spirea

two weeks ago, back when the world was new, the act of fetching the bird from school came with the added boost of accolades from his teachers about his “near perfect behavior.” in fact, i owe the bird a lot of credit for my easy transition into campus ministry in january. he surprised me with his instant comfort with school rituals, peers, and even group nap time.

that was before he grabbed a handful of the face of another child who was “using his outside voice inside.” there were no accolades that day, of course. just instructions to cut the bird’s fingernails and to insist upon good behavior at home.

red yucca

we’ve de-clawed our child, who now spends 87.5 percent of his life in time out for clocking his brother on the head with various objects. with every school pick-up, i hope for a report of improved behavior. but the bird is consistent in his resolve to fully embrace the “terrible twos.” it seems that in parenting, there are no immediate results.

purple heart

there are no immediate results in campus ministry either, as it turns out. i am wrapping up my first semester at the university of memphis, and my offerings of engaging programs and free food are not exactly wooing the masses. i was reporting this phenomenon to a member of my campus ministry board last week, and he encouraged me to think of my work as the act of planting seeds.

i burst into immediate laughter as i recalled what a friend had said to me just the day before. she was surveying my front yard, a space that was completely under construction two years ago due to a drainage issue. i, a novice gardener, researched what plants would be happiest in our wet soil and in full sun. i made dozens of trips to nurseries and googled the names of the foliage on the shelves. and then, much to the entertainment of friends, family, and neighbors, i made what several of them described as the beginning gardener’s classic mistake. i planted one of everything. (i really planted about three of everything but this fact didn’t seem to matter.)

yellow helenium daisies

as my friend was surveying my yard, which is now full of all sorts of interesting leaves and textures and colors, she said, “your yard looks great! it’s almost as if you knew what you were doing!”

i guess the same goes for all types of seed planting – parenting, campus ministry, et cetera. there are no immediate results. in the present, we just have to persist with near-knowledge and experimental expertise. then, if the sun shines just right, something beautiful will emerge.

to mark the season of advent and the accompanying waiting and yearning for new life in all of its various forms, i’m posting a sermon i preached this time last year at shady grove church. it’s the most honest and vulnerable sermon i’ve ever preached, and i’m including it in the MakeShift revolution because it is equally influenced by my ministry and my motherhood. the texts of the day were jeremiah 33:14-16 and luke 21:25-36. interspersed throughout the text are some block prints i did in 2007 for the advent bulletin covers atidlewild church.

*     *     *

The “baby watch” had begun. The future grandparents called every 12 hours or so to ask about signs of labor. The great-aunt was on standby, ready to babysit the two-year-old on a moment’s notice. The nursery had been complete for a good month, the baby clothes had been washed, folded, and put away, the name had been selected, and the birthing plan had been mapped out. The new car seat was secure in the car. The two-year-old endured periodic explanations about what was about to happen, even though he really just wanted to play with his play dough in peace. And everywhere she went, that is, everywhere I went, I was a walking, waddling, symbol of Advent, pregnant, like Mary, during the days leading up to last Christmas. 

Meanwhile, the season of Advent set the stage with its rich stories. The prophets were prophesying the coming of a new king. John the Baptist was urging his congregation, the brood of vipers, to repent. Mary and Joseph saddled up a pack animal and went to be registered. The young adult Jesus was telling his disciples, and us, to look for the signs of the second coming. The weeks unfurled to the sights of Christmas lights, and the sounds of TV ads meant to herald, or perhaps beg for, salvation for our broken economy. There were the usual to-do lists and the painfully unusual absences left by death and empty nests. I don’t need to tell you what the holidays are like. We all know that strange hybrid of hope and impatience, excitement and desperation that comes when we are expecting God to break into our midst. But for me, last year, it really did all come down to the baby. My baby, who threatened all winter to make an early arrival and beat the baby Jesus to the punch.

I spent some time last year thinking that being very pregnant during Advent gave me a special entry point into this season of preparation and waiting. This brought an added measure of importance to the usual third-trimester symptoms: shortness of breath, night-waking, paranoia about missing the signs of imminent birth, mistaking my own impatience for signs of imminent birth, indigestion, emotional highs and lows, and attempts to conform this miracle to my schedule by eating spicy food, standing on my head, walking laps around the mall, etcetera.

But then I remembered that all of my Advents before had been marked by the same symptoms. Perhaps you suffer from some of these inflictions too: shortness of breath, night-waking, paranoia about missing the signs of imminent birth, mistaking your own impatience for signs of imminent birth, indigestion, emotional highs and lows, and attempts to conform this miracle to your schedule. After all, Advent’s vulnerable waiting wrapped up in the frenzy of pomp and circumstance transforms us all, every year, into people who are expecting, whether we’ve ever been pregnant or not.

But it was not just my pregnancy that connected me so intimately to the Advent story last year. It was another common thread that weaves through the prophecies and the gospels, through my story, and perhaps yours too. I was lured into believing that I knew what to expect when I was expecting.

The people of the houses of Israel and Judah are certain that the coming king will be a ruler, like the rulers of their day. Jeremiah TELLS them that the coming king will establish justice and righteousness in the land, and they just assume that this justice and righteousness will happen in the usual way – by killing off their enemies. They are lured into believing that they know what to expect when they are expecting.

The people who crowd around Jesus in the gospel of Luke, and later many Christians of our time are certain that the second coming of our king will be signaled by the sun, moon, and stars; distress among the nations; and the roaring of the sea and the waves. Jesus TELLS them and us that the Son of Man is coming on a cloud, and from then on our generation of followers has just assumed that this event can be quantified, predicted, screen lit, packaged, and sold. We, that is many Christians of our day and time, are lured into believing that we know what to expect when we are expecting.

The ultrasound tech told my husband and me that our baby was to be a boy. And because we already had one of those — a precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder –  we just assumed that the baby growing in my womb would be another precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder. We were lured into believing that we knew what to expect when we were expecting.

But the people of the houses of Israel and Judah did not get what they were expecting. Their king was a baby, and though he eventually did work for justice and righteousness, he didn’t follow the military model. Instead, he preached about forgiveness and nonviolence

The people who crowd around Jesus in Luke and even now don’t always get what we are expecting either. There are glimmers of the second coming all the time but the cataclysmic event that hits it big in the box office does not seem imminent, nor does longing for it heal the longing in our souls

And a test in the sixteenth week of my pregnancy revealed that my expectations were not accurate either. My little boy had an elevated risk for downs syndrome. Downs or no downs, he could still be a precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder, but I could no longer cling to the silly notion that my second son would be just like my first.

Twice, I endured procedures designed to tell me for sure whether or not my son had Downs. Twice these procedures failed. I was left with no choice but to move through the season in a sort of embodied uncertainty. I had no idea what to expect while I was expecting, and I realized then that nobody else REALLY does either.

Well, this was an entirely different kind of waiting than I had signed up for. The place in my heart that I was preparing for another precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder slowly died, and in its place grew a reluctant, and eventually exuberant openness to this baby, who would change my life forever. Advent comes each year with its traditions and stories, associations, and plans. We have learned to prepare our hearts for these things, so comforting with their certainty. But only the uncertainty, only the wild prospect of an unpredictable savior, only this different kind of reluctant and eventually exuberant waiting can really open us up to the fullness of new life that is promised. Sometimes our expectations keep us from the radically receptive kind of expecting to which we are called.

My son, [the bird], was born on January 17^th of this year, and he does not have Downs Syndrome. But in my opinion, the real victory in this story lies elsewhere. From the moment the doctor handed me my baby, fresh from the womb, I felt nothing but unconditional love. The question about Downs that had ruled so much of my pregnancy had no relevance at all in the face of this love, so powerful, this baby, so divine. Miraculously, I had made room for him, and all that he is, and all that he will become.

This is how my little [bird] taught me what Advent is all about before he was even 5 minutes old. It’s about opening our hearts to a God who is never limited by our expectations. It’s about embracing uncertainty. It’s about casting aside all of those things that have no relevance at all in the face of love and divinity. But most of all, it’s about making room for the baby, born in the city of David, and all that he is, and all that he will become.

AMEN.

first grade, for me, was when the curriculum ceased to be play-based. the active life of preschool and kindergarten, with all of its hiding and seeking and cooking and dancing, became fodder for my daydreams as i plugged away at my little wooden first grade desk at what was unabashedly called “seatwork.” i resisted this stationary kind of learning so much that i almost failed the first grade, but in the face of at least eleven more years of school, i learned to expand my knowledge within the confines of the system. unknowingly, i separated the parts of me that were once beautifully integrated in childhood: mental and physical exercise. there were spelling tests and there was recess. there was long division, and there was sports practice. there was contemporary theology and there was jogging. as i was being created into a contributing member of society, there was evening, and there was morning for approximately 4,140 days.

as i was riding my bicycle on the greenline yesterday with the bird in tow, i lapsed into the guilty reflection that is common to upper middle class mothers. i calculated how many days i have spent formally acquiring knowledge in educational settings, and i came up with the above number. then i commenced to worry that “my brain is turning to mush.” i thought of my diplomas that are not framed in an office but are still tucked away in their little black folders between photo albums of my kids’ first years and behind a colorful butcher paper masterpiece that the monkey created at school. i thought of the staggering amount of guilt that is experienced as women like me, who have spent the majority of our lives doing “seatwork,” are plunged into the unfamiliar world of mothering, where equations and essays are irrelevant. i started plotting my next vocational move once the kids are in school, work that would justify my masters degree and present a reason to frame those diplomas. and then i remembered another stark contrast between life in educational systems and life as a mostly stay-at-home-mom: the former is future-oriented by design. the latter can only be fully embraced by living in the present.

i went on like this for an hour — enough time for the bird and me to ride to shelby farms and back into town. i reflected on the way that my life now involves so much physical activity — schlepping kids, groceries, and laundry, pushing the steam mop, averting disasters, rushing to disentangle the climbing bird from all manor of hanging garage tools. the seatwork smarty pants in me unleashed more judgement. “what a waste,” she said.

and then, miraculously, i remembered who i was in the first place, before the confines of first grade hit, before i spent 4,140 days compartmentalizing mental and physical excercise. i am someone who loves a play-based curriculum and an integrated life. and that is precisely what i’ve got right now.

so as the bird and i finished up our bike ride and went on to schlepp the week’s groceries, i laid the guilt to rest. perhaps mothering young children is a chance to return to a more natural state of being, a time to collect all of the scattered parts of me and put them back together.

the monkey fully embraced life in the mountains. he spent the month clad in silly bands, lanyard necklaces, shoes that were perpetually wet from creek walking, and a wide, sticky, ice-creamy grin. nothing spells camp like tight sweaty ringlets, the constant talk of  counselors and fellow campers, and a slew of silly songs playing on repeat inside an almost-four-year-old head.

meanwhile, the bird picked up his new favorite hobby: throwing rocks in the creek. he replaced his barely distinguishable babble with real words that actually made sense in context, and thereby joined fellow toddlers throughout time and space in demonstrating for their elders what a miracle the human grasp of language really is. he had his own pair of perpetually wet shoes and his own allotment of silly bands (thanks to the monkey). like his brother, he waltzed into clubs every day to a chorus of counselors’ welcomes.

is is possible that my children did an entire years’ worth of growing up in one month? from certain angles i took in their shaggy hair and occasional nonchalance and imagined their impending teenage years. i saw that what my friend steve says is true: “with parenting, the days go by slowly but the years go by quickly.”

or perhaps it was my own relaxed, campy persona that gave me pause to take a broader view of my children and their progress. with both children in childcare for the first time, i found myself hiking on mountain trails, practicing yoga in a local studio, and sipping coffee on the porch. this time afforded me a glimpse into a future stage, with increased spare time and possibilities.

parenting’s relentless onslaught of joy and duty seems to evoke a delayed sort of processing. there is no time to sift through the realities of one stage until the next stage is dawning. i have been a parent for almost four years now, but this recent preview of the future is the first real glimpse i have gotten of life beyond babyhood. i was able to remember what i liked to do before i had kids and imagine a life that will return me to those things someday.

but for now i am content to re-enter our memphis routine — the onslaught of  joy and duty. however, i do this with the new knowledge that though the days go by slowly, the years truly do fly by, carrying the sweet sounds of baby babble with them.

my friend and boss, jarad, came up with these few lines the other day. they came just in time to remind me that my work in the home is important. i hope they do the same thing for you.

it doesn’t take a whole village
or a new paradigm
or any other grand thing
to make the world better,
not if the world is sitting across the counter-
brown eyes over scrambled eggs-
looking at you.

(the world happens
just like that.)

wednesday was the monkey’s last day of his first school year. let’s recap some of his newly acquired knowledge, shall we? he has learned…

1. that god “just keeps on making him special.” nice process theology, son.
2. that when school’s out, it’s summer, and when it’s summer, you’d better find some shade.
3. that “addie and brice are dating. this means that addie is brice’s special friend, and brice is addie’s special friend.” [names changed to protect the socially advanced.]
4. to count for hours, cut out shapes, and observe the weather.
5. to mark certain occasions by bursting into song. for example, if someone reappears after being absent, it is customary to sing, ” we’re really glad you’re back… we’re really glad you’re back.”
6. how to draw self portraits:

now for the things that i have learned from the monkey’s first school year. i now know that…

1. good teachers make all the difference in the world. i would send the monkey to the planet neptune for school if i heard that ms. aimee and ms. ann would be there.
2. sharing the dropping-off and fetching responsibilities with my husband is a wonderful convenience.
3. it is okay that i am different from the other moms.
4. the first year of school is just as much about honing the immune systems of children and their entire families (including grandparents) as it is about honing kids’ cognitive skills.
5. the monkey can behave like a monster at home and a boy scout at school.
6. i am really not that different from the other moms.

in case you are worried that my poor child cannot see through all of the curly hair covering his face, we have remedied that problem with a handsome little haircut. now, since it’s summer, i’m going to find some shade.

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong in a boat out at sea
Sail away, kill off the hours
You belong somewhere you feel free

Run away, find you a lover
Go away somewhere bright and new
I have seen no other
Who compares with you

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong in a boat out at sea
You belong with your love on your arm
You belong somewhere you feel free

Run away, go find a lover
Run away, let your heart be your guide
You deserve the deepest of cover
You belong in that home by and by

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong somewhere close to me
Far away from your trouble and worry
You belong somewhere you feel free
You belong somewhere you feel free

words by tom petty; gardening exuberance by the monkey and the bird.

two summers ago i attended a women’s conference in montreat, north carolina. there, we examined and discussed the various and brillient ways in which women are making a difference in the world. i was inspired by talk of women who brought about peace in liberia, founded women’s shelters, and lived lives of compassion in calcutta. but i was also discouraged about the modesty of my own little life as a part-time minister and full time mother. i felt the urge to do something bigger and more important, and when i expressed this to the speaker in a forum full of conferees, i opened myself up to the following feedback that came to me from all directions for the rest of the week. it generally went something like this:

“you are young, and smart, and your life is full of potential for making a difference inside of your home and out in the world. your motherhood is every bit as important as your career; the effect you have on your children is equally as important as the effect you have as a minister. YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO IT ALL AT ONCE. there are seasons of your life that are spent largely at home, and there are seasons that can be spent engaging with the world one important project at a time. be patient. don’t get ahead of yourself. enjoy every season for the pleasures it brings and the good it allows you to do.”

this is really good advice, however cliche it has become. and i try to remember it when it feels like what i’m doing is too small, and when i’m trying to resist the urge to cram my already full life with preschool fundraisers, additional preaching gigs, ideations of elaborate dinner parties, books i want to write, et cetera.

at its worst, the seasons metaphor could lure women into satisfaction with lives that are too small. but for me, a constant crammer of too many activities into folds of time and space that are not built to hold them, the seasons metaphor serves its best purpose. it helps me to see the advantages of my current season, and it makes me want to embrace them for the short-lived gems that they are.

pictured in this post are eight seasons paintings i created for my dad for christmas ’09.

first name: Sarla

age: 58 

current city: Memphis

living situation: Married with one adult child, 24, now living at home.

occupation: Yoga teacher and studio owner

how do you structure your time and space? I spend a lot of time at home alone, at least until recently, when my son came back from New York to do a show at his father’s theatre, Playhouse on the Square. At this point in my life, I feel that my career has replaced my job as a parent. I recently stopped working seven days a week. There is a fine line, for me, between work and play. Since I am a yoga teacher, and I love yoga, it is often fun to practice and teach. It is also just as often a chore. I have recently given up two private clients and one of my public classes so that I could focus more time on being artistic and creative. I practice mediation everyday, as it is the  source of all my intuition and the foundation of my life as a wife, mother, friend and business owner. I cannot imagine life without meditation.  I sit for at least 30 minutes every day. Oddly enough, my meditation space is in my home office, which also serves as my yoga studio. I think that this combination makes my workspace more sacred. 

using the metaphor of seasons to describe the phases of women’s lives,

-what are the particular challenges and highlights of your current season? At 58 I am challenged by the fact that I have fewer years ahead of me than behind. I feel wiser and more aware of the fragility of life and the tendency many of us have to work too much and play too little. I have worked full time since I was 16. I find that as I get older I want to work less, but work more because I have more time on my hands. 

It was incredibly challenging for me when my children left home.  Family is very important to me and I treasure every moment that I can spend with my adult children, of whom I’m very proud. (My daughter, Katie Nichols Cook, is a highly successful realtor at Marx and Bensdorf, and my son, Jordan Sinclair Nichols, is an actor and choreographer extraordinaire.) However, I want to do some things that I have been putting off for most of my life. One of these is writing. I have always sensed that I have a novel somewhere in me and I want to give it an opportunity to emerge. My challenge is setting aside the time each day to write.  To that end, I am now doing The Artist’s Way for the fourth time, and I saw this questionnaire as an exercise in creativity. 

-what season(s) preceded this one? Prior to this season, which I would call “the golden years,” I had “the season of malcontent,” a childhood fraught with violence, confusion, anger, addiction, and what seemed would be a never ending battle with depression. In 1990 I stopped drinking for ten years, a time I would call “the season of re-birth.” I left my marriage to be with the man who is my present husband, started teaching yoga, and established my meditation practice. In 2001, I opened Midtown Yoga, which began “the season of manifestation and hard work.” Nine years later, I feel confident as a woman, a mother, a wife, a homemaker and a very good business woman. I also believe that I am now the yoga teacher I also dreamed of being. 

-what season(s) might your future hold? “The season of  self-acceptance and limitlessness.” I want to take dance lessons. I want to write and sing. I want to give myself the gifts that I have so freely given to my children.

favorite family activity: We love to play scrabble and other board games and to watch movies together.  My favorite thing to do with my family is to go to Florida. I have gone every year since I was 18. We all love the beach at Seaside. 

favorite solo activity:I’m presently working on that. I love to read, but spend very little time doing that recreationally. I also love to take long, solitary walks. I like to swim laps and I enjoy crime shows. 

sources of inspiration: Rod Stryker, my yoga teacher, Swami Rama, Meditation, yoga, friendships, sunshine, good books, the ocean, the sky, and the never ending gift of life.

best MakeShift moment: When I was 40 years old and doing The Artist’s Way for the first time, I got a wild hair to travel across country by myself, from Memphis to Seattle. I did it and stayed there for a month with my then yoga teacher, Felicity Green. The entire trip was a makeshift moment. I never planned where I would stay along the way or where I would eat or what I would do. It was the best thing I have ever done in my entire life, besides having my two amazing children. In retrospect, I think that my whole life has been a makeshift moment. I am not a planner. I am spontaneous and have my best ideas on the fly, including seeing Midtown Yoga full blown the day I walked into what was then The Jett College of Beauty.

Sarla is married to the love of her life, Jimmy Lewis. When she is not tending to the tasks associated with owning and directing Midtown Yoga, she may be found working on her memoirs.