Sheltering in Time

Widening what we trust

Image by Oscar from Pixabay

There’s no denying: we’re in it now. In turbulent times that might bring a longing for safe harbor and for shelter. In big waves of change that could knock us off our feet. In the chaotic breakdown within the chrysalis that makes way for transformation. In sleepless nights when the oldest part of the brain refuses to rest, instead setting off all its alarms at once, shouting “High Alert! Do not leave your bags unattended!” Which, in the middle of the night, I take to mean my own emotional baggage must be held close, lest someone tamper with its weighty contents. Lest it become the very explosive thing I am hoping to avoid.

I wonder:

How do we “trust change” when it brings not just uncertainty but very real threat and danger — to ourselves, our loved ones and the many more each day being swept into harm’s way?

I begin by breathing slowly. I ask myself, as therapists and spiritual directors and thoughtful mentors are prone to inquire:

When you have been in times of change and turmoil before, what has helped you through?

I recall: We have been through challenging times before, and not so long ago. A mere four years back, the daily death toll of the pandemic surpassed 13,000. Thirteen thousand deaths. In. One. Day. Remembering – the loved ones we lost, the hospitals and morgues that couldn’t keep up, the uncertainties around how COVID was spreading and how and where to find safety, and how and where to take shelter.

shelter: a shielded or safe condition; protection.
Origin: from sheld, an old spelling of shield.

Remember sheltering in place? The prescribed withdrawal from shared space and from all practices of gathering. The empty sanctuaries and theaters. The shuttered restaurants. The quiet sky uninterrupted by planes and streets devoid of traffic. The six-foot social distancing. The isolation, anxiety and tearful restraint from hugging loved ones. The learning curve of using Zoom instead. The making do with what we had on hand.

I remember: The first face masks I painstakingly sewed from an old flannel sheet, making a congregant declare with laughter that I looked like I was wearing pajamas on my face when making an outdoor house call. The way our family gathered outside, when winter came, huddling around a propane heater, sleeping bags over our legs. How, when it was time to part, we devised a back-to-back form of hugging. Donning face masks, we stood, facing outward, and leaned back-to-back on one another, sharing a moment of forbidden touch before returning to our separate households. Remember the improvisation and the ache of those days?

I sometimes think we’re in a new pandemic now. A contagion of fear and anger, of mistrust and hatred, of anti-social distancing from those who view the world differently than we do . . . It seems like another pandemic, and again I am seeking shelter. Only this time, not sheltering in place but sheltering in time.

Sheltering in time means planting myself, carefully and tenderly, in this present moment – which truth be told I don’t really wish to be in. It means not venturing out too long or too far into either the future or the past, but intentionally pausing in the here and now. Holding back from my tendency to run headlong into a future not yet written, populating it with my worst fears; or clinging nostalgically to a past that is irretrievably long gone.

Like sheltering in place, sheltering in time is harder than you might think it would be. It can be frightening to remain fully attentive in a highly charged time. It makes me feel vulnerable and dangerously exposed to the shadows of fear and mistrust.

It is in the shelter of each other
that the people live.
Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireas na daoine.

The poet theologian Pádraig Ó Tuama frequently quotes an Irish saying that translates as, “It is in the shelter of each other that the people live.” He notes that the Irish word for shelter can also be translated as “shadow.” In other words, we are one another’s shelter and shadow both. That rings so true today.

Can you feel it too? The shadow and the shelter?

In our vulnerability, I notice a growing commitment among many folks to care for one another. To notice and honor one another’s needs and feelings. To offer one another shelter in this moment, promising to save what can still be saved, including the better qualities of humanity, in ourselves and others. Making great effort to save our human capacity to feel and to heal.

I am curious about how we might make this moment more trustworthy by learning to feel and name our fears (and anger, despair, grief and more) and to use the strength these emotions give us without getting stuck in them. To be awakened and alive, not only to the threats of this time but especially to what is still thriving within us and among us. To notice connections and communities growing stronger and investments being made every day in a more just and peaceful future. All of which will only become manifest and trustworthy by our tending their nascence in the proximate space we call “here,” and in the immediate moment we call “now.”

Thankfully, sheltering in the present moment is not done in isolation, as sheltering in place required. Rather, when we take shelter in this moment, we open our hearts and hands to the others sharing it with us. We start with the ones we already trust. Then, slowly, we build capacity to open our hearts and minds and lives to those we don’t yet know; and eventually, to those we now regard as “other.”

Sheltering in time is a living practice of loving-kindness meditation, beginning by saying,

May I (know peace, well-being, safety, compassion)….

And continuing,

May you (know peace, well-being, safety, compassion)….

And then,

May we (know peace, well-being, safety, compassion)….

And finally,

May all (know peace, well-being, safety, compassion)….

It is a practice of making shelter, for ourselves and our loved ones, and then extending that shelter farther out. Overcoming our distrust. Or, as I name it in Trusting Change, widening what we trust. Turning shadows into shelter as we remember we are all only as safe as the most vulnerable among us.

In the tumult of this time, I start close in. In the here and now, with whatever feelings are rising in me. Can I be in relationship with my own trembling fearful self? With my grief and anger, my despair and anxiety? Can I offer myself the compassionate listening I wish others would extend to me?

Then, slowly, over time, I spread that care and concern across ever-widening circles, stretching both compassion and trust into a growing network of relationships.

This is what it might mean to take shelter in this terrifying time. To be fully present to what is, here and now, while leaning into one another in any way we can. Growing deeper roots and wider-reaching connections to withstand whatever waves might come our way. Holding out our hands, ready to support one another in the seasons and storms to come.

I think of this photo from my childhood as my three sisters and I helped one another withstand the waves.

This month’s focus is on the thresholding skill, “Widening What We Trust.” It’s explored in my book, Trusting Change, starting on page 233 in the print edition. (Note: the book is now available in an audio edition as well!)

Take good care, friends. Of yourself and your communities. Take shelter — and then share it with others. We all need one another. We always have.

Karen