For much of the summer, my family and I have been without a dwelling. This is not to say we haven’t had homes. We have made a home wherever we have landed, and each place has taught us something. In fact, my singer/songwriter husband, Ben Thomas, even wrote a song depicting the essence and lesson of each place, from the RV campsite on Morro Bay to the sheltering trees of Yosemite to the resort-style campsite at Mt. Shasta to the windy Oregon coast to the 2nd floor of my parent’s home in the Cascade mountains.
The 4 of us humans, 5 beating hearts including Roja, are a tight-knit little unit that has bonded together over the past 4 years as we navigated new territory in SoCal after leaving our established lives in the Midwest. I like to think that offers us some security as we try to ground ourselves during these very uncertain times, both in our personal lives and the world.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the word “dwell”, both in terms of the first definition usually listed, “live in or at a specified place” and also of the 2nd definition “to think, speak or write at length about a particular subject, especially one that is a source of unhappiness, anxiety or dissatisfaction”.
I have somehow mastered the incarnation of the latter definition, as I descend from a long line of ruminators, dating at least as far back as my beloved grandpa Bob. But probably much further. Based on the lamentations of poets and storytellers over the past couple thousand years, rumination is more of a human condition than a genetic defect or anomaly. Some of us just practice it more than others.
As a person living with RP, the opportunities to practice dwelling present themselves quite often.
The most head-spinning practice opportunities seem to arrive right when I’m most relaxed, when my guard is down and I’m least expecting it. One such encounter occurred a couple weeks ago as my husband, Ben and I celebrated our anniversary.
Thanks to a gift from my 3 generous sisters, we were sitting on the outdoor deck at an upscale restaurant, getting served plate after plate of mouth-watering gourmet food. Besides the occasional joking and chatting with our bubbly server who I imagined smiling underneath her mask, we were surrounded only by the sounds of the nearby rushing river and the gentle rustling of trees kissing in the breeze (okay, and also intermittent slurping sounds from the lone woman sitting at a table 6 ft. from ours. Very strange and distracting.)
Amid this (mostly) quiet setting, Ben and I were relaxing like 2 newlyweds without a care in the world. And considering there are so very many cares in this world right now, it felt a bit like hitting “pause” for an hour or so. Bubbly server came with our next course— soup and salad. I picked up my glass of water to take a sip, and was careful to set my glass down gently, in the same place it had been. What I didn’t see was that the server had set my bowl of corn bisque basil soup in the exact place where my water glass had just been, so I had set my entire glass of water in the middle of my soup.
Noticing it didn’t feel right but still not realizing that I had just dunked my glass fully in soup that blended in with the color of the table and bowl, I brought a glass dripping with corn bisque toward myself, the drippings falling onto my plate. As it somehow registered in my brain, I grabbed my cloth napkin in an attempt to wipe it off, managing to cover my entire fancy napkin in yellow soup. I was so stunned that this dripping glass and napkin were my new reality that I didn’t even think to tell the server who was standing at our table, watching the 5-second debacle unfold in slow motion, that I couldn’t see. To her, it probably looked intentional. Ben said that I set it down so carefully yet so precisely in the center of the soup that it looked like I was trying very hard to center it perfectly.
I’d like to think that I at least managed some kind of mumbled “oh goodness, sorry” as the image of what I’d just done fully registered in my brain, but even that nicety may have escaped my usual non-barbarian manners as my shock transformed into embarrassment.
The confused server took my soiled napkin and glass and returned several minutes later with a new glass of water and a fresh napkin. Besides the moments following the initial dunking of the glass, this probably would have been the 2nd best time to mention that the incident was due to a visual impairment, not a bizarre practical joke nor target practice.
Yet I sat in horror as my mouth remained closed. I even thought Ben might say something, but he was understandably leaving it to my discretion. In a flash, she was gone, and I thought about saying something when she came back with our halibut and mashed potatoes, but it somehow felt like the right moments had passed, so I again said nothing.
The bubbly server was still nice to us, but with less bubbles. I could sense a change in the level of her friendliness, probably imperceptible to most, but I could tell that the smile beneath her mask had faded. Her jokes a little less on point. Her attempts to connect with us a bit more vague.
And I don’t blame her. It must have been a strange scene to witness….a woman daintily and deliberately placing her glass of water in the middle of her soup. If I could have an instant replay, I think Ben and I would find it quite funny to watch. And maybe if I were a bit more quick-witted, I could have come up with a funny remark about target practice or a slightly snarky remark about the fact that we at least weren’t slurping our food like the woman who had just closed her tab or at least a simple explanation… But my mind and mouth seemed to freeze. And that pause button on the cares of this world seemed to unpause.
Since the soup and salad were only the 2nd course of a 5-course meal, I had a choice to make for the remaining 3 courses. I could either dwell on what happened and act even more awkward around the server. Or I could choose to enjoy my food and the company of the love of my life. I chose the latter, for the most part. But it took some effort and reframing in my mind.
Why is it so much easier to dwell on negative thoughts? Even the definition itself points to the negative. And neurological studies have found that our brains attach to a negative thought almost instantly while it takes the brain about 15 seconds to attach itself to a loving thought. One more reason to practice meditation.
I was discussing all of this with one of my writerly friends recently, and she said something that resonated so deeply, I wrote it down and asked her if I could borrow it. She said “Our thoughts are the internal dwelling of our soul.”
This quote is beautiful, and at the same time, it really challenges me during these uncertain days.
I find myself dwelling on how challenging it is to find the right dwelling for my family. When will the pandemic end? Will my family and friends be okay? Will the injustices in this world ever change?
I often find myself dwelling on how much there is to dwell upon.
Sometimes a verse from my Awanas days memorizing scriptures as a child comes back to me, yet it has new meaning at this stage in my life. It’s that famous one from Phillipians. “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable — if anything is excellent or praiseworthy — think about such things.” (Phillipians 4:8).
All of these thoughts ran through my mind yesterday while spending the day at a nearby lake. I was biting into a perfectly sweet and tart piece of strawberry-rhubarb pie watching the sun set over the lake, the soft hum of my family chatting and laughing in the background. I consciously chose to dwell on that moment, to allow the joy of it to dwell in my soul.
This is the dwelling I want to practice. To trace in my mind over and over again until it takes root and comes a bit more naturally than the other kind of dwelling. I want these dwellings to become my home.
