Mind Body Mama: Waiting for Grace

Anne Lamott reminds us that grace is “the help you receive when you have no bright ideas left, when you are empty and desperate and have discovered that your best thinking and most charming charm have failed you.” These days of low pressure weather and high pressure life are putting my faith in grace to the test, but I am hoping to receive it—or more likely, hoping that I have the sense to recognize it where it already resides.

It has been relentlessly raining in our little Valley for all of June. While the cool and dark did not bother me as much as I might have expected—I’m far too busy to be gallivanting outside anyway—the plummeting barometric pressure is wreaking havoc on my family. Without the atmosphere pushing against my cranial blood vessels they burst forth into a migraine of magnificent proportion. Without a counterpoint to the swelling within her arthritic joints, Sweetie’s knees have ballooned and stiffened. We are a limping, blinded, whiney pair which has left us few resources to address the emotional maelstrom which is the end of kindergarten.

I am particularly shrewish and irritable. (Cut me some slack here—if the barometer falls any further my brain will start bleeding through my scalp.) I’m supposed to be preparing a sermon and worship service on the topic of “love,” and I’m right on schedule by hating on everyone I encounter. I prepared for my last big service, which addressed the lofty ideas as grief and compassion, by yelling at my family at the top of my lungs. So I’d have to say things are coming along nicely.

I ought to be freaking out right now, but the underwater weather is pushing me into a sort of a trance. I’m facing far too much work in far too little time, multiple deadlines that, if I thought about them, would reveal themselves to be, in fact, impossible to meet. The solution seems to be to slow down.

I spend an entire evening folding underpants and voila, a blog post (such as it is) reveals itself to me in the morning. I move through the grocery store as if on tranquilizers and find myself home in less than an hour without even forgetting anything. The more slowly I move, the more the available time expands and reshapes itself to accommodate what needs doing.

I hope this bizarre weather-related time shifting continues to hold. I’m giving over half of my writing time this morning to a massage with Mimi. I’ve got some terrific complaints, way beyond the child’s play of “constant tingling in my right hand.” I’m going to throw her some good stuff like, “when I crouch and run at the same time, my right iliopsoas seizes up and I fall down,” and “if I sneeze without pressing both hands against my chest, a rib pops out and stabs me from the inside.” Mimi’s a genius but I like to think I keep her on her toes.

Who knows what could happen once I enter the deep relaxation that follows a massage? I could finish off the whole sermon this afternoon—or end up napping under my desk. I’m going to try to trust that whatever happens will be for the best. It is really unlikely that I’ll end up standing before the entire congregation without anything to say—isn’t it? Or arrive at my martial arts conference next month without any class plans? Or miss the deadline for my next fitness column? Or forget where my kid is supposed to go when her childcare plans change suddenly next week?

Taking a deep breath now.

Source: Anne Lamott, “Grace,” in Travelling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith.