Journal of the Spa, Part 4

Tea Time, 11h00 - I look out the window into the woods. The trees sway in the breeze and create a mesmerising dance between sunlight and shadow on the forest floor. I am caught in its spell until something shimmery catches my eye. It is a spiderweb glistening in the sunlight and gently blowing in the wind. The artistry stirs the sediment of exultation that lies on the bottom of my soul and I suddenly want to dance.  I am carried in a suspension of joy that touches everything from the gossamer silk of a spider’s web to the wounded and bleeding heart of a human made in the very image of God.

I sing the song of being alive as my eyes are opened to the beauty around me. We are connected, all of us – from the least to the mightiest. I am keenly aware of this fact, and I tread with reverence.

Journal of the Spa, Part 3

09h45 - Sylvia massages my body, but I do not sense Sylvia’s hands; instead I am taken back to my mother’s womb where God is busy knitting me together. Sylvia rubs my back but I see God fashioning my spinal column, connecting each vertebra and disc. Sylvia massages my legs but I feel only the hands of God creating my femur, tibia, fibula and all of the muscles, tendons and ligaments – down to the tarsals and metatarsals of my feet. 

 I tell God of my desire for these feet:  May they stay on the path He has chosen for me. May they carry His love and hope.

Sylvia places hot stones on my skin and I feel God breathe life into me. The blood and marrow course through my body and the warmth indicates that I am alive. The spinal fluid flows through the ventricles in my brain and I am aware of the Divine creation that I am. God’s fingerprints are all over me.  I am at rest, floating in this amniotic fluid of creation mixed with the tears of God. It is a holy moment, a moment pregnant with anticipation and hope: hope of potential, intention and purpose.

Journal of the Spa, Part 2

09h15 - The woman who attends to me is named Sylvia.  Fitting, as her name means “of the woodlands” and we are in a beautiful forest setting.  The trees are thin but they are many and when the wind blows they click against each other in a percussive touch; they are the rhythm section of nature.

Sylvia exfoliates my skin. It is rough and painful. Parting with things I no longer need is painful. I tend to hold onto them with a stubborn persistence despite the fact that they are dead and no longer nourishing. I feel raw and exposed, like freshly-tilled soil, and yet, this is good. I am ready for new seeds – life-giving, sustaining and nourishing elements that can only be planted when the dead brush is cleared away.

Journal of the Spa, Part 1

I am sitting alone at the breakfast table, but I don’t mind. The other women here are lost in conversations with each other – intelligent or shallow conversations, it does not matter – but I am free to notice and savour the smoothness of the yoghurt, the crispness of the apple and the texture of the watermelon.  I can enjoy the warmth of the teacup in my hand and feel the steam kiss my nose playfully when I take a sip of tea.  I can breathe in the smell of the thatched roof – breathe it in deeply – and be overcome by its aroma.  It is beautiful.

I am not distracted by conversation, do not need to put my best self forward, and I shall try not to pay attention to the kilojoules I am ingesting. I don’t want to miss this opportunity to connect with God – to hear His voice above the cacophony of all other voices that beg for my attention and allegiance. I desire that everything today would enhance this communion with God. Oh, that today would be a beautiful dance between lovers where time stands still and all but the presence of my Lover melts away!

The other women glance over at my table and whisper among themselves. They pity me, perhaps, for being alone, but I am not alone.  I am most definitely not alone. I am caught up in a sensual symphony – colour, taste, aroma and the music of nature are draped over my shoulders by the Lover of my soul.  The hairs on my arm stand on end and tingle at this blanketing touch of the Divine and I am captivated. I am here. I am aware. I am.

The End of an Adventure (And the Beginning of Another?)

Last month I wrote about my husband being gone for two months and my initial glamourisation of the "adventure".  Then reality set in (as reality is wont to do...) and all glamourisation flew out the window. Here's what actually happened while he was gone:

• The roof leaked in three places
• Our son had a birthday
• The car broke down
• I had a birthday
• My daughter was in a school play
• The towel rack mysteriously fell off the wall multiple times (usually in the middle of the night, which gave me quite a fright!)
• The internet connection disappeared for a week
• My daughter attended her Grade 7 valediction and earned several awards (equivalent to a Junior High graduation in the United States)
• I burned my hand rather badly and was one-handed for two weeks

As you can see my husband missed a lot of momentous events!  I was so overwhelmed and exhausted at the end of every day that in some ways the two months flew by in a blur of busyness.  My husband came home last week to a tired, drained and empty wife (who was also very happy to have her man home!)

 A few days after his arrival, I humbly asked if I could have a day to get away by myself to rest and recharge.  He sent me to a day spa.

I'm not a day spa kind of girl, so I thought I'd keep a journal in which I observed and analysed the day, kind of like an undercover reporter.  The next several posts will cover this day (which was surprising in every way).  More to come...

Monday Quote

"Daring to accept myself and receive love for who I am in my nakedness and vulnerability is the indispensable precondition for genuine transformation. But make no mistake about just how difficult this is. Everything within me wants to show my best 'pretend self' to both other people and God. This is my false self - the self of my own making. This self can never be transformed, because it is never willing to receive love in vulnerability. When this pretend self receives love, it simply becomes stronger and I am even more deeply in bondage to my false ways of living...

"How terrifying it is to face my naked and needy self - the self that longs for love and knows it can do nothing to manipulate the universe into providing the only kind of love I really need. The crux of the problem is that I cannot feel the love of God because I do not dare to accept it uncondtionally. To know that I am loved, I must accept the frightening helplessness and vulnerability that is my true state."

- David Benner, Surrender to Love

The Prodigal Father?

A while back I wrote an entry on the story of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11-32).  At the time (and up to today), I've always thought the word "prodigal" referred to a person who went "astray" and later repented and returned home, as exemplified in this Biblical story.  I learned today, however, that the top two definitions of the word are as follows:

 prodigal, adj.
1. Spending money or resources freely and recklessly; wastefully extravagant.
2. Having or giving something on a lavish scale.

I feel a bit embarrassed - as if I should have known this long ago - but I guess I've only heard the word "prodigal" in reference to the parable told by Jesus.  And while it is true that the son in the story was wasteful and spent his money freely and recklessly (which makes every definition of the word "prodigal" applicable here), if you look at it from a different angle...

Was not the father - the father who scanned the horizon looking and longing for his son's return - just as prodigal?  When the son returned, the father threw a huge party rather than voice disappointment in his son's poor decisions.  The father was wastefully extravagant with his love, spent that love freely and recklessly on his son and gave it to a lavish degree. Is that not "prodigal" by definition? 

And so I wonder... is the point of the story about the bad choices the son made or about the love of the father?  If it is the latter, perhaps we have not only incorrectly titled the parable, but also incorrectly placed an emphasis on the deeds of the son rather than the nature of the father.

Perhaps it is time to rename this story.