During a recent meditation retreat at the nearby Benedictine Abbey of St. Walburga, I was reflecting and journaling on all the many “hats” I wear and how I can sometimes feel scattered and fragmented as a result. I also thought about the latest national conversation around women balancing work and family and the supposed myth of “having it all.” 

I imagined diagramming my body to reflect this feeling of disjointedness: a marriage curled into the small of my back, a daughter on my left shoulder, a son on my right, a little magazine called Ruminate tucked under my chin, a platter of to-do lists balanced atop my head, and a chain of urgency wrapped around my feet.

This exercise soon took a turn as I found myself imagining a cloth of despair draped across my chest, a cloth too heavy for breath, for lungs, for air. For me, this cloth weighs heaviest when the periods of depression hit. And, I realized, it also weighs heaviest when I’m feeling distracted and pulled in too many pieces or places, and especially when things feel urgent, whether the urgency is real or imagined. 

I recently read that many 12-step recovery members know to take special care of themselves and be on guard for the potential of a relapse when HALT occurs, which stands for hungry, angry, lonely, and tired. I would add fragmented to that list. And, I think we are all vulnerable to our version of a relapse when any one of these factors appears.

I suddenly thought of the words “Your faith has made you whole,” which Jesus utters to a couple of souls throughout the Gospels. This simple statement stopped me still; no more diagramming my body. So I held these words, like a mantra—rolling them around my tongue and against my cheek and inside my breath, asking for faith, for wholeness—for myself, my family, my community.

It  also feels right to remember other pilgrims are walking along with me on this journey, and through their words and their paintbrushes, they are seeking wholeness, too. And yes, I know wholeness is a big word, a big dream. Sometimes it seems impossible. But what does feel possible is holding a word in my mouth, savoring it, reading a story that gives off light, pondering a poem that tells the truth, being for wholeness and against fragmentation, doing small things with great love as Mother Theresa insisted. Yes. Small things. Great love.

First appeared in Ruminate’s Issue 34.