Begin to Arrive

yoga practice, a Cessna 172, and a Cody Fry song

Photo by Alberto Caliman on Unsplash

Last weekend we took a spontaneous trip to the Gulf Coast towns of Alabama.

It’s where my family spent vacations when I was little. And it’s also where the man I married grew up—among the shipyards, fishing boats, and towering hurricane-proof homes. You’ll find forts, sacred burial grounds, and pirate lore along the sandy shores of Mobile Bay.

And a little of our own lore lives there, too. The beginnings of our story together, with both painful and sweet memories. When he was a shipfitter, he would write messages deep in the bowels of a ship and text me photos before he welded over them. Today there are love notes from Daniel sailing the oceans of the world, a secret from everyone but us.

Our conversations this weekend, as our boys swam and built sandcastles, centered around the mystery of BEING PRESENT IN THE MOMENT.

Why is it so hard to do?

We live in a world that’s probably the loudest it’s ever been, and we could be distracted endlessly if we let ourselves. Why do our brains naturally revert to the past or the future, and right now feels so elusive?

There’s a song by Cody Fry that says,

I drive across bridges so worried 'bout falling
That I miss the view
Already watching the news report saying
There was nothing anyone could do
In my mind
What if I fall?
But if it's in my mind

What if I fly?
Get a little higher
Get out of my head for a minute
And just feel the wind on my face.

When I first stretch on the yoga mat, the gentle British voice I’ve chosen on the Down Dog app says, “Let’s begin to arrive,” as she instructs deep breaths in and out.

I wonder if part of the key to being present is consciously choosing to begin to arrive where we are.

Keyword: begin. I don’t think we magically end up in the moment. I think sometimes we have to tell ourselves, “Hey, pay attention. This is important. Be here.”

And I wonder if another key is found in the true meaning of minimalism—saying no to some things to say yes to others.

There are seasons where that really isn’t possible. I’ve just come out of one of those seasons: tongue dragging at least five miles behind me, waking up each morning already exhausted. There are seasons where the only margin we can create is laughably tiny, but at least it’s there.

And it’s the choosing to hone our attention to the HERE and NOW that matters.

I’m learning that I have to make sure there is a balance of life-giving and life-draining things in my life. And I wonder if one gift I can give my children is modeling what it means to do the imperfect hard work of regulating and being mindful. The world is too messy and life is too short to pretend we’re robots.

And the hectic weeks or months—those times when we're just putting one foot in front of the other—remind me of why I'm passionate about slower, more intentional living. Leaving margin for things that whisper of eternity. Pouring into people with souls that will live on when everything else in this productivity competition fades away. Watching my babies turn into little boys and helping them grow into men who care for their souls well. Reading heavy books and wrestling with oppressive ideologies because God cares deeply about that. Drinking lattes with friends and taking walks and talking late into the night with the man I love.

A couple of weeks ago, my brother took the four of us up in a Cessna 172 (saying Cessna Skyhawk sounds prettier, but my pilot relatives tell me I should say 172).

As the sun turned golden and we flew over our small town, it was a good reminder of how tiny this life is. My brother tilted the wings for a gentle turn over the oak tree shading our home and we spotted the boys’ Tonka dump trucks in the backyard. It was all so small.

As the seasons change and nature slows down (but our lives speed up for the holidays) I’m paying a little closer attention to creating margin for myself.

It’s a choice; and not one that comes naturally to my hustling, worry-prone self. But it does come easier when I am intentional about creating space that will allow me to mentally tap myself on the shoulder and say “Hey. It’s gonna be okay. Let’s be here right now.”

“I've learned, above all, that less is truly beautiful. That happiness and contentment can't be manufactured, bought, subscribed to, or achieved by adding more to our lives. It's the counter-intuitive action of stripping away the excess that allows us to discover beauty and joy in the good lives we already have.”

- Emily Ley, When Less Becomes More

I think I’ll love this barista in Fairhope AL forever

As I pour water over coffee grounds in the French press, I wonder if I should start using the phrase "slow our lives down" instead of the inevitable "waiting for our lives to slow down" or "whenever life slows down". It never will slow down on its own.

I'm reminding myself, and maybe you too, that we don't have to choose one or the other. Busy or slow. Maybe we can begin to arrive in the middle of it all.

Maybe, as Emily Henry wrote in the tender, funny little novel I took to the beach last weekend: maybe happily-ever-afters are just a string of happy-for-nows. I don’t think those moments happen by osmosis. And we won’t know until we choose to live those moments in this short life.

When I get to the end of my life
I wanna know that I used my time.

So what if I fall
Straight out of the sky?
Would I rather look back and wonder
Or know that I actually tried?

What if I fly?

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*lyrics by Cody Fry