Howard Thurman writes, “In the stillness of the quiet, if we listen, we can hear the whisper of the heart giving strength to weakness, courage to fear, hope to despair.”
But in the quiet of our early morning meditation, far too often I listen to other voices, other sounds. For the past 27 years, my husband and I have stumbled from bed in predawn darkness to light a candle, then sit for twenty minutes in silent prayer. Despite the years, I remain easily distracted. I try to still my body, center and still my mind, offer a prayer or a psalm, then enter the silence. Downstairs, the refrigerator hums. Outside, a few songbirds waken. Breathe. Be still.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. ScratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchSCRATCH!
Suddenly a tune runs through my head, the refrain from “Summer Breeze,” a 1972 song by Seals & Croft. Except the words aren’t,
Summer breeze makes me feel fine
Blowin‘ though the jasmine in my mind
Instead of that final line, I find myself substituting, “Scratching in the cat box of my mind…”
I don’t remember when the cat started timing his visits to the litterbox during our meditation, and to be honest he doesn’t do it every day, but “Scratching in the catbox of my mind” continues to invade the silence, overshadowing the “whisper of the heart.”
Or so I thought for several months.
Recently I’ve begun thinking of how Zen masters will rap the shoulders of a slumping meditator to straighten them up, to bring them back to the present moment. Perhaps the scratching, only slightly less grating than fingernails on a blackboard, is meant to be my wake-up call, its own peculiar whisper of my heart.
After all, we live in unsettled times, and my mind is, I have to admit, a little like a litter box. I certainly spend a lot of time scratching around in it, leaving undigested detritus behind.
So, when I scratch and scatter the litter, what’s actually there in my restless mind, besides music from my past? Howard Thurman nailed it. “In the stillness of the quiet, if we listen, we can hear the whisper of the heart giving strength to weakness, courage to fear, hope to despair.”
Weakness. The coronavirus is wreaking havoc by closing the schools my grandchildren attend and making it unwise for grandparents to help out because we are over 70 and vulnerable to the virus. This means lost work for my sons and millions of others who are now suddenly homeschooling their young children. Church services are canceled; libraries are closed. And grandparents are relegated to the sidelines as we practice social distancing for the sake of the overwhelmed medical community that doesn’t need more elderly patients. My sister named her deep sense of loss as she isolates from her grandson, and she named her fear of dying. My spiritual directors’ peer group spent our meeting last week focused on mortality, our own and our directees’. I’m suddenly aware of age, of my inability to be useful.
Fear. I’m afraid for this country with its mismanaged response to the coronavirus. I’m afraid for the health and life of friends and colleagues, yes, but also for the homeless, for the lost and lonely children separated from their families, for all those with insufficient resources. And I’m afraid of violence as people stock up not just on toilet paper, but on ammunition. For what? They can’t kill the virus with a gun.
Despair. I despair that politicians will continue to play politics instead of policy, that nothing will change, that those in power will hang onto it and willingly hang the rest of us out to dry (and die).
Forgive an old woman’s lament. I need Howard Thurman’s gentle reminder to listen to my heart’s scratchy whisper of potential strength, and courage, and hope. At its deepest level, my heart does know that God is with us, that God will never forsake us, that even in isolation – even in death — no one is ever alone. Paul reminds us in his letter to the Romans, “suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us….” (Think what characters we grandparents might become if we endure!) And Jesus’ last words in Matthew’s gospel offer the promise, “I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
The cat will continue to scratch, and my mind will continue to hum with an old tune and new worries, but if I can face them and name them, perhaps I can then turn to God, asking God to empty the catbox of my mind so I can settle once again into silence, into prayer instead of panic.
Discover more from Grow Christians
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Thank you so much for the gift of your cat story about the catbox of your mind. I too, am a grandmother and great-grandmother and in a senior residence community in Georgia every word you said rang true to me.
Oh, how hard it must be — I presume no visitors allowed in a senior residence community, and all those things which make it a “community” put on hold for now. Sending a virtual hug….
Thank you for writing your disturbing but loving thoughts; we are all in this together, struggling to learn new ways to relate and keep in touch. I’ve been calling one friend a day for a long chat, sometimes on FaceTime and intend to write letters to others. Our Vestry is calling each church member periodically to check on them. I was thrilled with this call from a young woman whom I met when we worked together on a parish project.
Our parish is celebrating Morning Prayer on Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday, helping me have a form to the week with only a medical appointment otherwise. I believe we will find our way and hopefully, be more loving and appreciative of one another on the other side. You are doing your part too and may we all met then.
Carolyn, your church sounds wonderfully responsive and sensitive to parishioners. I’m blessed, too, by a church that offers live streamed Morning Prayer and Compline every day, with a 5-person Eucharist (in the church, everyone 6 feet apart) live streamed on Sunday morning. But it is hard to be physically separated, isolated. God is with us, of course, always, but I do understand the story of the little boy waking from a nightmare who (when his mother offered the reassurance of God’s presence), announced that he wanted “God with skin on.” And that’s what we can’t be to each other right now…..
My being aware of my weakness is not limited to not being useful. I am used to being in control of my world, at least to a large extent. This crisis reveals to me the weakness that has been mine all along, but which I try not to acknowledge most of the time. Even as a grandmother, I still feel protective toward my grown sons, and that extends to their own nuclear families. There is no hope at the moment of my protecting them or keeping them safe. They both live in New York City, and my younger one announced to me the other day that Brooklyn, where he lives, is number 1 in the country. (Yes, a little black humor from him.) The best I can do is to pray for them and to entrust them into God’s loving hands. And that I have embraced. Maybe that’s a piece of the silver lining.
This is all so hard. I’m sorry, sorry for the situation itself, for our isolation from grandchildren, for Brooklyn… My trust is so fragile. It’s a good thing that God’s love is stronger than our weakness….
Thank you for these wise words.
You’re kind — I don’t feel at all wise, just bereft, and uncertain, and scared — with moments of hope. Thank you.
I loved this (having listened to Saffron spend way too much time in her box this morning as I was trying to lead an online Bible Study.
My congregation has been joining together for Morning Prayer via Zoom each Sunday — It is less polished than Facebook live but allows us to hear and see each other and to hear voices of many individuals reading lessons and other parts of the service. At the end of these service, before we fade out, our producer has been panning the faces of all who have been on the conference — The learning curve has been steep but God has been praised and we’ve been able to be community together.
St. Paul’s in Brunswick Maine is live-streaming Morning Prayer and Compline every day, and the Eucharist (with five people six feet apart in the empty church) on Sundays. It brackets the day with prayer, but it is not the same as being in person. I love your idea of Zoom, and panning the faces of all participants.
Thank you for your honest, insightful post. I am also a grandmother separated from my grandchildren. We live in Canada and are using messenger video to keep in touch. That way we can see their sweet faces. Praying without ceasing for our world.🙏
It’s so hard, isn’t it, being isolated from grandchildren. Ours live only a mile away — and two hours away — both families tantalizingly close. We feel bereft. I just wrote a story for the 3 year old this morning that I recorded for her, but it’s not the same as snuggling while we make up stories together. My heart is with all of us older folks separated from family members. Thank you for your prayers for our world.
Enjoyed your article. Interesting that you and Bishop Peter Eaton, DIOSEF, both talked about cats this morning. Bishop Peter shared that a kitten his wife rescued as a baby snuggles against him. He says that love the kitten shows reminds him of the love we have of God and he of us. now, I didn’t it word it like he did but I think you get the idea. Thanks for your ministry.
Thank you — yes, pets can indeed be conduits of grace!