Picking up Pennies
“There are lots of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises.” - Annie Dillard
It’s been a few moments since I’ve written or shared words with you. Spring burst with many surprises, all of which seemed quite wrapped and shrouded in painstaking mystery. Were they gifts? I’m learning to view them as such.
I moved from my small cabin under the Chalk Cliffs to my parent’s forested home beneath Mt. Princeton. It was a quick and sudden thing with books, spatulas, and leftover Christmas glitter being flung about and separated from each other as I drove them by dispersed truckload from one cabin to the next. “Just for a couple months…”
I settled my belongings into their new situations…and endeavored to settle myself into my old stomping grounds—my old room, my old forest trails, my old closet. “Just for a few months…”
But my body wouldn’t settle, and the following April weeks filled my body with increasing pain. Something was wrong; my intuition and my actual gut told me so. The doctors looked, the specialists searched, the tests and scans and lengthening days revealed I have endometriosis. The even longer nights told me I needed surgery.
I don’t really remember much of this summer. Except that I was in constant pain, and I couldn’t think or focus on much of anything for any amount of time. To arrive safely at the hospital for my surgery was my goal, my aim, my prayer and focus.
You don’t understand how loyal and constant a companion pain is until you go to bed with it every night and wake to its touch every morning. Pain is a consuming voice, and everything drowns in its melody. Strangely, it becomes a sort of haunting lullaby…if I rub my belly…if the warmth of my hands can touch the pain and listen…then it will be okay. The pain will feel acknowledged…and I will sleep.
July came, and I arrived safely at the hospital. I emerged from its sanctuary safely as well. Pain makes needles an elixir. It makes hospital walls warm and a surgeon’s knife the most generous of gifts. From the hospital I traveled home—to my parents’ forest home beneath Mt. Princeton. There, my sister held me and carried me—quite literally—to and fro and into socks, shirts, and bed.
Yes, leaving my own little cabin and returning home became a gift. An unwrapped surprise I sank into and rested deeply within.
You cannot understand pain until the day you wake and the tears run down your face…because you suddenly want to run outside, down the path, and up the mountain. And possibly…you can. The lightness of your body and the absence of any inner voice, throbbing, becomes the deepest of joys. The stillness of being well. The freedom of waking from deep, deep sleep…night upon night.
The weeks lingered over the rest of summer’s warmth, and I learned to be awake again. To feel the world around me, not just the one inside of me. I slowly gained my sight again, and I believe….I daresay I know….the world is more beautiful than it was.
There are moments where I still touch my skin, where the memory of pain pulses in the scars I see everyday. But the scars are not ugly to me. They are simply a part. A part of this journey and life I walk. Are they unwrapped gifts? I believe so. They are the hope of future life inside of me.
Fall fell into the forests and into the mountain curves with its quiet music. I wandered into its secret canopy and found its golden notes hung from aspen trees. How thankful I am for the rhythms of nature, for the gift of seasons in our broken, storied world.
Adventuring can turn to sauntering. Our ache for beauty and truth can turn to a willingness to simply see what already is. In the morphing of green to gold, I see the surprise of pain…and the glory of sacrifice. In the crisping of air and the darkening tilt of the sun, I see the audacity of hope—of faith in life everlasting. I watch in this waiting season of fall the colors burst in pursuit of winter…and I know that spring will come again with all of its unwrapped gifts and free surprises. And its in this season of softened earth, of aspen gold, and jewel-toned scents that I learn to view each day as the gift it is. Each pine needle turns fascinating and each coffee-filled morning becomes blessed. The softness of horse’s fur beneath my palm and words written by ancient prophets turn holy. The pumpkin candle’s tiny flame and the mundane chore of caring for barnyard creatures become beautiful and full and larger than all present thoughts.
This year begins to close. The last few pages are slim between my fingers, and their touched and pondered softness will soon close over 2022. It wasn’t the year I planned….(remember to never plan in ink)….but it is becoming the year where I learn to see. To look for the preciousness of life, the beauty in the smallest minutiae, to look for the hope in pain, the grace in recovery…and expect to find these truths faithful.
My body will never be “normal.” I have to listen more closely to its rhythms and be patient with the journey from “it is enough” to “it is well.” But I believe that through pain we gain the gift of perspective. We learn to see the beautiful wonderment of everyday life and the gift of small pleasures. I think through hardship and adversity, we learn to see fully.
Annie Dillard, in her book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, speaks of the importance of sight…how each of us has opportunity to see the world and all its intricacies, glories, stories, and seasons…how each of us has opportunity to treasure and transform in the presence of humble things.
I am walking my forest-home paths with a posture of gratitude. I wouldn’t have chosen to be here this time last year, but in this current season, it is precisely where I should be. And that is a gift—to know that I am so perfectly provided for by my God that He would close doors to rooms I long for and lead me to doors I desired to be closed. God is a generous Giver. He breathes beauty into being and blesses seasons we find barren. He flourishes His painter’s brush upon our canvases of waiting, and He is always—always—faithful.
“The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand. But—and this is the point—who gets excited by a mere penny?…. It is dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished and fatigued that he won’t stoop to pick up a penny” - Annie Dillard