In an age of constant movement ,
nothing is more urgent than sitting still.
~ Pico Iyer
Quiet Time with Hal on Zoom
For many weeks now, I’ve enjoyed the company of a handful of regulars for a Sunday afternoon quiet time. We’d love for you to join us.
Sundays 4-4:30 EST — All are welcome on Zoom.
Meeting ID: 876 4431 8240
In-Person (Kent, Ohio)
I so appreciate the individuals who have signed up to sit with me in my home (or on my porch). Come see my wildflowers!
Sign up — 4:00 pm on Tues, Wed, Thurs, Sat.
Find the complete instructions in the sign up link below. (https://calendly.com/halwalker/quiettime)
People say nothing is impossible,
but I do nothing everyday.
~ Winnie the Pooh
Urgent: Do Nothing
The highlight of my days this week has been wheeling out to the old vegetable garden which I converted into an Ohio wildflower garden earlier this year. The explosion of blooms is just beginning. I love to sit in my wheelchair and gaze over the short fence at all the delicate shapes and the vibrant colors. I love to see the white moths flitter from petal to petal and play in the breeze. I love to watch the tall waves of green move with the wind. Whenever I see a bee land on one of the flowers, I feel a great sense of satisfaction like I did something really important when I spread those seeds back in May. I hope someday to learn the names of all the flowers, but for now, I just like to look around and pick out my favorites.
It has occurred to me that I was never that interested in flowers before. I didn't have time to be interested. It took a nasty illness called myalgic encephalomyelitis, also known as chronic fatigue syndrome, to slow me down enough to care. I hate this illness, but now those flowers touch me in a way that I've never been touched before. Their beauty has at least once brought me to tears. Sometimes, I picture myself walking in a whole field of Ohio wildflowers and I think about what I've been missing my whole life.
Lately, I've been receiving an urgent message from all the forces of the universe. As if offering an easy solution to this complex illness, the voices simply suggest, "do nothing." Backed by the power of all that is, they say, "just be." Then ironically, they follow it up by insisting that I compose an eighteen hundred word essay on the subject. Juxtaposed between contradictory instructions, I'm busy crafting words in shrinking windows of energy while attempting to adopt a life-saving practice of total rest. It's a treacherous line that I walk here with prayers that my love for writing doesn't drive me into still greater depths of illness.
For a driven, talented and creative "human doing" like myself, being mandated to "do nothing" seems like cruel and unusual punishment. With desperate pleas to the unknown, I cry out, "But you don't understand! I'm Hal Walker. Haven't you seen me play the banakulas!? If I do nothing, where will I find my purpose? How will I serve my community? How will I prove to the world that I’m amazing?" After an extended pause, nature responds with stoic clarity, "You're not amazing, Hal. I'm the amazing one. You're just another one among the millions. Now go lie down, get quiet and start doing nothing."
So that's what I did. For a few days before I got pulled into this essay, I did nothing. I spent full afternoons in quiet time -- reclined and smiling. I ate a few meals, I made a few phone calls, I read excerpts from spiritual literature, I took cold showers, I cried, I rested and I smiled. Mind you, I wasn't smiling because life is easy and I have everything that I want. I was smiling because those are the instructions that I've been given. Through all the discomfort, the still small voice just keeps repeating, "Say ‘Yes’ to what is, Hal. It’s your best option. Breathe, relax and smile."
As I gradually awaken to the brutal and unforgiving nature of ME/CFS, I'm taking more seriously this call to do nothing. I can see the life giving, soul growing benefits of radical rest, but like an addict, my brain craves activity. In search of anything to escape the moment, I hunger for projects, connection and mindless distraction. Housebound and mostly bed bound, my longing to do the things that I love is stronger than ever. But as my condition worsens, I have less and less say in the matter.
These days, it's clear that playing the piano or riding my scooter down to the river would be risky and unwise. In compliance, I ride a wheelchair around the house and live mostly in silence. I never stray too far from the bed. On the other hand, I'm well aware of the risk of conversations with friends, writing this essay and scrolling on Instagram, but I do it anyway. Most of the time, the ideal of complete mental and physical rest is more than this 58 year old lover of life is willing to take on. Upon each setback however, I reconsider my willingness.
You see, post-exertional malaise (PEM), the poorly named defining characteristic of this poorly named condition, means that activity of any kind, whether it be mental or physical, can make the condition worse — possibly permanently. Having experienced many dozens of these worsenings over the course of weeks, months and years, I still haven’t learned the rules for this beast of an illness. If I knew the rules, I assure you, I'd follow them exactly. But the only rule that ME/CFS offers is the nearly impossible: do nothing. Everything outside of those bounds, I do at my own peril.
It's the only illness known to man in which the entire severe population is thinking, "Damn. If only I'd started doing nothing sooner. I could've saved myself from so much suffering." Truly, if I knew back then what I know now, I'd promptly drop everything and spend my life sitting contentedly under a tree -- breathing softly, welcoming friends and trusting God. I guess I know my marching orders for the day -- without any actual marching, that is.
Last Thursday, I was glad for an extended afternoon quiet time with my mom. We basked together in the glorious memory of my daughter’s wedding. Mom's not so comfortable with silence and I've barely got the lungs for speaking, so it makes for some interesting mother/son dynamics. With much love, I tolerate her barrage of motherly questions and she tolerates my one word answers. During our visit, as the sun moved into view in the west, mom knitted and sent a few texts while I gazed off into the trees, smiling. I’m grateful for my mom’s visits. I know how much it pains her to see her only son living with such a mean spirited illness.
I'm also grateful for the other visitors that sit quietly with me throughout the week. I appreciate how sensitive they are to my nervous system's need for low volume and a slow pace. I like to think that I'm doing some service by offering a peaceful place to sit for a while away from the pressures of the fast paced world. From where I lie, I'm in awe of the way most people are moving so fast out there. I watch the way cars fly down my street. That used to be me — always on the move. Now I'm at home holding down the fort for anyone out there who could use a little bit of slowing down.
After my mom left, at nine o'clock that night, I felt so good about having had a full day of self care and peace. So I decided to treat myself to half an episode of "The Bear" on Hulu followed by a few minutes of the 2024 presidential debate. What I really needed was one more round of quiet time, but instead, I found myself indulging in loud, edgy television and a God awful display of modern day tomfoolery. Yes, the old familiar me that does self harming behavior in search of instant relief took over for a little while that night. Like the rest of the modern world, the ever available screen is my current narcotic of choice.
Once I got my fill of political angst, I shut down the laptop, turned off the lights and tossed myself to sleep. As so many times before in the course of this illness, I closed the day with a little conversation with my dad, "Hey dad. I did it. I made it through another day.” “I’m so proud of you, son. I know it’s not easy.” “Goodnight dad.”
When I woke up at about five am on Friday morning, the first sign that something was wrong was the louder than usual ringing in my ears. My breathing was labored, my arms were heavy and I felt that deep aching weakness in my core. I knew instantly that I was in yet another crash - an overnight sudden onset of intensified symptoms. In the last few months, I’ve experienced dozens of these and each one is as disheartening as the last. "No! What did I do wrong?! Was it the TV show or the conversation with my mom? Did I sit on the porch too long? Were the passing cars too loud? Why does it keep getting worse!?" Of course, there's no way to know why this illness does what it does. Nobody really knows. I may be a fool to think that I can somehow control the course of it with quiet living and a positive attitude. Over and over, I keep finding out how powerless I am on this journey.
ME/CFS has broken my heart a thousand times, but it hasn't yet broken my spirit. If I’m honest, I can see that it may actually be growing my spirit. For the first time in my life, I’m appreciating the wildflowers. I’ve lived my whole life here in Ohio and I never noticed the wildflowers. Now I’ve got a whole garden of ‘em back there whispering to me all day long. Somehow, those delicate flowers are helping me move forward on this difficult path. They’re part of a great community that’s helping me see the lessons along the way. I wonder if any of this growing would have happened without the nothing that ME/CFS has forced me to do. Hopefully I’ll find out someday that it was worth it.
Today, I’m grateful to be doin’ some doing. Here I am showing up to the page once again to tell my story. I’m really hoping the beast won't punish me for it later. I think after this I'll have some lunch and take a rest before sharing some quiet time with my friend Marion. Marion and I understand the importance of the work we’re doing when we sit quietly together on the porch. When I get quiet enough, I can tell that the wildflowers agree. For now, I’m gonna keep watching for their beauty and listening for their whisper. I can’t wait to hear what they have to say.
Share this post