Wide open spaces

There is a certain security in feeling small.

As much as we strive to make names for ourselves, build platforms, gather followers and subscribers and generally THINK we want to be a big deal, our hardwiring tells us that we are small fish in a VERY big pond.

And this is subconscious unrest is always immediately cured when I’m outside.

Not in the stands at Caroline’s softball game, Sydney’s track event or Beau’s swim meet, smashed into the stands (full of friends!) laser focused on my kid. Not in a walk around the neighborhood.

But I mean, OUTSIDE. AWAY. Where there are few buildings and miles of wild in every direction.

I grew up with more outside time than most girls my age. Dad ended up with three daughters, so we ended up his sidekicks on all the adventures: hunting, fishing, herding cows on horseback, camping, you name it. (This is why I’ve been able to bait my own hook since I was five years old and am relatively unfazed by blood and guts and dirt and guns, etc.)

But as I’ve gotten older, my life has gotten tamer. And of course, becoming a mother almost completely stifles your sense of adventure. Because all of a sudden, there are these little people you have to keep alive and you see danger everywhere. And when it comes to your own adventures, well, your overactive mother brain will default to worst-case scenario and if something tragic happened on some adventure, what would they do without YOU?

I was taking out the trash out last night. As I tossed the bag of our Chick-fil-A remains into the garbage can and quickly closed the lid before the smell reached my nose, I stopped and looked up.

The moon was so bright and there was a mountainous cloud to the left of it, unmoving and massive. And for the first time all day, I took a long, deep breath. The air smelled sweet and earthy. And suddenly, it became impossible to go back inside. So I sat down on the curb of our quiet street and just stared at the sky.

Here’s what happens: After living the normal life for a little too long, I start to feel really big and my world starts to feel very small. Rarely do I venture out of my little routine in downtown Orlando. Home, school, church, Publix, Target, occasionally Winter Park. Most of my days are spent on my spot on the couch, doing coaching sessions via phone and working on my business.

And in my small world, there are problems. First-world problems, to be sure, but problems nonetheless. Problems that I take full responsibility for solving, because after all, I’m very big and important in my small world. So I solve the ones I can (logistics ninja, remember?) and shoulder the ones I can’t.

And since I am not nearly as big and powerful as I think, the problems on my shoulders and in my mind begin to pile up. Things are already pretty crowded in my small world, mental claustrophobia begins to set in and I start to get grumpy, stressed and overwhelmed.

I walked outside last night with my mind full of problems. Not all bad problems. Just stuff that needed to be figured out, dealt with, worked on or unfortunately in some cases, resigned to. They were running around in my head like kindergartners desperately in need of recess. And there just wasn’t enough room in my head, in my small world.

As I sat on the curb, I began to notice the space around me. Trees lined our quiet street. Magnolia, live oak, maple. I grinned as I watched a raccoon scurry across my neighbor’s yard. There was a cool breeze that I inhaled like a drug. Finally I told the children in my head, Go. Run around. There’s plenty of room out here. Go on. And I released them.

I told myself if I really wanted to be outside, I should go sit by the pool. But even our beautiful backyard felt too small and closed in in that moment. I didn’t want to sit on furniture with concrete under my feet surrounded by a fence and hedge of privacy and protection. I needed SPACE.

I reached behind me and scooped up a handful of dirt. Earth. I remembered speaking with a client earlier that week about how she managed stress by working in her garden and how digging in the dirt grounded her. Literally.

I remembered the last time I dug in the dirt.

Beau and I broke the sacred ground where we would bury our beloved dog who had died. Brad and the girls were on their way home, so Beau and I could work in comfortable silence and sadness.

The ground reluctantly gave way and we wrestled with the roots, annoying reminders of life in the face of death. Our hands blistered and we sweated mercilessly in the July sun, but the work we were doing was holy and good. And the hole we needed was BIG.

After a while, I decided to break the silence and see if I could get a smile from my heartbroken son. “Couldn’t have gotten a chihuahua, could you?” I heard a low chuckle. I stabbed the ground again. “Nope. Not a even a Yorkie. Had to go and get a massive 60-pound bulldog.” Beau half smiled. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m trying to be sad.” I smiled back and nodded. “Okay, back to sad.” And back to work.

I sprinkled the dirt onto the ground and remembered each of us sprinkling a handful of dirt over Herschel’s grave. We covered him with his favorite blankie and began the work of refilling the hole with the displaced dirt. We all took turns shoveling.

When our loved ones die, the wonderful people at funeral homes and cemeteries do all the hard work so the family is free to grieve. But I have to say there was something very satisfying and comforting about getting my hands dirty and doing the hard work as one final act of love for my dog.

As my problems gleefully ran around the yard and the street, freeing up space in my heart, I looked up again.

Lord?

And in my mind I could see His massive arms sweep across the expanse of sky, the same sky He created at the beginning of time as we know it. See, My child? I am big enough for your problems. You forget how big I am. And how perfectly and preciously small you are. I’ve got you. And I’ve got them.

I reveled in His presence and suddenly the space around me seemed infinite, and I felt wonderfully and safely small again.

I decided years ago that’s why I love seeing big things in nature. The ocean. The Grand Canyon. The snow-covered Swiss Alps. The Rocky Mountains. They remind me how small I am. And if my God created those massive masterpieces, how much bigger is HE?

The reason kids feel so safe and when they’re small is because they’re with someone bigger who loves them, who can protect them if necessary and who’s got the situation relatively under control.

The sensor light snapped on behind me and I knew my absence had finally been noticed. Caroline walked up behind me. “Mom? Whatcha doing?” she asked, sounding mildly concerned. I smiled up at her. “Just gettin’ some air.”

“I went upstairs and you weren’t there and then I saw the door open and thought, ‘Uh-oh.’” (I didn’t ask her to expand on the ‘uh-oh.’ She either thought I had been kidnapped or maybe just finally snapped and was running down the street naked. I hoped for the former.) She reached down and hugged me.

I patted her arm. “I’m fine, babe. Just feels good out here tonight. I’ll be back in in a minute.” She kissed the top of my head, “Okay,” and went back inside.

In the movie Dead Poets Society, each meeting was begun by reading a quote from Thoreau. The passage continues, “I did not wish to live that which was not life … I wanted to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life.”

Sounds like my favorite verse from last week where Paul urged Timothy toward “Life that is truly life.”

I don’t know if Thoreau was a believer or not. But as every single person who has ever and will ever live on this planet was created by God Himself in His own image. And whether they believe it or not, this draw to wildness, the desire to look upon something bigger than ourselves, to be a part of something bigger than ourselves is woven into our DNA.

We know we’re small parts of something much, much bigger. And when that knowledge lines up with our reality, even for a moment, everything makes sense and everything feels right. We can take a deep breath with complete confidence that there is Someone bigger who loves us who has everything under control.

I stood up and turned to go back inside, expecting my problems to follow, jumping on my back for a piggyback ride back into my life. But strangely as I closed the door behind me and went to help Syd with her homework, I realized they had not followed me back in. My brain had room to think and wonder and create and LIVE.

Life that is truly life.

I need to spend more time outside.