Wandern, in German, means to hike. It sounds a lot like wandering, something leisurely and relaxed, but it describes an activity that gets your heart rate up, your forehead sweaty, and your feet sore. When it's unplanned, seems aimless, and feels endless, hiking transforms from a soul-searching journey or group bonding activity to torture.
At my last doctor's appointment, the medical assistant felt the need to check my pulse multiple times. My heart rate has always been low, so the space in-between each thump didn't shake me. I knew the next beat would come. But for her, the space in-between fermented worry, so I let her clip the oximeter to one finger after another. Seasons of waiting and limbo have made me hold my breath, too.
I wish I were Peter Pan, built to relish the expansiveness of standstill. For me, when the future seems unimaginable, time loses its energy. Though my inner urgency grows, the delicate layers that constructed life as I know it shed and dissolve into an ever-growing library of darkness, too much to archive. I don't fully understand this way of experiencing space and time; it's hard to define it, but it feels helpless. I'm stranded with a precious commodity whose practical value deteriorates every minute when satisfactory ways to enjoy, spend, or invest are lacking, but whose fleeting nature heightens its worth to me.
Ironically, beneath the external inactivity is a motor that continues to drive forward, performing its sole function, the only thing it's been hardwired to do. The juxtaposition seems absurd, yet it's true. Motionless, but moving. Lifeless, but living. Untethered, but rooted.
When time is an ambiguous accumulation, the orderliness of regularity appreciates in value. The little rhythms that give time some vague structure and form are like little bread crumbs to look out for and collect along the way. Manna.
If you're unfamiliar, manna has been described as a substance as tiny as a coriander seed. It was a wafer that tasted like honey, delicate and sweet. Ephemeral sustenance provided daily in the wilderness, a steady reminder that Grace was present in the wild. Bread, simple but enough, available only to fuel that day's work. It wouldn't last for tomorrow, but tomorrow, it'd come again.
In Hebrew, it quite literally means, "What is it?" Perhaps it's one of those things, like wandering, that makes more sense in hindsight. Manna was the bread from heaven the Israelites depended on for almost forty years, but it was more than that. Beyond its nutritive properties, I imagine gathering manna was comforting. Between the wandering and sense of helplessness, the daily ritual could be anticipated, counted on. It afforded expectancy, or dare I say, glimmers of hope. It gave reasons to say, and believe, "the momentum hasn't come to a full stop." There was assurance in the routine, but also in the daily miracle that proved they were seen and cared for. Manna provided emotional and spiritual relief.
I know I've encountered little sweet treasures on the daily throughout my wandering. There have been thin, frost-like flakes of mercy that say "I'm here" in the heaviness of the silence, "I'm not finished yet" since the healing isn't complete, "I see you" when I feel like I've melted into the darkness, "I love you" as I look down at my dirt-stained hands.
As time accumulates, so does the manna, and the sum yields so much more than a jar of crumbs. Manna points me to the fullness of the bread broken for me, a vision that wouldn't be as clear without the wandering.
Becoming Human (January 2021)
Becoming a Hopeful Realist (April 2021)
No comments:
Post a Comment