Everything is a Mess

Notice Anything Else Amid That?

Our backyard is a mess.

The green hose winds with various knots from the outdoor faucet to the sprinkler attachment that the boys recently used for the first time in 2024. The attachment has one of the boys’ kitchen aprons wrapped around it in a somewhat thoughtful way to where it would not be wholly surprising were the sprinkler itself to begin cooking up eggs and bacon this morning.

Next to the sprinkler are two white, moldy socks surrounded by an assortment of plastic utensils and dirt-crusted pots and pans for the boys’ outdoor mud kitchen.

(Not ours, but you get the idea)

Just a little further over are two white plastic Halloween buckets which, having shined during their one night of honor where they held all that was sugary and sacred to our children, now spend their days collecting intense sun rays and holding the second and third-place kind of toys that rarely get played with and really just need a place to be contained.

Behind the buckets lie an explosion of feathers. This is quite new. I don’t know what terrible thing happened out in the wild of our urban backyard last night, but it was messy, ugly, and dark.

This whole scene is strewn across grass that is overly long and among weeds announcing their early spring presence with bold greens, sharp edges, and surprisingly hefty bulk.

Above a significant portion of the scene hovers our kids’ large, wood fort-and-playset that has gone three consecutive seasons without a protective coating applied, and it looks tired. Also, when the boys use its swings, the playset’s joints now squeak. The sound makes my knees feel deeply heard, though I don’t care for the idea that I, too, am somehow less the winsome fort of features and fun I once imagined.

I am taking in the messy reality from our adjacent outdoor porch because this particular morning is in the low 60s, there’s a light breeze, and the sun remains subtle. It’s a true rarity for our parts.

Photo by Johnny McClung on Unsplash

Most other mornings have too many mosquitoes, too much heat, and far too many allergens. How perfection landed today, I know not. But I know enough to avoid spending my brief window of delight burrowed among unanswerable questions. Instead, I quietly sip my coffee.

And it’s nice. Really nice, actually.

Even on a day when I can name in great detail all that is not right, not picked up, not organized, not sanitary, not settled, not maintained, not alive, not how it should be… I can also name the breeze and the coffee and the sublime quiet still gifted amid it all. And something about simply naming that is itself yet another lift to my soul. How does that work?

Maybe that’s just how I’m made? Some people, you know, can always find the silver lining or whatever?

But I’m not so sure. For most of my life, I would be up this very moment picking up the ridiculous backyard. Mowing. Trimming. Painting. Clipping. Washing. Organizing. I would not stand for this backyard until it was fully systemized, serene, and set. Then - and only then - would I allow a first sip.

Photo by karl chor on Unsplash

Maybe you’re a little more tired these days, Bobby? Aging fort, you know.

Perhaps… Except that I have more energy than I’ve had in a good long time. What’s changed, I think, is that I now funnel my energy less toward always making something happen and more toward being attentive to what is unfolding.

To be sure, I still love action. It’s just now I find there is also much to commend about attention.

Or, more precisely, I’ve found attention to be its own kind of surprisingly generative action.

Because in the space of simply attending to what is before me, I regularly receive fresh patience, perception, and compassion. Then - when I finally do step in to address the messy knots, the moldy situations, the creaky processes, and the random explosion of something that had been flying along just fine moments ago - I handle things with far more creativity, focus, and hope.

Photo by Ricardo Viana on Unsplash

So, what do you say?

Amid the chaos, clutter, and could-be-betters that you see everywhere - what if you pressed pause on the flurry of motion ever-trying to make it all better? Or pressed pause on the flurry of your mind ever-trying to figure it out?

What if the most generative and helpful action step looked almost like inaction (even as we both know it’s not that at all)?

Like maybe taking a seat.

Taking a few sips.

Journaling the moment, including any of the knots, creaks, or explosions on the landscape before you (or within you).

Or maybe just breathing. Watching. Laughing or crying or both before the absurdity and wonder of it all.

If nothing else, a poem is ever-appropriate for these moments of action-filled inaction…

Attend
by Steve Garnaas-Holmes @ Unfolding Light

Listen.
The blue thread of a bird song
woven through the ochre fabric of the woods.
The ticking of birch leaves, oak leaves,
still hanging on in winter.
The breath of wind, maybe a sigh,
as if it remembers something, or suggests something.
The tapping of branches, the creaking of the Old Ones.
Listen, and know that you are really hearing something.

Notice shadows,
how they love geometry,
playing in and out
of what they mimic.
Notice as carefully as shadows notice.

Watch people, their thousand kinds,
each carrying their story boldly or secretly,
the costumes they wear,
how they walk, as if burdened,
or underwater, or in love, or lost, or late.
Watch how people walk through God without knowing.
The glory of God is hidden in plain sight.

Listen to people, really.
Even yourself.

The gate to paradise
is attention.

Attend.