Everyday Ignatian is a series written by guest contributors, chronicling their daily lives and experiences through the lens of Ignatian spirituality.
“She sat alone at recess again today,” the teacher whispers. “The other kids try and get her to play but she tells them she’d like to be alone.” I reassure the teacher that I’ll check on my 5-year-old daughter. My confident, outgoing, wise-beyond-her-years girl has previously explained this tendency to sit alone by simply stating that she wants some quiet to think.
As we drive home, I gently ask if everything is okay with her friends. She looks at me quizzically. I mention that her teacher noticed her sitting out of the games at recess. Her eyes light up. “Oh Mommy, my sunny spot was so perfect today! The cement was warm and there was some sand I could draw pictures in; I loved it.” Of course, her sunny spot. My daughter has recently taken to creating little pockets of quiet; she gathers her toys and coloring supplies into a pillowed heap and nestles in to listen to an audiobook or the Beatles. She’s an old soul, and I love that about her.
As we chat more about school, I realize that all truly is well. Her inner life is rich. She treasures her time spent simply musing on the wind, the sand and the warmth of the cement. Before we walk into our home, I kneel down so we’re eye to eye, squeeze her slender shoulders, and tell her how special it is to have a place like her sunny spot and that she can always take time to think. I want to impress this upon her, to emphasize that this stillness is beautiful and important. She shrugs and says, “I know, Mommy. Can we have a snack?” Clearly my moment has passed.
The first time my daughter’s teacher brought her recess solitude to my attention, I was worried. She has a sweet gaggle of friends, a little sister who follows her everywhere, she makes friends easily, and greets nearly everyone we interact with at the store. What was going on? After talking with my husband about it, he asked if I had ever craved time alone when I was her age. I considered this and realized that, as an only child, I soaked up every moment spent with my friends. But I treasured the time I spent alone at home. Thinking back to a certain sun-drenched rock by a creek near where I lived as a child, I nodded. “Yes, but I think that desire for stillness got lost somewhere along the way of growing up.”
Our lives move in a maelstrom of productivity and busyness. With two precious little girls running around it can feel as if I’m constantly either cooking, cleaning, driving or engaging in some elaborate imaginary game — the rules for which I am often at a complete loss. Even before having children, I felt the pull to the altar of productivity, hustling my way through life. At some point in my teen years, I decided that my spiritual life should reflect this efficiency and outcome-based attitude. I devoured books, Bible studies and prayer journals; I strove to prove my worth and dedication to God through inhaling information and exhaling prayers, but I rarely took the time to listen, to be still.
In his book “New Seeds of Contemplation,” Thomas Merton writes that contemplation is spiritual wonder: “It is spontaneous awe at the sacredness of life, of being. It is gratitude for life, for awareness and for being. It is a vivid realization of the fact that life and being in us proceed from an invisible, transcendent and infinitely abundant Source. Contemplation is, above all, awareness of the reality of that Source.”
When I consider certain moments when I have felt God’s presence keenly in my life, I recall those times of deep gratitude to him from whom all blessings flow. Not an afternoon I spent furiously writing down my every prayer, but the night I spent rocking my sleeping babe, kissing her head and thanking God in the quiet, still, dark.
My mind goes back to the warm rock by the creek, the young girl whose prayers felt more like conversation, with moments of sacred silence interspersed with my chatter. My daughter’s inner life reflects this appreciation for stillness, for simply resting in the presence of her Creator; it’s as natural to her as breathing. Childlike faith holds a deep lesson for us all in its contentment with the quiet of both mind and body. For when I slow down enough to listen, that is when I feel truly connected to God.
My heart longs for this “spiritual wonder” of contemplation, for the joy and peace that await us in times of quiet and stillness apart from the hustle and bustle of daily life. The time my daughter spends in her sunny spot, quietly considering the wind and the sand, shows me the seeds of contemplation. She admires our world with awe, seeing in it so much that is good and true. She notices the birds, the bugs, and each and every flower on our walks; isn’t this posture of peace and gratitude how God intends me to view life as well? I will let my precious girl take the lead on this, reminding me of the patterns of stillness and quiet my heart craves and nurturing in us both a love of contemplation.
