Skywatching Addiction
Have you ever heard of being addicted to skywatching? Neither have I, but I think if such a diagnosis existed, I'd be a clinical case.
In the morning, before I turn on any lights, and when only a dim light from a night light lets me find and swallow my thyroid pill, I stand at the patio door and gaze eastward into the dark--to see if this is one of the mornings I can see the lights of Wichita. I even crane to the north and the south to see if I can see the mirage of those windfarm lights that Dwight talked about. So far this has been fruitless, probably because I'm not even sure which direction I should be looking for them. Maybe they're behind me.
When it's time to be looking for the sunrise, I can hardly turn away from the window to make a sandwich for my lunch or to check my email.
On my way to school I scan the skies. That's one of the reasons I hate to drive fast--for how it limits this important activity.
If I come home from school during the sunset I hurriedly park my car and walk out the driveway and to the west so as to get an unobstructed view. I walk west till the sun sinks below the horizon, and then have inner permission to turn around and go home. But what if this is one of those times when the color lingers long after the sun has disappeared? Couldn't miss that. So I look over my shoulder a lot, and even keep looking through the cedar trees at the west edge of our property as long as I can see bright colors.
If I'm indoors, I hover around the west window near the computer to keep track of the sunset's progress.
I hardly know why I am compulsive about this. Watching the sky often arouses worshipful thoughts, which both help keep me grounded and let me soar. I'm probably doing some pain processing at these times, but also reminding myself of reasons for hope.
I think sometimes of my brother-in-law, Matthew, who has no medical recourse in arresting the recent steep decline of his health due to cancer. Ever since his initial diagnosis he has made it a point to savor each moment and to be intentional about expressing his love and care for others.
Early on, I "saw" him one day, when I was praying for him, standing somewhere under a wide sky, wrapped in a "healing" blanket and looking up in delight and wonder. I shared that image with him. Much later he told me about an awkward and painful medical procedure he had which left him shivering afterward. When he was making his way out of the treatment room, a nurse caught up with him and wrapped a warm blanket around him, and he thought of my "picture." I'm sure he had to imagine the wide sky then, but to know it's there--beyond the clutter of the messy or mundane is symbolic of the hope that there's more to life than what is painful, messy, and mundane. Even more profound is the hope of what is beyond this life--deliverance forever from the brokenness of a fallen world.
In the morning, before I turn on any lights, and when only a dim light from a night light lets me find and swallow my thyroid pill, I stand at the patio door and gaze eastward into the dark--to see if this is one of the mornings I can see the lights of Wichita. I even crane to the north and the south to see if I can see the mirage of those windfarm lights that Dwight talked about. So far this has been fruitless, probably because I'm not even sure which direction I should be looking for them. Maybe they're behind me.
When it's time to be looking for the sunrise, I can hardly turn away from the window to make a sandwich for my lunch or to check my email.
On my way to school I scan the skies. That's one of the reasons I hate to drive fast--for how it limits this important activity.
If I come home from school during the sunset I hurriedly park my car and walk out the driveway and to the west so as to get an unobstructed view. I walk west till the sun sinks below the horizon, and then have inner permission to turn around and go home. But what if this is one of those times when the color lingers long after the sun has disappeared? Couldn't miss that. So I look over my shoulder a lot, and even keep looking through the cedar trees at the west edge of our property as long as I can see bright colors.
If I'm indoors, I hover around the west window near the computer to keep track of the sunset's progress.
I hardly know why I am compulsive about this. Watching the sky often arouses worshipful thoughts, which both help keep me grounded and let me soar. I'm probably doing some pain processing at these times, but also reminding myself of reasons for hope.
I think sometimes of my brother-in-law, Matthew, who has no medical recourse in arresting the recent steep decline of his health due to cancer. Ever since his initial diagnosis he has made it a point to savor each moment and to be intentional about expressing his love and care for others.
Early on, I "saw" him one day, when I was praying for him, standing somewhere under a wide sky, wrapped in a "healing" blanket and looking up in delight and wonder. I shared that image with him. Much later he told me about an awkward and painful medical procedure he had which left him shivering afterward. When he was making his way out of the treatment room, a nurse caught up with him and wrapped a warm blanket around him, and he thought of my "picture." I'm sure he had to imagine the wide sky then, but to know it's there--beyond the clutter of the messy or mundane is symbolic of the hope that there's more to life than what is painful, messy, and mundane. Even more profound is the hope of what is beyond this life--deliverance forever from the brokenness of a fallen world.
posted by Mrs. I (Miriam Iwashige) at
7:19 PM
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