While I don't have kids of my own, because of the nature of my job, I often find myself in discussions of behaviour management--more specifically, figuring out what we need to include in our programming to support behaviour management both at home and at school. In one of those conversations, a parent shared that sometimes, it isn't the kid that needs the time-out. It's the adult.
"Sometimes when there's just been so much else going on in my day, all it takes is a little bit of a whiney voice for me to snap. That's when I realise I need to send myself to time out, take a chill pill before coming back to be with my kid."
This week, I sent myself into time-out. Or in a different translation, "sabbath".
I could list the 101 ways I had snapped before I finally went into time-out, but I'd rather not remember those. I cringe every time I think, "Urgh... I did THAT?"
But no, I didn't go to my room. I didn't go out to a countryside and spend 2 days in a quiet cottage meditating. I didn't even go to a monastery as I thought I would like to do.
I went to Wellington instead.
"Wellington? Are you mad? I thought you needed time-out (read: quiet space to think)?"
To be honest, I don't know why Wellington. All this while I had been quietly researching (with some help from Helen) monasteries to go for my time-out, but yet it was still Wellington. Maybe it was the thrill of booking a flight. Maybe it was the thought of airports and being in planes. Maybe it was because Wellington was the cheapest place to fly to, and I already knew a little bit about getting around the city.
What I didn't realise was that back in the heart of the city, my very, very parched soul was about to be quenched again.
"What did you do in Wellington?"
To be honest, I don't know. All I remember was that I sat and stared. A lot. No, really. I stared so much that this guy in the next table, whose conversation about what we call Grid Iron here in Kiwi-country (better known as American Football or the NFL) I was eavesdropping on realised I was staring.
It got awkward.
No, I mean really awkward. Because I stared again, even after that awkward moment. Like I did with the middle-aged man sitting across the lounge at the backpacker moving to the music. It was the first time I actually witnessed "dance like nobody's watching," and it moved me almost to tears.
Or staring at the screen while Bilbo journeyed to his decision-point of not quitting the team--and listening to the quiet sniffles of the man in the row behind as Bilbo made his commitment to help the dwarves reclaim their home--and struggled to keep the tears in myself.
Or staring at the houses on the walk up to Mt Victoria, realising some dreams are still alive even as I continually try to shove them away into neat boxes to pretend they don't exist so I can get on with the busyness of life.
Or staring into the waters surrounding the heart of the city, remembering what a simpler life was like in the days where I loved the water--the days before I grew afraid of drowning.
Or staring at quaint dining places, and colourful personalities, and all the possible stories to collect if time only allowed and social boundaries weren't drawn so neatly and fearfully.
Or staring at the pages of history, and finally understanding how a treaty intended for peace and protection became so misunderstood in the mad rush to appease the human obsession with "the ego" (or in my very loose interpretation of Luther and Bonhoeffer's theology of sanctification: "the self").
Or simply staring at how humanity come together--perfectly strangers--to cheer each other on, to help locate a missing tennis ball, to say hello to a puppy.
But more than staring, for once in a long, long time, I listened to myself.
And I heard.
I heard those dreams again.
I heard the voices of those cheering me on again.
I heard my innermost desire for community that understands my need for wide open spaces, possibilities, and dreams again.
But most importantly, I heard the voice of the most loving Creator saying, "Just sit and stare, and watch me do my work." Anne Lamott calls that showing off. But if all that the Creator is showing off is Love, why not?
John and Jodie once said, "Once you can't simply laugh at the crazy anymore, you know it's time to take a break." Time-out isn't about being in trouble. It's about learning to sit and stare and listen to yourself and think again--and finding sacred spaces to watch the Creator at
Special thanks to the cheerleaders from the sidelines who followed up whenever I checked in on Facebook or Twitter.
Thanks also to the ones who gave me space for minimal interaction in those 48 hours.
Most importantly, thank you to that lovely bunch of you who sent tea, a sabbath read, and comfort sugar. It made all the difference as I finally, finally allowed myself to mourn the transition away from that safe community that understood even before words were spoken or tears were shed. So thank you, Jen, and Joe and Gwynne, and Shannon and Brett, and David and Tara.
Have I reflected during this time-out? You bet.
Have I learnt anything? Definitely. (Staring can get REALLY awkward, for starters)
Have I made decisions about how to behave differently now? For starters, I will write again. Not because I have anything good to say, but because I've missed it. It's my safe place to go to. So I will write. It will not be fancy, but I will write anyway.
I think it's safe to say, time-out mission: accomplished. Ready to head back to real life.
