sunday drive to solitude

i'm exhausted today. i haven't been sleeping well, waking up in the middle of the night, and then again sometimes up to an hour before my alarm goes off. i stay there, on my back, eyes closed, hoping my body will forget what the hands on the clock said, and let me sleep as though i'd just laid down for the night.

it hasn't happened.

before i get out of bed, hundreds of emotions have begun their day's work of clamoring for my attention. it makes me feel a bit nauseous. i force myself out of bed, hoping they'll see it as a sign of my intentional neglect and finally leave me be.

...

sunday morning, i got up early and drove out to reindahl park with jon and joel for Day 2 of their badger state soccer games. i wasn't feeling sick of the sport yet - even after watching them play in 3 games the day before and catching 2 world cup games in between - but i knew myself well enough to know i needed serious coffee if i was going to manage two more games that day.

i popped into victor allen's, picked up a cinnamon toasted nut latte, and, not finding the atmosphere warm or inviting, returned to the car to head back to the fields.

there's something about portage road, though, that welcomed me in the way i had expected from victor allen's. there's nothing spectacular about portage within a mile off of east wash. but go a bit further north, and it's full farm land.

i drove over hwy 51 (and what a feeling to drive over the highway! it feels like you're flying above the busyness of routine daily life) and out of madison, through the little town with the 25 mph speed limit, and out past the corner bar.

there was hardly a soul on the road, but the few people i passed seemed as oblivious to the increased speed limit as me. we drove by each other slowly, as though we'd have pulled over to say hi if we'd have recognized the face.

anytime i hit a stop sign, i was tempted to wait, to turn off the car, and stay still.

i was there, only 5 minutes from madison, in the full and natural quiet of summer. crickets were chirping during the day and i could hear them. i don't know if i can quite express the kind of joy that brought. miles and miles of farm country. miles and miles away from just noise.

...

i'm an escapist by nature, i think, inclined to drop everything and run. so when i drove out of the city on sunday, i felt like i had flung open the porch door in my head and escaped out the back, avoiding confrontation with any of those emotions busily banging away at my front door.

i know it's only a matter of time before i'll be experiencing the heartache of leaving the chicago family i love, the joy of returning to a city of academics and environmentalists, the anxiety of looking for roommates and an apartment, the thrill of a month with very few constraints on my time. i'm sure they'll come, and probably all at once, too.

in the meantime, i'm going to practice escaping. no more binge escaping. no, no. i want to practice regular escaping. regular total alone-ness. solitude, i think is what it's called. how is it possible that i so easily forget how necessary solitude is for the soul?

henri nouwen writes in an article on moving from solitude to community to ministry:

It's not easy to sit and trust that in solitude God will speak to you— not as a magical voice but that he will let you know something gradually over the years. And in that word from God you will find the inner place from which to live your life.

Solitude is where spiritual ministry begins. That's where Jesus listened to God. That's where we listen to God.

Sometimes I think of life as a big wagon wheel with many spokes. In the middle is the hub. Often in ministry, it looks like we are running around the rim trying to reach everybody. But God says, Start in the hub; live in the hub. Then you will be connected with all the spokes, and you won't have to run so fast.

Nouwen adds, "Our little lives are small, human lives. But in the eyes of the One who calls us the beloved, we are great - greater than years we have. We will bear fruits, fruits that you and I will not see on this earth but in which we can trust."

Amen. On solitude. On Wisconsin (sorry, I couldn't resist).