I have to tell you: My capacity for noise has become almost nil lately. And I don’t just mean volume (though it’s certainly included on the list), but also the internal and visual noise of living in a world forever intent on making us chase more. More stuff, more money, more activities, more noise, until our collective lives are made so ridiculously loud that the quiet almost offends us.
One of the practices I’ve worked hard to implement in our home over the past couple of years of being a SAHM/WFHM has been to create margin in our schedules and quiet in our home. (Just like my definition of noise, quiet is not always literal. It can mean putting away devices, being outside, reading, playing games, baking cookies, watching a movie together, or visiting with family or friends.) This is hard work. It takes disciplined effort to daily resist the excessive noise that comes our way, and we’re still building those muscles. Sometimes we say yes to noise because it means investing in a relationship, or practice, or goal, and these are the necessary, good noises in life. We all have our own definitions of what those are and how we define them. The point is that we try our best to evaluate the noise as wisely and thoughtfully as we can, and in a world where being busy is a competitive sport, this feels more essential than ever.
Because we don’t be want to be “busy”; we want to be active in the ways that help us—and, therefore, the people around us—flourish.
That’s what this new Going Gently series is all about: making the effort, no matter how small, to recognize and lean in to the quiet, ordinary, lovely, sacred spaces in which we live and work and to go gently with ourselves as we do. This isn’t a race; there’s no hurdle to jump. This is simply a rhythm I’m longing to embrace, and I invite you to do it with me.
I’m so inspired by other writers like Kristen LaValley, Phylicia Masonheimer, and Amy Cate Gannett who teach us how to practice these habits, no matter the noise, and I’m grateful for the work they’ve done to help me shift my thinking on this and other topics.
This first post is public because I want anyone who is interested in joining us to get a picture of what the series is about and how it might add value to their lives. Subsequent posts will be for paid subscribers only and that is because creating a thing takes time, thoughtfulness, and energy, all of which remain, quite regrettably, limited in my life. Your investment—$5 a month, if you choose—is a way for me to continue creating unencumbered. You’re always welcome to remain a free subscriber and receive my monthly newsletter, as well as occassional public posts, and I’m thankful for each of you regardless.
I’m not typically a word-of-the-year chooser, but “gently” has been my go-to for a few months, even before 2023 arrived. My faith heritage was pretty heavy on the rule-following and good-girl rhetoric, so perfectionism runs deep. After the birth of my son in 2019, and the life-threatening postpartum depression that followed, I started therapy and have been in regular attendance ever since. This, along with other practices, has helped me start looking at myself—and the people in my life—with a bit more compassion and grace. I’ve shed too many tears to count thinking of little Wendi, who clung to the notion that perfection would bless and keep her with an exhausting fervor. (Thus, letting go of that inclination has often frightened me into believing the lie that people will no longer love me if I stop.) And while perfectionism remains a frequent source of frustration in my life, it does not dominate the narrative in the same way it once did.
Gently is the storyteller these days, and I refer to it often:
when I’m doing the dishes for the fifth time and notice tension in my body.
when my son won’t stop boycotting his naps.
when I feel underappreciated and unseen.
when Instagram targets me with ads to buy shit I don’t need.
when I look in the mirror and notice another gray hair. (They came on fast and furious the month I turned 37.)
All of these are opportunities for me to go gently, to ask God to open my eyes to the joy of living in a body, of growing older, of raising children, of managing a household. And you have those moments, too, regardless of how different they might be than my own.
You have an outfit you feel stellar in.
You have a laugh someone loves. (Perhaps the crow’s feet to go with it?)
You can bake like nobody’s business or cook a meal that makes everyone lean over in casual ecstasy when they take the first bite.
You give the best book recommendations. (Be my friend?)
We all have, in some capacity. What would it look like for us to examine these quiet, ordinary gifts and celebrate them? To go gently in the moments when we’re tempted to just go? The noise will always be there, accessible to all. I think the quiet—the slowing down and deepening, if just for a few moments—has more to offer than we might think.
This week, here are a couple of ways I’ve been going gently:
Watching my babies enjoy books as much as I hoped they would while they were squirming around in my body.
Lucy and I read the entire Harry Potter series aloud together during 2020 (I guess Covid had some bright sides) and now she has begun reading it on her own. *clasps hands and quietly squeals with delight*
Learning to bake bread in an actual Dutch oven I purchased this week.
My first go round was decent, though I still have a lot to learn. Theo and I had fun making a mess in the kitchen and checking on the dough to rise, which was a practice in going gently all its own. When it was ready, we served it up with a generous slather of butter and a pot of homemade vegetarian chili.
Baking, I’m learning, requires a lot of patience. So while Theo and I worked in the kitchen, I took that time to try and savor the ritual of doing something as simple and as ancient as preparing food for my family. With the winter sun streaming in through the kitchen window and my son’s sweet voice chatting behind me, I found it much easier to accomplish.
Reading books I already own and checking out new ones from the library.
My bank account doesn’t need another Amazon purchase. (Nor does Amazon, for that matter.) Along with using the Little Free Library we built last weekend, I’m seeking gentler sources for my reading habits.
Friend, you weren’t created to do it all and be it all. You don’t need my permission for anything, but I offer it anyway in case you’re wishing someone else would say you can settle into the quiet for a change. You can let the noise go by.
You can go gently.
I’ll go with you.