Things fall apart

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold” (Yeats)

Do all of us not feel this, live this, at times?

Things fall apart. People fall apart. Communities fall apart. Our minds and hearts fall apart; our families and relationships and jobs and marriages and hopes and dreams fall apart.

One moment all is spinning nicely; we feel ‘together’; everything fits and works and makes sense.

The next, everything seems to spin suddenly and noiselessly out of control, as if one of the solar system’s planets has somehow gone out of orbit, causing a ripple effect of chaos and destruction.

But even when things don’t fall apart, how often do we live in dread that they are and will? Sometimes I can almost see the white knuckles around me as we all hang on for dear life on this ride called life, trying desperately to keep ourselves together, our worlds together, our loved ones together. As if we are the glue and if we don’t do what we do – or not do what we don’t do! – then everything will instantly collapse. And I’m not talking here about those things that life and love require that we simply get up and keep doing every day; I’m talking about all the extra ways we contort, twist ourselves out of shape, and take on burdens and responsibilities that are not ours to carry, driven by this nameless fear of imminent disaster.

I still vividly remember one of these personal moments of spin and swirl many moons ago. It wasn’t that my life was actually falling apart. In fact, externally, things seemed to be coming together, falling into place. But internally all was spin, and I felt as if this swirl was going to break out of my insides any moment and explode into my world.

I had to get out, get away, find some peace.

I took a walk down the quiet country lane that led away from the house where I was living. The rough grey tarmac wound gently ahead of me between high, dense Devon hedgerows; and behind the hedges great, ancient trees soared, stretching their branches into a canopy above the one lane road. Disturbed by only the occasional car, I could walk right down the centre of it on the sparse green sprinkling of moss and grass that wheels never touched. The silence was pierced only by the sounds of hedgerow birds and distant traffic; and glimpsed through the branches overhead, clouds swept by in their endless cycle.

The world spun on. In its spinning, it was holding together.

And it was holding together without my help.

Into my mind spun the one thought that could save me from all of my internal spin and swirl:

“In him all things hold together.”

And, right there and then, I knew this to be profoundly true. I couldn’t see it, but at that moment I could sense its truth with every fibre of my being. This holding together, this cohesion, was realer than the road beneath my feet, the hedgerows, trees, clouds, birds; realer than my own swirling thoughts and emotions. And these, too, he was holding together – infinitely tender and infinitely strong.

As a friend and I discussed this week, scientists know that molecules are held together by something, but they still don’t know what it is. I love that. And whatever they discover and whatever they name it, for me this mysterious cohesive force of love is Christ, “the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation,” who is before all things, and for and through whom all things were created. “In him all things hold together." (Colossians 1)

He is the glue. Not me. Not you.

We can’t be the glue for ourselves or for each other. Though, when we truly realise this, the miracle is that we can be Christ for each other, embodying his ‘holding together’ for each other with love and care that are trusting and releasing, rather than fearful and controlling.

But, how to realise? How to remember?

Sometimes we simply need to get out of our little enclosed worlds – out into this wide, whirling, water-marked world – and open our eyes to ‘see’ and sense and know how true and firm and loving his holding is.

And sometimes we need to let go of a few of the planets we are trying to juggle, let them fall, let some solar systems seemingly spin out of control when we loosen our grip... and watch and wait. We desperately need to get free of the powerful illusion that we are the centre, or we will never see and experience what is true and real: In him all things hold together.

Sometimes, we have to allow things to fall apart in order to discover that the centre CAN and WILL hold, and that the centre is not us.

Just Breathe

“Just breathe” The invitation floats to me across the mist above the river.

Driving the same old route home from the school run and captured by the glimpse of hazy water as I passed, I find myself standing on the pier facing the broadening estuary, the mistline just below treeline forming ethereal shapes, one sleeping fishing boat and one bobbing bird the only black against expansive grey.

My internal space feels nothing like the serene, open space before me – tight, tense, packed full and spinning. Though no great tragedy has crossed my threshold, still the full gamut of human emotions dances in my veins this morning: anxiety, sadness, fear, shame, longing, guilt, loneliness... And my heart and mind reach out greedily, desperately, towards and beyond the calm generosity of the riverscape. I need something more, want something more.

“Just breathe.”

Could it be that simple? Just to stand. Just to be. Just to breathe. Not grasp, grab, grapple. Not clutch for answers or meaning... or even rescue. No need to understand, process or resolve all the swirl and churn.

But I’m not sure that’s enough for me, or if I am even able to stop, and let go...

And then I notice. This river, this mist, this sky, these trees and clouds and birds, they make no demands on me. They ask for nothing. So why should I demand anything of them, why stand greedy on this wharf? They are effortlessly what they are, and that is their gift to me, if I can receive it. The unselfconsciously graceful arc of the bird’s neck a second before it dives underwater, black blot absorbed ripplelessly into the vast silver. And, on the far bank, those faithful friends the silver birches remain rooted to their spot, content to exist. They know themselves as part of the whole, as freely sustained, just as the air offers itself to me without reserve or cost or need to be noticed.

I breathe. I am. My inner swirl is like the mist. It just is.

No other stage on which my life plays out offers me so fully this gift, picture, mirror, example. In every arena I bring desires, demands, expectations, and am met by the same in return. I do not object to this, you understand; these are the stuff, the fuel, of human interaction and endeavour. But, oh, to hold these lightly and play them blithely! Oh to complete my next needful task with the same unselfconscious grace as that one bobbing bird!

And so I rediscover what I have finally and recently been learning after almost forty years on the planet: that it is worth taking even five minutes out of my work day to go for a walk in the woods, or ten minutes out of a long journey to look at the sea. Stepping off the stage for mere minutes immerses me in the healing power of nature’s unforced presence, and in its gentle invitation simply to exist, and know my existence to be supported. Just to be.

“Just. Breathe.”

Rachael's Breastplate! (I arise today...)

I arise today through quietness of morning, peace of forest, riches of sunrise.

I arise today through softness of mist, gentleness of dew, beauty of silver birches.

I arise today through stability of earth, sustenance of air, fluidity of water.

I arise today through presence of strangers, welcome of friends, absence of others.

I arise today through a mighty strength.

I arise today.

(Yes, credit due, of course, to St Patrick's Breastplate or The Deer's Cry, and to my early morning walk that inspired my last post. May you also be aware of the mighty strength by which you arise today, in whom you live and move and have your being.)