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Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

slowing down

What a Japanese Garden Taught Me about My Spiritual Life {and my closet}

June 30, 2015 By Michelle

JapaneseGarden3Ed

Lately I’ve been busy pruning. First I pruned my closet, keeping only the clothes I love and that fit (I finally parted ways with my favorite red pants because clearly “just three more pounds” is never going to happen).

Next I pruned my backyard, yanking errant coneflower, goldenrod and phlox from the flower beds and clipping dead branches and twigs from the river birch and magnolia trees. Eight leaf bags later, I now see open space and bits of sky and earth instead of a tangle of unruly branches and unkempt perennials.

I’ve altered my work space, too. I switched from the small antique letter desk I inherited from my grandmother to a larger table, removed all but three of my favorite knickknacks and wiped the surface clean.

A couple of weeks ago my family and I returned from a ten-day trip to the Pacific Northwest. We spent our last day of vacation at the Japanese Garden in Portland, Oregon, where our guide explained the gardening technique referred to as “pruning open.” She pointed to the various maples, pine and dogwood surrounding us, all of which had been dramatically pruned to reveal an aesthetic presentation of limbs, branches and foliage.

“Pruning open” allows the visitor to see up, out and beyond to the sky and landscape, our guide informed us. It creates a sense of openness and lets in the light.

JapaneseGarden2Ed

JapaneseGardenEd

As we meandered along one of the garden’s wooded paths, my son Noah noticed that everyone in our tour group whispered as they walked. In fact, every guest we passed during the more than two hours we spent in the garden that morning spoke in hushed tones. Something about being in such an uncluttered, serene landscape naturally quieted us.

I’ve thought a lot about the concept of “pruning open” in the days following our visit to the Japanese garden, not only as it relates to my physical surroundings – my yard, closet and workspace – but also how the practice might impact both my mental health and my spiritual life.

Like most twenty-first-century Americans, my days are cluttered with demands, responsibilities, deadlines, errands and appointments. My personal calendar is full of social obligations, and even my supposed down time is comprised of a cacophonous mix of television, the Internet and social media. My smart phone is always in my purse or my back pocket, and the moment it dings, I pull it out and swipe its face.

What would it look like, I wondered, to “prune open” not only my physical surroundings, but my personal time and my inner life, too?

In light of that question, I’m trying to carve out a bit of time each day, even as little as a half hour, in which I do nothing but sit quietly in the chaise lounge in the corner of my back patio. I leave my phone indoors, and I don’t read or write, text or talk. I simply sit with no goal, agenda or purpose. I do nothing, and in the process, unclutter my mind and spirit, at least for a short while.

We can’t “prune open” our entire lives; after all, we have jobs, families to tend to, demands to meet and duties to perform. But we can “prune open” a small space and a sliver of time each day in which to quiet ourselves – a clearing in the jumble and tangle of our busy lives that allows us to see up, out and beyond ourselves.

{This article ran June 27 in the Lincoln Journal Star}

Filed Under: silence, slow, summer vacation Tagged With: Japanese Garden, Oregon, Portland, silence, simplification, slowing down

The Season of Slow

February 12, 2014 By Michelle

The dog and I fight for real estate in front of the space heater. {What?! you say. A dog?! She’s not mine – we are dog sitting for a friend…but do stay tuned – there’s more news to come on that front}

I wear a turtleneck sweater, a sweatshirt and a scarf wrapped three times around my neck. The colors all clash and I don’t care. I’m still cold, no matter how many layers I wear.

Outside the sun room window (“sun room” a misnomer these days) the sky laps gray upon gray upon gray. The birds flutter around the last bits of sunflower seed, and the suet for the woodpeckers has hardened to concrete in the cold. I watch as the empty birdhouse swings in the relentless wind and the squirrels leap from tree to tree to tree. They follow a route they seem to know by heart: picket fence to oak to crab apple to birch to magnolia to pine. I wonder if they can traverse the entire neighborhood without ever setting their claws on the ground.

In the evenings the four of us watch the Olympics on TV, tucking blankets up to our chis to ward off the draft that sneaks between the old panes. We marvel at the skiers who whoosh past in a 70 mph blur, are transfixed by the skater who holds one leg so straight above her head while she spins, she looks like a pirouetting pencil, the blade of her skate glinting in the bright arena lights.

Noah lights a candle every morning while he eats breakfast, and I smell the scent — Yankee Candle Farmers’ Market — before I even descend the stairs. At night I hold a match to the votives lining the dining room table, then stand in the darkness and watch the flames.

Part of me is restless, a low-level agitation pulsing under my skin. I don’t leave the house for days on end, except to deliver and retrieve the kids from school. But mostly I am glad for the stillness, the steady hum of the heater, a warm dog at my feet.

It is the season of slow. All of February’s calendar squares march clean and white and empty across the page.

Filed Under: slow, small moments Tagged With: slowing down

Bikers and Rock Hunters

July 24, 2013 By Michelle

“Make sure you get the bike,” he says, sidling closer to the petite blond woman at his side.

We’re at Cutface Creek rest stop on the north shore of Lake Superior, where the breeze blows frigid off the water, even though it’s mid-July. The man wears a navy blue sweatshirt advertising a carwash, the woman a black leather jacket zipped all the way to her neck. I step back, crouch a bit to get more of the Harley in the frame. I’d zoomed in to focus on their faces, but now I realize the bike is important, too.

My sister and I walk to the beach, our sons sprinting ahead of us. At the base of the stone steps is a large, flat boulder, its surface warm from the sun. We sit side by side, soaking in the heat as the boys throw rocks into the water. We are quiet. Jeanine opens a book. I palm water-smooth rocks and stare at the horizon.

A ways up the beach two men hunt for rocks – this particular spot is known for its agates and Thomsonite. The men carry plastic soda bottles with the bottoms sliced off, holding them upside-down by the caps. The older man with the worn fisherman’s hat and the brown, gold-toed socks tucked into Tevas seems to be something of a rock expert. “You’re a quick learner, you’re getting it,” he says, clapping the taller, younger man excitedly on the back. The two crouch at the water’s edge, forearms resting on thighs, peering into palms held wide open.

“Everyone’s got their thing,” I say to Jeanine.

“Hmmmm?” she replies, not looking up from her book.

“I mean, everyone has something that makes them tick, that puts spring in their step and fires them up. Like the couple with their motorcycle. And these guys with their rocks.”

My sister’s not really listening. But it’s okay, because I’m excited by my own epiphany. It makes me happy to realize, quite suddenly, that the world is comprised of people who love motorcycles and people who love rocks. With people who love books and people who love people. Strangely, this realization buoys my faith in humanity.

The boys could stay at the water’s edge all day, but the sun is sinking lower and there’s spaghetti to cook back at the cabin. We climb the stairs to the parking lot. The Harley couple is long gone, but as I glance back at the water one last time, I spot the two men standing shoulder to shoulder. Their upside-down soda bottles are full to the brim with rocks.

 

Filed Under: passion, small moments Tagged With: Imperfect Prose, Jennifer Dukes Lee TellHisStory, Lake Superior, slowing down

Primary Sidebar

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a Triple Type A, “make it happen” (my dad’s favorite mantra) striver and achiever (I’m a 3 on the Enneagram, which tells you everything you need to know), but these days my striving looks more like sitting in silence on a park bench, my dog at my feet, as I slowly learn to let go of the false selves that have formed my identity for decades and lean toward uncovering who God created me to be.

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