A Meditation on Psalm 63

"O God, you are my God; eagerly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my flesh faints for you." Psalm 63:1


Psalm 63:1 has become a bit of a mantra for me. I say it silently each morning as I quiet my thoughts before I begin my Centering Prayer, and I find that I return to it throughout the day. I don't always repeat the full verse; sometimes "O God, you are my God" is all I need to re-focus my thoughts.

Several months ago, I realized that as I focused on the words, I would hear "O God, you are my God" as "O God, you are *my* God." I know this may seem minor, but as I considered what it means that I was emphasizing the word "my," I determined there may be a better way than subconsciously putting the focus on my own thoughts or feelings of God.

I realized the better way to hear the phrase was: "O God, you are my God." As in, God IS my God, not God is MY God. God -- who is so intimately present to each of us every second, who created each of us in God's image, who is "being" itself and yet who exists so completely other and separate from anything we can think or project on that Being -- that God is my God.

I've also come to see that if God is my God, then nothing else can be. Of course I would have said this, but it struck me that if I truly, in the depths of my being believe "O God, you are my God," then I need to be consciously aware that:

My loved-ones are not my god.

My roles of daughter, sister, friend, wife, and mother are not my god.

My hopes and dreams and wants and wishes are not my god.

My religion is not my god.

My nation is not my god.

My political views are not my god.

My identity not my god.

My social status is not my god.

My physical appearance is not my god.

My reputation is not my god.

My thoughts are not my god.

My earthly possessions are not my god.

My ideas are not my god.

My opinions are not my god.

My self-worth is not my god.

My life is not my god.

Only God is my God.

I've even begun to insert these sentiments into my mantra when I feel myself identifying too deeply with a thought or emotion that distracts me from a better way to handle everyday situations. For example, I will try to pause and think, "God, YOU are my God. The results of this effort are not my God. You are my God." Or "God, YOU are my God. This person's approval or esteem is not my God. You are my God." Sometimes just the act of stating both who should be my focus, along with who-or-what should not be, is enough to help me navigate frustrating situations with grace.

It has only been a few months, and I'm not perfect at remembering every time, but I'm thankful this is becoming a practice for me. God is my God. Everything thing else is simply part of life, to either be enjoyed or endured.

It really is as simple and beautiful as that.

All I have to do is keep practicing.




Note: for more resources and information on Centering Prayer, I encourage you to check out the  Contemplative Outreach website and/or listen to some of Thomas Keating's work on Audible. Another resource I've discovered recently is Gravity Center, which lists several wonderful resources and offers some excellent videos on contemplation. 

Unmoored

I am a word person. There are words I love simply for how they look in written form. There are others I love for how they sound, and still others I love for what they mean or who they remind me of. Sometimes I think about situations for much longer than necessary, for the sole purpose of figuring out a single word to describe how I feel about or perceive it.

I am also a writer. Not the kind who is gifted with words crying out to become books or columns or academic papers. No, I'm the kind of writer who uses writing as a way to work through things in her head, regardless of how many people may or may not read it. For as long as I can remember, when I have things I need to process, I write them out.

But I'm currently finding elusive both words and the ability to write things out.

I want to write more about Silence, and maybe I will at some point. Right now, however, I feel too fragile to try to put words around where it is taking me. I can't even seem to write about it privately without feeling a sense of betrayal, as though I need to only hold the experience and let it be what it is without analyzing or searching for explanation.

And when it comes to trying to share any of this with people I know, words may as well not exist. There is almost no one who seems safe enough for me to attempt an explanation of what is going on or how vulnerable and exposed I am. I feel disconnected from just about everyone at present.

By habit, I was contemplating this experience and attempting to come up with a word for it. Maybe I can’t write about all the details or explain myself out loud, but if I could at least identify a single word to encompass it all, I’d be able to put this phenomenon into that word and hold that word in the midst of what is unfolding.

 

Unmoored.

That’s the word I kept coming back to every time, even though I wasn't entirely sure what it meant. Sure, I knew it was a nautical term and I had an impression of its meaning, but had never looked it up in the dictionary. In my mind I associated “unmoored” with “adrift,” but "adrift" didn't entirely fit. So I looked it up.

un·moor  [uhn-moor]

1. to loose from moorings or anchorage.

2. to bring to the state of riding with a single anchor after being moored by two or more.

That's all I have at this point. I’m not even going to attempt to explain how entirely accurate the definition is for what I’m experiencing. Perhaps someday I will have more words and be able to write a beautiful reflection on my unmooring season. Maybe, but not today.

Inevitability

I know everyone loves the colors and the days so brilliant and crisp they seem like a fairy tale. I know the grass is still green. I know the sun, when not hidden, still filters through the leaves with golden shimmers.

I know I should love it.

But to me it feels heavy.

I realize these are the year's last nice days.

I lace up my shoes. I force myself out into the wind, under the clouds. The puddles spray leftover rain onto my calves as my feet strike the pavement and propel me forward. Sometimes I can focus on my stride. On beating my time. On pushing myself to run faster, to stretch, to feel only the air enveloping me and the rhythm and my breath.

But sometimes I don't care how fast I am.

Sometimes I get distracted by the red-tailed hawk swooping gracefully to a tree and calling for its mate. Sometimes the clouds are too ominous and the colors too striking and all I can feel is the brilliant yellow and red against angry, dark skies.

Sometimes all I can see is a final, defiant display of beauty in the face of winter's inevitability.

And when I see that, I feel both exhilarated and defeated.

The dull, gray winter will come regardless.

The gloom will settle in and all will be shades of white and shadows and endless months of chill.

The weight is almost too much.

Yet I can't deny the faint whispers of hope in the falling leaves.

This isn't final.

Spring waits in the shadows.

Nothing can stop it.

It will come.

It always does.

Enough

Enough: occurring in such quantity, quality, or scope as to fully meet demands, needs, or expectations
1: in or to a degree or quantity that satisfies or that is sufficient or necessary for satisfaction
2: fully, quite
3: in a tolerable degree


In most instances, I like the word “enough.”  "Enough" is an improvement from "adequate," but doesn't indicate "excess."  The demands or requirements are met, but I haven't gone overboard.  The word "enough" can be such a calming word.  It makes me think of phrases like:

You don’t have to keep worrying.
You don't have to keep struggling.
You have what you need.
You've done what you can.
You ARE enough.

Those are good thoughts. I like those phrases.

I know settling for “enough” in all aspects of life is not right.  There are places that call for continued investment or for not saying that where I am is enough.  Important relationships, learning, certain goals – those are a few areas where settling for "meets expectations" doesn't work. Those are areas that deserve my best efforts.

Yet, in places where "enough" is acceptable, I need to let it be just that: enough.  I know I have a tendency to obsess a bit about things.  Even after I've realized that more is not going to produce a better outcome or provide additional clarity or create a more desirable situation, I'll keep going back to it in my mind and over-thinking it.  Or over-doing it.  Or I'll keep going back to it and writing about it again and again from different perspectives.

Enough is enough, as they say.  The first place I need to accept this is in writing about how shattered and broken my faith and beliefs have been.  It's not that it doesn't matter anymore, it's just that to keep going back to it is splitting my focus.  It's time for me to turn my attention in a new direction.  It's time for me to approach new topics in my writing.  It's time for me to move on.

I've written about it enough.