Begin Love Practice

If I were to ask, “What’s a noun?” you might respond with, “A person, place, or thing.”

That’s something many of us learned way back when from some underpaid and overwhelmed middle school teacher.

Here’s the new grammar lesson I’ve been learning lately—life can take our nouns away.

In the past month, I’ve lost three important nouns—one being my sheepskin rug that the Big Water slurped away from me like an oyster out of a shell.

The fact this all happened during Lent doesn’t feel like a coincidence.

Lent is a season when many intentionally choose to give things up.

During a children’s sermon I gave at a small church a couple of weeks ago, I asked the lone boy if he’d ever heard of people giving up things for Lent—like chocolate or video games.

“Why?” he responded with a genuinely baffled whisper. “Why would anyone do that?”

Everyone laughed, and it’s a good question—Why would we intentionally “give up” what we love?

Because we know the power our nouns have over us—what we think we possess often possesses us.

And it’s good practice—to learn to let go, because sometimes we have no say in the matter, because sometimes, the whats in our lives—the nouns—disappear, whether we want them to or not.

Which brings us to the verbs, the hows of our lives.

Verbs are the dynamic energy of our days. We interact with them. We interbe.

Like a river, they are this undeniable current, flowing through our days.

Like the wind, they cannot be held, but their effects can be plainly seen. And felt.

Verbs shepherd our choices, our interactions, our results. Verbs lead, nudge, numb, give, take.

I wonder if it’s harder for verbs to be taken away . . . of course, it can happen. Walk might be a verb we love, but if we break an ankle or have a stroke, suddenly that verb lands differently in our lives.

Still, for the most part, verbs live in us.

Like a stable of mares and stallions.

We can choose which one we’ll saddle up and take for a ride.

Yes, life might feel like it is happening to us sometimes, but we can almost always choose our verbs.

Murmur. Sing. Weave. Paint. Run. Meander. Fly. Fall. Cry. Rise. Begin. Love. Practice.

Those last two can act as both noun and verb.

And maybe that’s the real lesson. Maybe we don’t have to choose the what or the how. Maybe it’s most captivating to play with both.

It’s what I often invite my yoga students to do when I ask them to both root and rise (“opposite” energies) to feed the light inside.

Love as a noun implies a thing—to have and to hold.

Love as a verb is a choice. A Here I am, an ongoing Yes in the ordinary and the extraordinary.

Practice as a noun is a thing we show up to do—piano scales, basketball, yoga, meditation.

Practice as a verb is a dynamic way of being with what is. A continual flow of try, fail, begin again.

Which brings me back to Lent, that season of emptiness. The cold, dark cave.

I have a thing for caves.

Even though they terrify me, I often willingly choose to enter the Unknown.

It’s where I seek and often find the Holy.

The Mystery I cannot explain.

The Whisper that promises, “Beloved, you are mine. Be not afraid.”

And then I come back out again.

Blinking.

Bewildered.

Nudged.

To begin.

Love.

Practice.