Back To The Breath

Back To The Breath

Back To The Breath 150 150 Sarah Rennicke

Blur of cloud and land. Touch of rain dappled through the air, scent swung on the horizon.

All day, I drive down highway wound with open space, rolling mounds of grass and trees, and cornstalks teetering in the wind. So much quiet, so much land, small towns missed once I blink past the exit. Bits of patchwork farms blanketed together as my soul roams along open curves.

And then I hit the cloistered jam of cars cutting in and out of lanes, towards sprawling business parks and apartment complexes and shopping centers crowded with restaurants. My turn off is among this mess, among the busy. All quiet and contemplative farmland for 550 miles, and the busiest area in the Midwest is where I now live. Tell me how this makes sense? The girl with lake lungs and sky eyes, stifled in the concrete chaos of another life, a different world that seems to keep closing in no matter how hard I push to pull away.

Everything is so big, I am sinking into the hugeness, the busyness, the noise and clutter and screaming stifle of my soul. I am tiny, and I’m drowning in the mass. I just want to be small and simple, and this is no place for a small town, simple girl. I’m suffocating in the condensation of concrete, wealth, and crowds. There must be a better way to break out before I break apart.

Get me to space where I can breathe. To wind rustling through the trees that sounds like rain scattering itself across water. Clouds shifting to the color of an inlet, lake’s identical reflection. Get me down that gravel road that leads me to the mass of lake that instantly slows my soul and helps me remember the rhythm of my heart. To the cottage nestled in the bed of maple trees, rimmed on the edge of the bay, windows wide to bring in the water to where I sleep. Reeds tucking themselves in for the night, lean arms rested across their bed of marsh. Somewhere down the bay a dog barks, his sure voice pouncing down the woods. A few drops of real rain ripples the water’s surface, dancing prisms of translucent that churn the lake so it’s never the same.

Get me to space where I can breathe. @SRennAwake Click To Tweet

Silence sliding into silence, light and unobtrusive. Layers gather unassuming. Clusters of Evergreens, plush paintbrushes lined in nature’s art box.

What comes subtly to me is not the stream of moonlight or egret feathering itself on straw legs. It is the presence of my heart, coaxed out of its dark corner, shy shell. Away from the rush, the faux finery of more, the chokehold of hounding me to find my purpose when I’m already overwhelmed by deciphering who my Designer has made me to be. I am not meant for boxes, and in the cement of city living, I have dried in the lines and neutralized life when I longed for freedom. Mine is not a skyscraper soul, levels built upon levels with pale walls and inhibiting views. Instead, it is vast and ever-expanding. It is full of particles part of earth’s origin.

My Creator has fashioned me for slower ways, for minute details others might miss. I find Him best when I look in His eyes: lake blue, forest brown, new moon night black. And I find myself alone on my north island, situated in the middle of an array of waves. The smile of its shadows and its slow, sacred breathing gives my heart permission to beat, to rest itself on shores and shade, and, if it feels comfortable enough, to speak its mind to an open and encouraging audience. To find its cadence and beat a rhythm lost and hidden from my tone-deaf soul.

It’s concrete and clutter, rigidity and form that conducts my days. I am parched of pavement. I crave the prickle of grass between my toes, marsh and moon my bed and light. If I can get back my breath, swell with certain power of Spirit’s breath, back to the breath of air that sprinkles miracles in the miniscule each time I step outside, enough of what’s real will wash over me and I will be soaked with what is true and valuable and necessary to take me through the push of wrestling with being made for one world but living in another.

Creation is a miracle, and I live within its wonder. Live for its wonder, from its design, down to the depths, how I’ve survived the attempt of destruction of my wild soul. I may be embedded in the copy/paste print of suburbia, but wildflowers bloom beneath the earth of my soul, refusing to cease, determined to splash its color upon the wind.

Sarah Rennicke

Sarah Rennicke loves words. She also loves people. And she loves weaving them together in honest and vulnerable ways. She loves slowing down and listening to the heartbeats of this world, exploring the hidden hopes and deepest fears tucked away in souls. She believes that God created imagination to truly see His handiwork, and that we are all desiring to be seen, known, and loved.

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1 Comment
  • Great spillage, Sarah 🙂
    I agree, we humans are not well adjusted to the pace of our own technological and systemic development. Normal does not equate healthy. Somehow we need to reconnect to our innate spirituality and ecology.