they've ever done them. Simply reciting your successful material will not assure a good response. If you’re bored with your jokes, even on a subconscious level, your boredom will spread like a virus. Audience members are not dumb people. They go to shows not only expecting comedy, but ingenuity and charisma. If they catch a scent of running-through-the-motions, they will not courtesy laugh for the sake of your feelings.

2. Stop pretending you’d be doing anything cooler if you weren't doing this.

- This seems like a pretty self-explanatory tip, but it’s the rule I struggle with the most any time I’m compelled to stay home and not hit up an open mic. Comedy is not a marriage. If you wanna quit, quit. Picture yourself as the hobbits, and you’re not even halfway to Mordor yet. There’s still time to go back to The Shire, but unless you’re willing to do that, get as much stage time as possible. This means Coffee houses, biker bars, stages with poor lighting, and even furniture stores. Yes, furniture stores. Nobody ever got successful from comedy by only doing TV spots. Comedy may not always be glamorous, but neither is staying home and ordering Dominoes pizza online. Netflix streaming will always be there when you get home. But for the moment, it’s important to gain humility and be above nothing. I may sound like a broken record, but realize you’re doing your favorite thing, and try and enjoy where you are. Disclaimer: I know doing comedy in a pizza restaurant sucks, but…who cares. Which brings me to my last point.

1.    Patience

- Working hard in comedy and sucking at comedy are essentially 2 sides of the same coin. As Bill Burr--successful Boston-raised comic--puts it (paraphrased) “You’re gonna suck at first. You just gotta keep doing it until all the suck is gone.” As bleak as that idea may first appear, it’s an extremely liberating goal to work with. Basically, there’s no deadline to becoming a great comic. I’ve learned a lot about this field since I started, but I’m almost a year in (that’s one year of basically non-stop performing and writing) and I’m just now becoming a decent comic. And I’m totally okay with that. I’m 21. If it’s true that it takes “seven years to find your voice,” then I’ll be 28 by that point. There’s a possibility I can be a confident performer before I even turn 30. And even if you’re around that age when you start, comedy is not age-specific. Successful, touring comedians like Lewis Black and Louis C.K. didn't even really build a name for themselves until they were in their 40’s. Since comedy isn't sexy, there’s not necessarily a strong demand for “young, hot talent.” 10 years and 100 pounds from now, I can still be successful. And besides all of the logistical reasons behind patience, If you like doing something, it’s simply worth waiting for. In the years to come, I’ll go through adulthood, accumulate experiences and milestones, and ultimately become as good of an interpreter as I am a recorder. If I’m asked to write another article just like this in, say, 3 years, I may backtrack on everything I've written here, but I’ll still be the same person. And that’s what a lot of this boils down to. Comedy is about becoming better at being yourself.

imagining home

via

We're moving. 

Again.

This makes the third time in less than two years.

If you'd just met me at a party and we were getting to know each other and you said "So, do you guys move around a lot?"  I'd say "No.  We like to stay in one place, settle in, spend quiet evenings on the back patio drinking iced tea.  Not us...we're not movers."

I think that's kind of like the time I asked my cousin -- after I'd been married a year and a half and while handing my son a cheerio -- "Is it weird, I still think I'm a virgin?"  

In my heart of hearts, I'm a cocooner.  Problem is we haven't found the right cocoon yet here in Austin.  Or maybe I'm Goldilocks and the third time'll be the charm.

Adding suspense to the whole adventure, up until this week we only knew that we were moving at the end of May but God hadn't  yet told us where.  To be fair we knew He wanted us in central Austin -- same school district -- so that's something.  I'm not being cheeky; that really is something we're celebrating.  The girls both tried two different school options our first year here.  The high school they're in now has been on target for them and we're still grinning relief at the discovery.

In March, Brian and I spent a day at Laity Lodge to hear Jamie Smith talk about the imagination.  As in, we need to form a better one -- for ourselves, our children, our community, our congregation.  And every single time we walked into another rental house, stepped over someone else's moving chaos, picked our way around their dirty dishes in the sink, unmowed back yard, half-completed remodeling projects I thought about the power of a good imagination.  Without it, my faith in the goodness of a providing Father faltered big time.  

When I ignored the gift of a Spirit-infused imagination, I walked through some college student's rental debris and got angry at God, Austin, my husband, landlords as a people group, and pretty much anyone else who came to mind.  (And, seriously, mothers of Austin college students, when's the last time you asked your kid if they're keeping their house semi-clean? From one mama to another, I'm telling you -- they're not doing it.)

On the other hand, when I walked into a potential next house for our family, calmed and alert to the creative inspiration of the ever-creating Father, Son and Holy Spirit I could see a home hidden in the chaos.  Tonight we sign our next lease.  Hopefully it's the last one we'll sign for a long, long time.  We'll walk through empty rooms, figure what furniture we'll keep or ditch, where the art will hang, mourn the lack of closet space.

We'll do the work of imagining what really matters in the whole scheme of things.

*Linking with Heather's community at Extraordinary Ordinary today.

Take Up Something New: move across the country or the world (W. David O. Taylor)

Sometimes, like our Father Abraham, we are called to pick up our stuff and go Somewhere Else.  If you've visited me for any length of time on the blog, you know that just over a year-and-a-half ago our family followed that sort of call from upstate New York (where we'd lived our whole lives, for many generations) to Austin, Texas.  During these years we've lived off notes, prayers, encouragement from friends as daily bread -- all of it sustaining, fresh, necessary.  I received permission from one of our friends to reproduce an especially helpful bit of advice that, I believe, offers universal support to anyone who's being Sent Out from home.  I kept the letter in its original context -- counting on you to enjoy reading other people's letters as much as I do.

Thank you -- again and again -- David Taylor for your generous and skilled counsel.  (If you haven't met David, visit him at Diary of an Arts Pastor or read his book For the Beauty of the Church: Casting a Vision for the Arts). 

A few ideas that promote emotional, relational and spiritual health when you find yourself moving your family across the country (or the world)

from W. David O. Taylor as told to the Murphy family

July 28, 2011

Good wonderful people of upstate New York: Whaddup.

I've been meaning to write you for a while. I've crafted a note in my head that comes close to resembling a Pauline epistle--eloquent, deeply spiritual, multilingual and long as a Corinthian column. I've decided to abandon my epistle and write you a simpler note that will actually get delivered.

In addition to Phaedra's wonderful list of recommended hot spots in Austin, I wanted to share a few thoughts about your move. I'm sure you're getting excellent advice from family and friends in NY, and I imagine that folks in Austin will walk with you through the good days and hard days. I can't speak as a sociologist or a psychologist. All I can offer is a bit of perspective from my own experience. 

At 10 I moved to northshore Chicago for one year, then returned to Guatemala. At 13 I moved from Guatemala back to northshore Chicago. At 14 I moved down to a little town in Arkansas where I spent my high school years. At 18 I moved to Chicago proper. At 19 I moved down to Austin in order to study at University of Texas. At 23 I moved to Vancouver, BC, where I stayed for five years. Two years ago at 37 I moved to North Carolina. And in a few years I'll be moving again, Lord only knows where.

This is what I've learned along the way and which I pass along to you for your consideration:

Planning a farewell ritual helps make an emotionally, relationally and spiritually healthy transition. 

By ritual I mean the following:

1. Walking or driving down a favorite path/road, alone or with others, while you intentionally thank God for the good things that occurred there.

2. Eating a meal at a memorable restaurant or place, again while you consciously thank God.

3. Writing a letter in which you identify all the things that you're grateful for about this place.

4. Taking a moment with a few others in order to pray out loud and release to God this place that you've come to love and that you'll now be leaving.

5. Playing a last game of X or singing a song in Y place or going for a swim at Z location and then shouting "That was good!"

6. Touching, tasting, smelling and listening, in short, using all your senses to acknowledge the things that have been significant about this place.

7. Taking a moment with the family where everybody gets to share with the others things that they will miss most about this place and the people here, so that these things can be relished together, thanking God for them and then releasing them to God mindful that all of it has been a gift--and that all that lies ahead will also be gift.

You get the idea. The point is to make a ritual which you perform both by yourself and with others: a solitary ritual and a shared ritual. When the ritual involves tactile, sensory activity plus a spiritual attentiveness to God, which I recognize both in my own soul and before others who care for me, I have found that it helps healthy closure to take place. It also in that way helps healthy opening to occur. Healthy leavings and healthy comings aren't something that our society is that interested in making possible.

[Healthy leavings and comings] can become the grace of God to us and enable our hearts to grieve what needs grieving and to hope for what lies ahead, knowing that our Good Shepherd walks beside us.

locking up our NY house for the final time

Think of your transition in terms of thirds.

1. There's the first month in which everything is new and the energy levels high.

2. There's the three month mark in which the newness still feels pretty fun, though you also feel strong pangs of longing for home.

3. There's the six month mark when you feel just a little more settled, which reassures you, but you also feel most intensely the loss of people who know you back home.

4. There's the one year (or 4/3) mark where things are no longer freshly new (though you're still discovering new things), and while you miss home, you also have begun to feel more at home with folks in the new place.

5. There's the two year (or 8/3) mark where you miss things back home but you miss them in a healthy way and you've discovered your place in the new home--folks who have become good friends, places that are "yours" now, and rhythms that enable you to come and go through the new place with ease as well as with gratitude.

November 2012, overlooking Austin - 1 year and 3 mos. in

Austin, Texas [fill in the blank with your new city's name] will call out things from you and your identity that would never have been called out in New York [fill in the blank with your former city's name].

While you may not grow to love everything about Austin or about Texas (which you have every right not to have to love), it will also provoke, stimulate and awaken new things--new desires, new abilities, new opportunities, new strengths, new dynamics. And that will be a very exciting thing. You'll become a richer person for it and it will open up a small window into the way God sees you and how he sees the world.

Ok. That's it. I need to get back to the books. I hope it helps somewhat. Discard whatever is unhelpful and know that we're praying for you nearly daily. Please don't hesitate to ask for anything. We're here for you -- and that means your four kids too.

We'll see you at Christmas.

Blessings,
David

additional comment from Tamara:

Don't try to move from one Place to another Place without seeking -- and finding -- a whole Tribe of friends who will tell you words like this.

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Do you have a story you'd like to share that would fit our Practice Resurrection quest to take up something new during Eastertide?  Write me a note on the facebook page for This Sacramental Life. (or email me).  

Also, each week I'm collecting your photos of practicing resurrection, taking up something new to celebrate our risen Christ who makes all things new.  Share your photo with a caption in 36 words or less at the facebook page for This Sacramental Life.  (See our first week here.)