Stopping in my tracks

Sorry for the lack of new blog posts over the last ten days. I was working on a piece that just didn’t come together - mainly because I think it was about half a dozen posts trying to squeeze into one. So I’ve set that aside for now. And as tends to happen, something else came along and turned itself into this post.

From previous entries, you will know that I like the sound of wind in trees. Even so, it is quite an everyday sound, and not something I always pause and pay heed to.

But out on a walk the other day, on a tarmac path winding through an area of open green space in a fairly urban setting, the background hum of traffic not far away, I and my companion suddenly stopped, our eyes and ears caught quite simply by the dancing leaves in the tall hedge next to us. It was a nice but unremarkable place, and the hedge was made of trees and shrubs that generally would have been nice but unremarkable. On this evening, though, the direction and strength of the wind, and the way the light fell, meant the hedge caught our attention. Our meandering conversation also, I guess, meant that we were open to having our attention caught. “Look at that,” said my friend; “listen.” And so we did.

The leaves flickered in the breeze. As a stronger gust came through, they all flipped round showing their paler undersides, which stood out against darker trees behind. If you looked closely, some stayed almost still whilst others fluttered and twisted. The sound of them gently brushing to and fro against each other was a soft, lively rustle and chatter, a sound of the leaves enjoying the dance in which they were caught up. It wasn’t the dark roar of strong wind through tall trees, or the eerie howl of wind that might bring destruction. It was something altogether lighter and more joyous.

One of the fairly obvious pieces of life wisdom of which I’ve been reminded in recent months is that, if we don’t choose to stop, at some point we will be stopped – by life, circumstances, health. Stopping is good for us, and it’s best if we choose it, or are open to gentle invitations to stop, rather than waiting til we crash out.

When I finally realised I was suffering from depression and burnout, I was fortunate in that I didn’t quite get to the stage of having a particular incident or public display of “breaking down”. I think I wasn’t far from that stage, but by the grace of God I realised a few steps short of that point that I needed help. Even when I went to the GP, I knew I was in a bad way, but I didn’t realise how bad. It started to dawn on me that I might be worse than I thought when I burst into tears when the surgery answered the phone to me, and then when the tears came again as I stood at their reception desk a short while later. It was then less of a surprise when, once more, the waterworks turned themselves on as I sat in the mental health nurse specialist’s office. In conversation with her, and as she went through a questionnaire with me, she concluded that I was suffering with severe depression, and was only a few points on the scale away from being hospitalised. That certainly wasn’t what I expected to hear, and I didn’t fully accept it then: in telling people of my diagnosis, I downgraded it to moderately severe or moderate depression, depending on who I was speaking with. I accepted medication, but resisted the idea of taking time off work. But in a short space of time I realised I couldn’t continue in work, and accepted being signed off. And once I stopped, I realised just how bad things were, as I went deeper and lower down before finding the bottom. Now, the recovery journey is proving to be longer than I would have imagined, too. I am immensely grateful that colleagues and others have given me the space and time to stop that I have needed; I know not everyone has that luxury.

One of the books I have been reading during this time is “The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry” by John Mark Comer. The title caught my eye because I am really good at hurrying, and I also know that isn’t a very good thing! More on that another time. But one of the sections in his book is about the Judeo-Christian practice of Sabbath, a regular time of rest that God offers, commands, even seems to have built into the wiring of the universe. Talking of the risks of hurry, drive, addictive practices of busyness, Comer says that, despite warning signals, “we push on. Until, inevitably, we crash. Something in our minds or bodies gives out, and we end up flat on our backs…we all come to Sabbath, voluntarily or involuntarily.” Of his own experience, he writes: “Eventually the grain of the universe caught up with me, and I crashed, hard. My sabbatical was like playing catch-up on a decade of missed Sabbaths, come to collect with interest. I’m guessing you have a story too. If not, you will. Sabbath is coming for you, whether as delight or discipline.”

Comer’s book has much to say about what makes for a “good” Sabbath, amongst much else. I suspect I will be learning the lessons of Sabbath for some time to come (and yes, I thought they were lessons I’d learnt years ago – but hey ho!). Yesterday’s lesson on Sabbath came in the form of dancing leaves, and allowing them to interrupt our walking and our talking.

Here is a minute’s worth of video, to share the moment with you. I hope you enjoy it, just as the leaves seemed to do.