Recalling the quiet lessons under the willow tree
March 13, 2024 at 1:40 p.m.
When I was a child, I often sat outside in the backyard under our willow tree and did nothing – and I was content.
My dad would ask, “What are you doing?” and I would just smile and say, “I’m being.”
He would smile back.
It was obviously something I had learned from his many stories of Celtic lore, but, in truth, it was the core of how I was made – a built-in need for solitude and silence. These were times when I learned to be comfortable with myself and to be amazed at the beauty and intelligence of the natural world. Those times led me to understand that God is present in all of creation.
And I have spent a lifetime trying to balance that need for being alone, a chosen solitude, with the joys and demands of relationships.
Nearly 70 years later, I no longer have a willow tree to sit under and reflect on God’s presence in the ladybugs that loved the willow leaves or the dahlias that drooped under the heavy weight of magnificent white blossoms, or the lightening bugs that seemed to know I was looking to fill my mason jar with a few just to keep me company until it was time for bed.
Instead, I grab moments of sweet solitude here or there, often in my car, with a cup of coffee, parked in the local convenience store parking lot, so I am not worn away by the din of the world around me, or the responsibilities of home and work. Not ideal, but I always choose one that has a strip of grass, bushes or trees so at least I may see some birds.
Time changes everything, but those early experiences of playing alone, exploring the backyard, or reading in my own pillow and blanket fort were priceless experiences that may not have happened if I grew up during an age of cell phones, tablets, TV and social media.
Those moments of building an interior life without realizing it, listening to the eloquent silence
of nature and hearing God, enriched every area of my life. Today, without them, every area of my life is diminished to some degree; my ability to be at peace, my work, my relationships, my writing, all suffer.
But when I am at my lowest, I hear Liam Lawton’s haunting song, In the Quiet:
When the leaves are fallen
And the branch is bare
Winter is calling
And chills the silent air
When the moon is covered
By shadows of the night
Know that I am with you
To call you to the quiet.
Be still, O be still
For I am your God
Be still now and listen
And you will hear my word
Be still, O be still
Deep within your life
For you will find me In the quiet.
Our spiritual lives benefit most when we learn to trust the unique nature God has imparted to each of us for our own good and for our own unique purpose in life.
It has always been a challenge of living in the world to find a way to step away from it for even a brief time. I have found it is a challenge worth accepting.
Mary Morrell is editor-in-chief of The Catholic Spirit, the Metuchen Diocesan newspaper.
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When I was a child, I often sat outside in the backyard under our willow tree and did nothing – and I was content.
My dad would ask, “What are you doing?” and I would just smile and say, “I’m being.”
He would smile back.
It was obviously something I had learned from his many stories of Celtic lore, but, in truth, it was the core of how I was made – a built-in need for solitude and silence. These were times when I learned to be comfortable with myself and to be amazed at the beauty and intelligence of the natural world. Those times led me to understand that God is present in all of creation.
And I have spent a lifetime trying to balance that need for being alone, a chosen solitude, with the joys and demands of relationships.
Nearly 70 years later, I no longer have a willow tree to sit under and reflect on God’s presence in the ladybugs that loved the willow leaves or the dahlias that drooped under the heavy weight of magnificent white blossoms, or the lightening bugs that seemed to know I was looking to fill my mason jar with a few just to keep me company until it was time for bed.
Instead, I grab moments of sweet solitude here or there, often in my car, with a cup of coffee, parked in the local convenience store parking lot, so I am not worn away by the din of the world around me, or the responsibilities of home and work. Not ideal, but I always choose one that has a strip of grass, bushes or trees so at least I may see some birds.
Time changes everything, but those early experiences of playing alone, exploring the backyard, or reading in my own pillow and blanket fort were priceless experiences that may not have happened if I grew up during an age of cell phones, tablets, TV and social media.
Those moments of building an interior life without realizing it, listening to the eloquent silence
of nature and hearing God, enriched every area of my life. Today, without them, every area of my life is diminished to some degree; my ability to be at peace, my work, my relationships, my writing, all suffer.
But when I am at my lowest, I hear Liam Lawton’s haunting song, In the Quiet:
When the leaves are fallen
And the branch is bare
Winter is calling
And chills the silent air
When the moon is covered
By shadows of the night
Know that I am with you
To call you to the quiet.
Be still, O be still
For I am your God
Be still now and listen
And you will hear my word
Be still, O be still
Deep within your life
For you will find me In the quiet.
Our spiritual lives benefit most when we learn to trust the unique nature God has imparted to each of us for our own good and for our own unique purpose in life.
It has always been a challenge of living in the world to find a way to step away from it for even a brief time. I have found it is a challenge worth accepting.
Mary Morrell is editor-in-chief of The Catholic Spirit, the Metuchen Diocesan newspaper.