Like a poet sitting in wait for words slippery and shy to meander toward and gather just long enough to reveal what is beyond them, we have only to become still before these flickering bids for our waking wonder.
Renée, Do you feel that your tiny home helps these reflections take this form? If you had a house with blinds to dust and a mortgage to cover, family boots kicked off right in the path to the door (assuming grown kids visiting and lapsing back into childhood behaviors), would the words of expression land elsewhere? I cannot help but think that your willingness to live small is expressing itself once again in your openness to living on this wondrous scale. As usual, the words and photos dance.
Thank you for bringing this question to the fold about living small. In short, it avails, perhaps not for the reasons one might be inclined to think.
I anticipated small living would "give me more time," cost less after I finish paying it off, and so on. Instead, day-to-day tasking shifts to other things that take time, things that conveniences of the modern home do not necessitate, things related to power, ambient temperature, and being connected to plumbing and sewer, for example. These tasks become somewhat manualized and often need to be found. Solar power for the "house" is not steady, especially in the winter when the sun shines slant. Days like today, when the cloud cover is thick, mean the fridge needs to be turned off at night because the sun did not shine to charge the batteries enough to run the "house" systems through the night. You learn to keep an eye on things and make choices. And because the house is moving across bumps and curves, things break down more rapidly, necessitating frequent repairs and replacements. I could not have anticipated the work and cost involved in 100 square feet. But the work is indeed very different. No weeds to pull in the garden, for one thing!
Before I share how living small does avail, permit me to say that no one is kicking boots off right in the path of the door! I live alone. And that is a significant aspect of living (this) small. I dare say, when my sons were young, wonder was not so likely to sweep in as I was stumbling over their hiking boots at the front door, rushing them out for soccer practice, or searching through piles of laundry to find a key left in a pocket! Still, those very moments can usher in wonder, too--with even more surprise than catching a sunrise. (I recall your story of riding the bike to rush something to your son at the bus stop and encountering the sun breaking through clouds as you rushed home to head out to teach.)
In many respects, it's the absence of conveniences in living small that opens the door to opening to wonder. What I might take for granted is not there to take for granted, slowing things down--way down--and waking the body up to sensory experience. One of the most enlivening experiences for me is waking on a cold morning, turning the burner on to heat the kettle, waiting for the water to begin to steam from the spout, and pouring that steaming water onto a hot cloth to wash my face. I treasure this experience. It is worth more than any shower I have ever taken. I watch the steam rise off the cloth and am captivated by its movement--how it sometimes rises in one stream and other times scatters into many. On my face, the warmth on the cloth means more than I can say. At night, when the world is sleeping, and because there are no appliances humming in the backdrop in the van, I wake to a quiet that I never knew I was missing when living in a modern home. There is always in a modern home the hum of something running, even if it's waves of currents running through wiring. On those nights that I turn off the inverter because the sun did not power the batteries enough that day, I am treated to a silence that is nothing less than sublime. I had not known a silence of this nature lying in the comfort of my bed at home before coming to this way of homing. And when on those occasions, such as Saturday, I get to soak in a bath--thanks to a loved on who does live in a home with modern conveniences I so appreciate--the experience lives on for days because it is no longer my day-to-day. And I have recounted many times here the extent to which I am so close to the elements. When the wind blows and shakes the van, in moments, it is as if I am nesting in a tree. I cannot imagine living any other way now.
But I cannot put a fine enough point on the fact of solitude at this stage of my life, slowing down to let experiences have a flavor and texture, and giving over to them. On the solitude piece, I do not suggest that hermits are the only humans who experience wonder. But my sense is that we all need to hold a space inside ourselves that is quiet if we are to open to wonder--in much the same way that we avail ourselves to the creative process. The two are not that dissimilar.
Long response, but your question is important, and I'm grateful to you for asking. I hope this offers some insights.
Thank you for this amazing response Renee, I feel like I am there! It helps that I’ve been in your home so can picture both the effort required and the wonder.
Your description of washing your face is going to stay with me, I will carry it into my daily tasks and make effort to be more fully present.
My soul is yearning for more silence and darkness (I won’t bore you with why) and I think I will be like you in that I won’t know how much I thirst for it until the other is gone.
This "I won't know how much I thirst for it until the other is gone" is touching at the very essence of life "Beyond the Comfort Zone" and seems to me to speak so fluently to what you are bringing forth with others on behalf of health and well-being. It's devilishly difficult to step outside of what we know and is familiar . . . and comfortable--even when what is comfortable does not serve our well-being (I'm putting words in your mouth without meaning to misstep).
Good point Tara. I'm not speaking for Renee but I would think living closer to the land and nature one naturally becomes in sync in a different (better) way. It's interesting to think how we can do it in our own lives? This is something I need to nurture more of, although it seems trickier in the big white winter (does snow shovelling count🤣?)
Yes, living closer to the land and nature changes the rhythms of day to day. I just wrote a lengthy reply to Tara's very good question, which you might enjoy reading per your own comment here. And your question about how we do this "in our own lives" is a very good one, and one we will explore in the course. Thank you for this--snow shoveling and all!
After replying to your comment, I moved to Ed's. And there, I discovered some significant resonances with yours. You may be interested in reading Ed's comment.
So very true. I take pause with your phrase: "mysteries too miraculous to be understood." It was the word, miracle, that grabbed me. It derives from the Latin, "miraculum"--object of wonder; "mirari" -- to wonder. . . .
And so, it is just this, isn't it?--that we stand in the midst of mysteries ever present. "We can only live in wonder of them."
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning.” Great photos. If you took them the day the storm came, the mackerel sky forebodes it. The fishes and the birds stirring also foretell severe weather. The wise sailor takes heed as he also revels in the wonder.
"Could we say that wonder is a burst of feeling?" I pull this line out of many others that will slowly root themselves in the soft fertile places in my head - I am learning to know. In all senses, to me, wonder can be felt, and, as such become part of the embodiment or culmination of wholeness. I believe these parts must be gathered over time, to be nurtured and cultivated as one would a giving garden. The more attention we attend to wonder the more it reveals.
Permit me to say that it is always a moment of pause to come to your kindnesses.
You write so beautifully of coming to know wonder as a culmination of wholeness. Gorgeous.
Which signals a *return* to wonder, as so of *returning* to wholeness. And this brings me to your remark that "the more attention we attend to wonder, the more it reveals." Could an exploration of wonder be a step toward wholeness?
So often your writings stir within me a whole host of thoughts that I feel I must echo back to you. Not so this time. Your words have stilled me in their perfection. This quote in particular: "We are never one without Other, never an enclosed unit, and so never without inner fleshy awareness that we need . . . the light of a new day, the air that carries a song, the beauty of a breath and grandeur of every living Other and It all." Exquisite. I am so deeply looking forward to Awakening Wonder! ❤️
This is delightful (I think there is a better word but it's not coming to mind!) - wonder as a burst of feeling. Absolutely! That's why we want more of it. Your words about the need that IS and the uncertainty of its fulfillment feel like the essence of our human condition and gather us to consider the path to surrender.
This essay contains many facets of loveliness Renee, the kind that we need in our world right now. Generosity (scholarship), beauty (images), change (weather and the river), wonder and contemplation.
"Delight" and "burst of feeling" seem to go hand in hand to me!
You write:
". . . the need that IS and the uncertainty of its fulfillment feel like the essence of our human condition and gather us to consider the path to surrender."
Yes. Need reveals our vulnerability--on the inside and outside. We don't like that, and so, the impulse is to attempt to take the reins of control. Some say this way of being came about through the transition from Paleolithic to Neolithic--from hunter/gatherer ways of being to cultivating crops. Suddenly, the human had a felt-sense of control over need. Rather than being at the mercy of what was there to gather and hunt, the human could plant a seed and watch it grow into harvest. But there was a catch. We soon learned that our control was limited. Rain came and washed away precious tendrils. Drought came and crops failed. And so on. Control is illusory. You plant the seed. Maybe the rain comes. Maybe it doesn't. And so, to your point, "gather us to consider the path to surrender." And this surrender is the seedbed of wonder. . . .
I so appreciate you bringing surrender into the fold here. It might show up again elsewhere with thanks to you!
Renée, you are always poetic, but today your poetry is stunning; and the pictures add to the poetry, or should I say, are the poetry. "...our yen not so much to understand what it is as to be entranced with that it is." That expresses the true miracle of seeing and being in awe of the unbelievable beauty around us all the time. And appreciating the true miracle that anything is here at all, and that we are actually able to experience it all with our senses. I know I've quoted this Mary Oliver poem before, but it is so apt here. "Truly there are mysteries too marvelous to be understood. How grass can be nourishing in the mouths of lambs. How rivers and stones are forever in allegiance with gravity, while we ourselves dream of rising. How two hands touch and the bonds will never be broken. How some come from delight or scars of damage to the comfort of a poem. Let me keep my distance always from those who think they know the answers, and let me keep company always with those who say, "Look!" and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads." I'm trying to practice bowing my head more.
You and Kaitlyn bring the word, miracle, into the fold this week. As I just shared with Kaitlyn, the word brings me to pause, given our theme of wonder. Miracle derives from the Latin, "miraculum"--object of wonder; "mirari" -- to wonder.
Then you bring to us this beautiful poem from Mary Oliver, beginning with "Truly there are mysteries too marvelous to be understood." Again, Kaitlyn, who wrote: "We truly live amongst mysteries too miraculous to be understood. We can only live in wonder of them."
What does this resonance in comments have to say about what we are exploring of wonder? What does it have to say of the experience of wonder?
I step in with reflections of my own here and invite anyone who wishes to add
These resonances, too, are a mystery of wonder. I notice a little catch in my throat; feeling swelling from within. We come to wonder by the very fact that we are sharing in the experience of these nearly same expressions called up from countless miles apart--you and Kaitlyn. To this, I "'Look!' and laugh in astonishment (truly!), and bow my head."
Then, you dive down into the pregnant void: "that anything is here at all, and that we are actually able to experience it all with our senses." We were birthed into wonder.
The most wonderful thing I could ever feel and think about is the very tapestry that weaves and connects us all. To have these shared experiences and be touched so similarly in ways. We don’t know each other, and yet we do. I don’t have words for it, really. Like you both said, I can only smile and bow my head as I do. But also, smile and look up upwards because my gosh, nothing is ever meaningless. It’s all so very brilliant. 🙏🏻✨
I needed this reminder today. In time I will be ripe for your teaching. Congratulations for helping others awaken to that which is dormant waiting to be unearthed.
And I pause on your words "that which is dormant waiting to be unearthed." It is so, isn't it?––that wonder lies in wait, ready to spring into our whole-bodied embrace of a [something] experienced! (I can't help but put an exclamation point on the end of that thought.)
May you be held in wonder these winter days. . . .
Renée, Do you feel that your tiny home helps these reflections take this form? If you had a house with blinds to dust and a mortgage to cover, family boots kicked off right in the path to the door (assuming grown kids visiting and lapsing back into childhood behaviors), would the words of expression land elsewhere? I cannot help but think that your willingness to live small is expressing itself once again in your openness to living on this wondrous scale. As usual, the words and photos dance.
Tara,
Thank you for bringing this question to the fold about living small. In short, it avails, perhaps not for the reasons one might be inclined to think.
I anticipated small living would "give me more time," cost less after I finish paying it off, and so on. Instead, day-to-day tasking shifts to other things that take time, things that conveniences of the modern home do not necessitate, things related to power, ambient temperature, and being connected to plumbing and sewer, for example. These tasks become somewhat manualized and often need to be found. Solar power for the "house" is not steady, especially in the winter when the sun shines slant. Days like today, when the cloud cover is thick, mean the fridge needs to be turned off at night because the sun did not shine to charge the batteries enough to run the "house" systems through the night. You learn to keep an eye on things and make choices. And because the house is moving across bumps and curves, things break down more rapidly, necessitating frequent repairs and replacements. I could not have anticipated the work and cost involved in 100 square feet. But the work is indeed very different. No weeds to pull in the garden, for one thing!
Before I share how living small does avail, permit me to say that no one is kicking boots off right in the path of the door! I live alone. And that is a significant aspect of living (this) small. I dare say, when my sons were young, wonder was not so likely to sweep in as I was stumbling over their hiking boots at the front door, rushing them out for soccer practice, or searching through piles of laundry to find a key left in a pocket! Still, those very moments can usher in wonder, too--with even more surprise than catching a sunrise. (I recall your story of riding the bike to rush something to your son at the bus stop and encountering the sun breaking through clouds as you rushed home to head out to teach.)
In many respects, it's the absence of conveniences in living small that opens the door to opening to wonder. What I might take for granted is not there to take for granted, slowing things down--way down--and waking the body up to sensory experience. One of the most enlivening experiences for me is waking on a cold morning, turning the burner on to heat the kettle, waiting for the water to begin to steam from the spout, and pouring that steaming water onto a hot cloth to wash my face. I treasure this experience. It is worth more than any shower I have ever taken. I watch the steam rise off the cloth and am captivated by its movement--how it sometimes rises in one stream and other times scatters into many. On my face, the warmth on the cloth means more than I can say. At night, when the world is sleeping, and because there are no appliances humming in the backdrop in the van, I wake to a quiet that I never knew I was missing when living in a modern home. There is always in a modern home the hum of something running, even if it's waves of currents running through wiring. On those nights that I turn off the inverter because the sun did not power the batteries enough that day, I am treated to a silence that is nothing less than sublime. I had not known a silence of this nature lying in the comfort of my bed at home before coming to this way of homing. And when on those occasions, such as Saturday, I get to soak in a bath--thanks to a loved on who does live in a home with modern conveniences I so appreciate--the experience lives on for days because it is no longer my day-to-day. And I have recounted many times here the extent to which I am so close to the elements. When the wind blows and shakes the van, in moments, it is as if I am nesting in a tree. I cannot imagine living any other way now.
But I cannot put a fine enough point on the fact of solitude at this stage of my life, slowing down to let experiences have a flavor and texture, and giving over to them. On the solitude piece, I do not suggest that hermits are the only humans who experience wonder. But my sense is that we all need to hold a space inside ourselves that is quiet if we are to open to wonder--in much the same way that we avail ourselves to the creative process. The two are not that dissimilar.
Long response, but your question is important, and I'm grateful to you for asking. I hope this offers some insights.
With love,
Renée
Thank you for this amazing response Renee, I feel like I am there! It helps that I’ve been in your home so can picture both the effort required and the wonder.
Your description of washing your face is going to stay with me, I will carry it into my daily tasks and make effort to be more fully present.
My soul is yearning for more silence and darkness (I won’t bore you with why) and I think I will be like you in that I won’t know how much I thirst for it until the other is gone.
Donna,
This "I won't know how much I thirst for it until the other is gone" is touching at the very essence of life "Beyond the Comfort Zone" and seems to me to speak so fluently to what you are bringing forth with others on behalf of health and well-being. It's devilishly difficult to step outside of what we know and is familiar . . . and comfortable--even when what is comfortable does not serve our well-being (I'm putting words in your mouth without meaning to misstep).
Good point Tara. I'm not speaking for Renee but I would think living closer to the land and nature one naturally becomes in sync in a different (better) way. It's interesting to think how we can do it in our own lives? This is something I need to nurture more of, although it seems trickier in the big white winter (does snow shovelling count🤣?)
Donna,
Yes, living closer to the land and nature changes the rhythms of day to day. I just wrote a lengthy reply to Tara's very good question, which you might enjoy reading per your own comment here. And your question about how we do this "in our own lives" is a very good one, and one we will explore in the course. Thank you for this--snow shoveling and all!
Haha! If we can write poetically about snow shoveling, it must count. I will sleep on it and see what happens. ☃️
I see a new poem in your future. Words white lost on the white page.
We truly live amongst mysteries too miraculous to be understood. We can only live in wonder of them. ✨
Kaitlyn,
After replying to your comment, I moved to Ed's. And there, I discovered some significant resonances with yours. You may be interested in reading Ed's comment.
Kaitlyn,
So very true. I take pause with your phrase: "mysteries too miraculous to be understood." It was the word, miracle, that grabbed me. It derives from the Latin, "miraculum"--object of wonder; "mirari" -- to wonder. . . .
And so, it is just this, isn't it?--that we stand in the midst of mysteries ever present. "We can only live in wonder of them."
Thank you for this.
With love,
Renée
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning.” Great photos. If you took them the day the storm came, the mackerel sky forebodes it. The fishes and the birds stirring also foretell severe weather. The wise sailor takes heed as he also revels in the wonder.
Michael,
Thank you for telling of the sky and what it foretells.
These images were taken across some days before the storm, actually, foreshadowing for days the weather forthcoming, I suppose. . . .
Thank you, wise sailor!
With love,
Renée
Dear Renée of wondrous words,
"Could we say that wonder is a burst of feeling?" I pull this line out of many others that will slowly root themselves in the soft fertile places in my head - I am learning to know. In all senses, to me, wonder can be felt, and, as such become part of the embodiment or culmination of wholeness. I believe these parts must be gathered over time, to be nurtured and cultivated as one would a giving garden. The more attention we attend to wonder the more it reveals.
As always with love and thanks x
Dear Susie,
Permit me to say that it is always a moment of pause to come to your kindnesses.
You write so beautifully of coming to know wonder as a culmination of wholeness. Gorgeous.
Which signals a *return* to wonder, as so of *returning* to wholeness. And this brings me to your remark that "the more attention we attend to wonder, the more it reveals." Could an exploration of wonder be a step toward wholeness?
Thank you, as always.
With love,
Renée
So often your writings stir within me a whole host of thoughts that I feel I must echo back to you. Not so this time. Your words have stilled me in their perfection. This quote in particular: "We are never one without Other, never an enclosed unit, and so never without inner fleshy awareness that we need . . . the light of a new day, the air that carries a song, the beauty of a breath and grandeur of every living Other and It all." Exquisite. I am so deeply looking forward to Awakening Wonder! ❤️
Jenna,
Thank you for this--especially that you shared while stilled.
I am so looking forward to awakening wonder with you, too!
With love,
Renée
This is delightful (I think there is a better word but it's not coming to mind!) - wonder as a burst of feeling. Absolutely! That's why we want more of it. Your words about the need that IS and the uncertainty of its fulfillment feel like the essence of our human condition and gather us to consider the path to surrender.
This essay contains many facets of loveliness Renee, the kind that we need in our world right now. Generosity (scholarship), beauty (images), change (weather and the river), wonder and contemplation.
Thank you.
Donna,
"Delight" and "burst of feeling" seem to go hand in hand to me!
You write:
". . . the need that IS and the uncertainty of its fulfillment feel like the essence of our human condition and gather us to consider the path to surrender."
Yes. Need reveals our vulnerability--on the inside and outside. We don't like that, and so, the impulse is to attempt to take the reins of control. Some say this way of being came about through the transition from Paleolithic to Neolithic--from hunter/gatherer ways of being to cultivating crops. Suddenly, the human had a felt-sense of control over need. Rather than being at the mercy of what was there to gather and hunt, the human could plant a seed and watch it grow into harvest. But there was a catch. We soon learned that our control was limited. Rain came and washed away precious tendrils. Drought came and crops failed. And so on. Control is illusory. You plant the seed. Maybe the rain comes. Maybe it doesn't. And so, to your point, "gather us to consider the path to surrender." And this surrender is the seedbed of wonder. . . .
I so appreciate you bringing surrender into the fold here. It might show up again elsewhere with thanks to you!
With love,
Renée
Ah, yes....beautifully expressed.
Thank you, Jim.
Renée, you are always poetic, but today your poetry is stunning; and the pictures add to the poetry, or should I say, are the poetry. "...our yen not so much to understand what it is as to be entranced with that it is." That expresses the true miracle of seeing and being in awe of the unbelievable beauty around us all the time. And appreciating the true miracle that anything is here at all, and that we are actually able to experience it all with our senses. I know I've quoted this Mary Oliver poem before, but it is so apt here. "Truly there are mysteries too marvelous to be understood. How grass can be nourishing in the mouths of lambs. How rivers and stones are forever in allegiance with gravity, while we ourselves dream of rising. How two hands touch and the bonds will never be broken. How some come from delight or scars of damage to the comfort of a poem. Let me keep my distance always from those who think they know the answers, and let me keep company always with those who say, "Look!" and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads." I'm trying to practice bowing my head more.
Ed,
Much surfaces here as I read your reflection.
You and Kaitlyn bring the word, miracle, into the fold this week. As I just shared with Kaitlyn, the word brings me to pause, given our theme of wonder. Miracle derives from the Latin, "miraculum"--object of wonder; "mirari" -- to wonder.
Then you bring to us this beautiful poem from Mary Oliver, beginning with "Truly there are mysteries too marvelous to be understood." Again, Kaitlyn, who wrote: "We truly live amongst mysteries too miraculous to be understood. We can only live in wonder of them."
What does this resonance in comments have to say about what we are exploring of wonder? What does it have to say of the experience of wonder?
I step in with reflections of my own here and invite anyone who wishes to add
These resonances, too, are a mystery of wonder. I notice a little catch in my throat; feeling swelling from within. We come to wonder by the very fact that we are sharing in the experience of these nearly same expressions called up from countless miles apart--you and Kaitlyn. To this, I "'Look!' and laugh in astonishment (truly!), and bow my head."
Then, you dive down into the pregnant void: "that anything is here at all, and that we are actually able to experience it all with our senses." We were birthed into wonder.
Thank you for this.
With love,
Renée
The most wonderful thing I could ever feel and think about is the very tapestry that weaves and connects us all. To have these shared experiences and be touched so similarly in ways. We don’t know each other, and yet we do. I don’t have words for it, really. Like you both said, I can only smile and bow my head as I do. But also, smile and look up upwards because my gosh, nothing is ever meaningless. It’s all so very brilliant. 🙏🏻✨
I needed this reminder today. In time I will be ripe for your teaching. Congratulations for helping others awaken to that which is dormant waiting to be unearthed.
Peggy,
Thank you for sharing.
And I pause on your words "that which is dormant waiting to be unearthed." It is so, isn't it?––that wonder lies in wait, ready to spring into our whole-bodied embrace of a [something] experienced! (I can't help but put an exclamation point on the end of that thought.)
May you be held in wonder these winter days. . . .
With love,
Renée