It is in barren spaces that the work is happening underground, unseen, that the soil is maturing and preparing itself to be of use. Seemingly barren spaces -- emotional, physical and spiritual -- are where roots sprout and grow down deep so that when the first green leaves break through the ground it is already much more of a plant than we know. I am finding myself trustful of barren spaces for a number of reasons, and have been drawn to the desert for a long time now.
Here, where you can see until the Earth begins to bend creating a horizon, there is nothing to stop your spirit from soaring except your own inhibitions. What are those things keeping me from expansion, growth and hope? Looking over the desert is like facing a mirror of sorts, an opportunity to stare deeply and see what comes back to you. Barren spaces are where ideas and longings mature, patience grows, resolve strengthens. In barren places and times there is a constant invitation to practice endurance and let go of despair, knowing the latter cannot possibly contribute to our survival. Barren spaces are where time, the ultimate healer and way-preparer, works its magic. They are, ironically enough, what must exist before any fruit can be borne.
During college, I went on a retreat to Death Valley in California. We spent a week in this desert – quite possibly one of the most barren places on Earth – and participated in a three-day fast and a two-day “solo quest.” During the solo quest, each person trekked off and found a camp of their own and did not have contact with other people for two full days. Truly, I think these 48 hours might have included some of the rawest moments of despair in my life. Desperately hungry, hot, afraid and unable for most of the time to really be with myself beyond these feelings of panic, I could not wait to return. I fantasized about food, shelter and relief from the heat. The sheer beauty of the stars at night was one of my only consolations and in a way, I felt, my friend. There was nothing to do but wait for the time to pass below my shantily-assembled tarp, which hovered a foot above the ground. I suppose that more enriched, soulful individuals would have used the time for authentic reflection and meditation, opened themselves to the Spirit’s movements and found a way to embrace the opportunity. Instead, I let anxiety run the show for (most of my) two days and stared longingly at the emergency food supply (which, through some deep resolve of dignity, I didn’t eat). My journal entries consisted of thoughts such as, “What in the world am I doing out here?” and “I dreamed about food for hours again last night.” A good amount of my energy also went to fearing bats, snakes, spiders, mountain lions, coyotes and the general unknown, all of which were said to make occasional appearances. I slept completely covered up inside my sleeping bag, despite the fact that I couldn’t breathe.
Upon returning to base camp on the morning of the third day, people shared stories of insights and dreams, revelations they’d had and the deep sense of peace and calm that had come to them during their time alone. My experience had been nothing of the sort, of course, and I felt like I had very little to share by way of the fruits of my time there. As far as I could grasp, the week had been both literally and figuratively one vast, barren place.
It was not until years later that thoughts of this retreat came slowly trickling back to me. But this time, somehow, they were wrapped in a kind of grace, sealed over with meaning. If nothing else, I began to realize, I made it through that time. I stayed and practiced patience and chose not to let fear run me back to the base camp. I have called on that example many times since then, relating it to a number of events and occurrences in my life. It has become a metaphor of sorts for all of the deserts I go through and the challenges and opportunities that present themselves while I'm there.
One grace of open spaces -- and perhaps one that has become apparent to me since being in the Southwest -- is that when the clutter, noise and denseness of ordinary life fall away, it's here that the promises of potential are sensed most clearly. What will become, what could become, what do I envision as possible when there are no limitations present? The notions that come to me in my barren places are always the ones I feel most intimately connected to and trusting of, as they have arisen out of a longing for movement forward in life and grow, for a while, without entanglement.
The decision to go to medical school came from a similar place. I had just decided not to do a master's thesis (and as was implied in this decision, a PhD) and was left in one of the most vastly open spaces I think I've known. My life -- what do I do with it? I had been walking, walking, walking straight down this path for so long and now here I was, suddenly, standing in the middle of then unknown place it had led me to. I knew that I had felt consolation slipping away for some time, but kept hoping that a guidepost or sign that I was headed in the right direction would appear sometime soon. Insead, nothing -- just the knowledge that I could go no further on this path yet at the same time, could not quite turn around. I considered leaving graduate school all-together and had it not been for a fully-funded assistantship, I might have. Somehow though, walking away didn't seem like the thing to do just yet.
Changing my plans to go to medical school was a bit like turing a massive, heaving ship by myself. Luckily for me, I had the next year and a half of graduate school to weigh my options, research the process and simply give the idea time to mature. Community Psychology lent itself well to someone interested in healthcare, by way of community health centers and public health issues to be investigated. I took another step. I was still quite unsure beginning my pre-med requirements last year, but I kept going, needing to know where this road was leading and refusing to believe that it led nowhere. Little by little, test by test, I feel like I can finally see the city lights, the dawn of that third morning in the desert. At the very least I think I can see the promise of them on the horizon. Bright, secure, hopeful lights.
An image presented in the Song of Solomon is that of a woman, “coming up from the desert, leaning on her Beloved.” Leaning on, trusting in. In those moments, what other choice do we have? For this reason, I've come to value all of the deserts I've returned, or am returning, from.
Here, where you can see until the Earth begins to bend creating a horizon, there is nothing to stop your spirit from soaring except your own inhibitions. What are those things keeping me from expansion, growth and hope? Looking over the desert is like facing a mirror of sorts, an opportunity to stare deeply and see what comes back to you. Barren spaces are where ideas and longings mature, patience grows, resolve strengthens. In barren places and times there is a constant invitation to practice endurance and let go of despair, knowing the latter cannot possibly contribute to our survival. Barren spaces are where time, the ultimate healer and way-preparer, works its magic. They are, ironically enough, what must exist before any fruit can be borne.
During college, I went on a retreat to Death Valley in California. We spent a week in this desert – quite possibly one of the most barren places on Earth – and participated in a three-day fast and a two-day “solo quest.” During the solo quest, each person trekked off and found a camp of their own and did not have contact with other people for two full days. Truly, I think these 48 hours might have included some of the rawest moments of despair in my life. Desperately hungry, hot, afraid and unable for most of the time to really be with myself beyond these feelings of panic, I could not wait to return. I fantasized about food, shelter and relief from the heat. The sheer beauty of the stars at night was one of my only consolations and in a way, I felt, my friend. There was nothing to do but wait for the time to pass below my shantily-assembled tarp, which hovered a foot above the ground. I suppose that more enriched, soulful individuals would have used the time for authentic reflection and meditation, opened themselves to the Spirit’s movements and found a way to embrace the opportunity. Instead, I let anxiety run the show for (most of my) two days and stared longingly at the emergency food supply (which, through some deep resolve of dignity, I didn’t eat). My journal entries consisted of thoughts such as, “What in the world am I doing out here?” and “I dreamed about food for hours again last night.” A good amount of my energy also went to fearing bats, snakes, spiders, mountain lions, coyotes and the general unknown, all of which were said to make occasional appearances. I slept completely covered up inside my sleeping bag, despite the fact that I couldn’t breathe.
Upon returning to base camp on the morning of the third day, people shared stories of insights and dreams, revelations they’d had and the deep sense of peace and calm that had come to them during their time alone. My experience had been nothing of the sort, of course, and I felt like I had very little to share by way of the fruits of my time there. As far as I could grasp, the week had been both literally and figuratively one vast, barren place.
It was not until years later that thoughts of this retreat came slowly trickling back to me. But this time, somehow, they were wrapped in a kind of grace, sealed over with meaning. If nothing else, I began to realize, I made it through that time. I stayed and practiced patience and chose not to let fear run me back to the base camp. I have called on that example many times since then, relating it to a number of events and occurrences in my life. It has become a metaphor of sorts for all of the deserts I go through and the challenges and opportunities that present themselves while I'm there.
One grace of open spaces -- and perhaps one that has become apparent to me since being in the Southwest -- is that when the clutter, noise and denseness of ordinary life fall away, it's here that the promises of potential are sensed most clearly. What will become, what could become, what do I envision as possible when there are no limitations present? The notions that come to me in my barren places are always the ones I feel most intimately connected to and trusting of, as they have arisen out of a longing for movement forward in life and grow, for a while, without entanglement.
The decision to go to medical school came from a similar place. I had just decided not to do a master's thesis (and as was implied in this decision, a PhD) and was left in one of the most vastly open spaces I think I've known. My life -- what do I do with it? I had been walking, walking, walking straight down this path for so long and now here I was, suddenly, standing in the middle of then unknown place it had led me to. I knew that I had felt consolation slipping away for some time, but kept hoping that a guidepost or sign that I was headed in the right direction would appear sometime soon. Insead, nothing -- just the knowledge that I could go no further on this path yet at the same time, could not quite turn around. I considered leaving graduate school all-together and had it not been for a fully-funded assistantship, I might have. Somehow though, walking away didn't seem like the thing to do just yet.
Changing my plans to go to medical school was a bit like turing a massive, heaving ship by myself. Luckily for me, I had the next year and a half of graduate school to weigh my options, research the process and simply give the idea time to mature. Community Psychology lent itself well to someone interested in healthcare, by way of community health centers and public health issues to be investigated. I took another step. I was still quite unsure beginning my pre-med requirements last year, but I kept going, needing to know where this road was leading and refusing to believe that it led nowhere. Little by little, test by test, I feel like I can finally see the city lights, the dawn of that third morning in the desert. At the very least I think I can see the promise of them on the horizon. Bright, secure, hopeful lights.
An image presented in the Song of Solomon is that of a woman, “coming up from the desert, leaning on her Beloved.” Leaning on, trusting in. In those moments, what other choice do we have? For this reason, I've come to value all of the deserts I've returned, or am returning, from.
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