The Mark of a Mystic
I wrote this one for the Spiritual Seekers.
I was at this event several years ago. The kind where you squeak out your name with a sharpie on a sticker and then slap it to your chest. Fluorescent lights and folding chairs were formed up only for the moment. I still remember this exchange as though it happened in slow motion. The kindest woman asked me the most casual of questions:
What do you do, *checks name tag* Steven?
Abandoning all care for context I responded and revealed more than my Mexican accent:
I take naps.
–
Living and working in the San Francisco Bay area during the rise of the iPhone, social media, and self driving cars was a rush of busy. There was just one problem. This place, these things, my work, and my identity were all empty.
On Sundays, my wife and I ventured into the Mission District to listen to sermons from one of the last Mexican Americans preaching in the city the Spanish founded. Over the course of those years, Lomas led several series on the Spanish Mystics and Latin Christian Mysticism. These Men and Women disciplined themselves in the art of living like Jesus in such a way that the Spanish would lend their names to two great cities. Saint Francis and Saint Clare.
Like Christ, these people led simple lives. They knew no hustle and were never busy. They reminded me of my grandmother who is named aptly: Teresa.
In the course of those years my identity, my lone, solo identity as an uneducated Mexican, twenty-something kid, then confronted my inheritance. The late nights laboring in front of a million little suns staring back at me weren’t as glorious as status said they would be. I needed rest and I found it in the simplest of things.
I began taking naps. ¡Siesta! I would block in around noon carving from time a cathedral in my calendar. At first it was an effort in itself. Handing off all that had filled my mind so I could rest with the Divine. In those dozen or so minutes I discovered who could refresh my spirit. It couldn’t be coffee or boba tea.
As the world closed down and communities quit communing, this little date became a daily intimacy. The space made in the wake of those chaotic days, filled my hours with glimpses of heaven. Prayer and reading and napping. Siestas in the Storm, if you will. And short walks with more trees than human made things.
It would seem I may never have a career again. No business cards or OKRs. Dream job? No more. I no longer dream of labor. Now I dream of far more beautiful things.
If there is one thing I would hope to bring to any seeker of the Spiritual Life it is this: Remember to cease frequently. Work can only make gender and race equal like slaves. Rest is the identity that greets humanity and says, “Come away with me and I will give you rest.”
I became a Spanish Mystic, like my ancestors before me. I accepted my inheritance in light of eternity. Rest is success and this is the mark of the mystic. More and more I see what they mean by one's identity in Christ the King.
Until next week,
-Steven
Continue communing with Community in the Country. Get a taste of how I was stolen away in Going Rural Changed My World. To all my subscribers, my gratitude for each of you continues to grow. If you have yet to subscribe, use the link below.
My gratitude to
, Dylan Kurt, , Chao Lam, Andriy Kulak, Tim Adams, Rohan Gayen from Write of Passage, Cohort 11 for your feedback on this piece.
Love that you did voiceover 👏🏻
“Remember to cease frequently.” -- no need to add anything else. Beautiful, my friend.