Advent 3: Patience…
For the next several weeks, we welcome guest writers from the Chrysalis Board of Directors as they share their thoughts and perspectives from the Gospel writers during this Season of Advent. Enjoy!
Patience is not my spiritual gift.
Patiently waiting is my least favorite oxymoron. The absurdity of ‘patiently’ waiting is not lost on my heart. Waiting for the baby to be born. Waiting for a child to mature. Waiting for healing from surgery. Waiting for cancer to no longer be present.
Patiently waiting feels a lot like the oxymoron ‘congressional action.’ I prefer the oxymoron ‘jumbo shrimp’ to the call from James for patience in suffering.
Elizabeth O’Connor tells the story of a man who went each day to sit in a darkened church. One day as he came out, a perplexed friend inquired what he did during the long time he spent inside the church.
“I just look at God,” he answered, “and God looks at me.”
—Search for Silence (Waco: Word Books, 1972), 120.
Many presumed problems and impatience can be overcome through prayer and participation in the life of the church.
According to a U.K.-based study published in the British Journal of Health Psychology, praying can reduce your risk of developing depression and anxiety. Research also found that humans have a higher probability of being positive and less depressed if we pray at a place of worship.Other studies have found that praying helps in the quicker healing of surgical scars. This is because when your body is out of sync and stressed, it focuses all its efforts in equalizing itself, thereby offering less resources to the healing of wounds.
The practice of praying has shown a lot of benefits on the functioning of your heart. It is known to speed up the recovery of the heart after a heart attack and surgery. Apart from that, it also helps regulate your heartbeat, makes it stronger and less stressed.
–“10 ways praying actually benefits your health!” The Health Site, January 20, 2014, thehealthsite.com.
What Does the James 5: 7-10 Say that speaks to your heart today December 14?
This reading closes the so-called “epistle” of James. Really, James is ‘Wisdom literature.’ Similar to going to the ‘Self-help part of the bookstore’ but without a Barnes and Noble price-tag.
The practical topic of restoring a wanderer to the community could be well-placed here at the end of a letter that often deals with larger matters of theology and philosophy. This final section of James addresses several practical matters that have not been addressed previously. By emphasizing the need of individuals to stay connected to the life of church, the author is giving practical instructions to undergird the larger point that the Christian community is to be one marked by interdependence on one another and on the power of prayer. Our American culture is counter to this command. We applaud independence and frown upon interdependence. Yet, God calls us to bear each other’s hardships.
As a minister, I find relief that James doesn’t say ‘call your pastor when you feel impatient.’ And which clergy doesn’t find the humor in the admonition ‘Don’t grumble against each other…”
Christmas is best understood in a community. Advent, the root of the word ‘adventure’ is best experienced in a family of faithful and faith-filled seekers.
The focus throughout this lectionary passage is on the responsibilities that Christians have toward one another within the faith community. Adventures are always better together. As we wait, why don’t we seek the thrill of hope in singing our faith, bearing each other’s burdens, and striving for ways to build up the body by standing firm? Hush the noise and don’t hurry the work of Jesus within your heart. Ministry loves company.
Rev. Angela Madden Scott
First Presbyterian Church Granbury, Texas
Chrysalis Board Member
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Advent Devotional
I love the season of Advent in the church.
The sanctuary draped in deep purple (or blue) paraments. Fresh greenery threaded
across the altar and windowsills—cedar, pine, maybe a sprig of holly tucked where only
the children notice. The smell of warm bread drifting from the kitchen, rising and filling
the hallways with the promise of communion. The Advent wreath glowing with just one
flame at first, its soft light flickering against stained glass and nativity scenes.
There is a somber quiet that settles in the room—not heavy, but holy. A quiet laced with
joy. A hush that says, “Something is coming… wait, watch, see.”
For ten years, I helped lead congregations through this season. Lighting candles with
families, praying with people at the rail, offering communion, singing hymns in minor
keys that hold both longing and hope.
This is my first Advent in a decade to not be leading a church through these rhythms
and there is significant grief in that. Stepping back from something I loved, something
that shaped me so deeply, has left a tender ache—a kind of Advent darkness all of its
own.
Advent, after all, always begins in the dark.
Before angels proclaim good news, before shepherds run, before the star pierces the
sky, and before the innkeeper opens the door to strangers, the season opens with
shadows, silence, and even rejection. Advent insists that we pause here: not to fear the
darkness, but to understand it.
In Scripture, darkness is not always a symbol of despair, but rather, it is often the place
where God begins something holy. Isaiah declares:
“The people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light.”
Isaiah 9:2, NRSV
Light is not celebrated because darkness never existed: light is celebrated because it
breaks into the very places where we feel lost, weary, or undone. Advent darkness is
not the darkness of abandonment,but the darkness of gestation—the womb-like
mystery where God forms new life.This year, I have lived in that kind of darkness, as I’m sure many of you have as well. I
have carried the sorrow of losing my grandfather. I have navigated the ache of creating
necessary boundaries for the first time with family members and being villainized
because of it. I have mourned leaving a church and institution I loved deeply—spaces
that shaped my ministry and identity, yet ultimately became places I had to release in
order to step into what God was calling me toward next. I have experienced the fear that
comes from releasing my desire to please others, no longer abandoning the woman
God made me to be, even if it makes others uncomfortable.
These shadows have stretched long across my year. Yet, even here, a truth from the
Psalms has held me fast:
“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light around me become night,’
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.”
Psalm 139:11–12, NRSV
This is Advent’s first promise: the darkness is not empty because God is already
here.
When the angel appears to Mary, the miracle begins not in daylight, but in the shadows:
“The Holy Spirit will come upon you,
and the power of the Most High will overshadow you.”
Luke 1:35, NRSV
Overshadowed. Held in holy darkness. Filled but not consumed, just like the burning
bush Moses encountered:
“The bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed.”
Exodus 3:2, NRSV
The incarnation tells us that God does not avoid human fragility, but rather inhabits and
chooses it. This leads us to the central question Advent invites us to ask: “what is the
light?”
The light is not simply the end of suffering or the removal of pain. It is not optimism, and
it is not a quick fix. The light is Christ Himself: God with us, God within us, God entering
the deepest human shadows to transform them from the inside out.
John’s Gospel proclaims:“The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness did not overcome it.”
John 1:5, NRSV
The light is the incarnate presence of God breaking into the world in Christ through
vulnerability, gentleness, and embodied love. It is the assurance that no loss, no
boundary, no ending, and no season of grief will have the final word. It is the slow dawn
rising over a year that felt long and heavy, revealing that God has been forming
something new all along.
The darkness may labor, but the light is born. May we be ever-ready to embrace the
light of Christ as it breaks through in the already and the not yet, the seen and unseen,
the sacred and the ordinary.
Reflection Questions
1. Where have I experienced “Advent darkness” this year: moments of grief,
transition, or uncertainty?
2. How might God be quietly forming something new in the shadows I would rather
avoid?
3. What does it mean to me that Christ is the light? Not a quick solution, but God’s
presence within my very real human experience?
4. Where is God inviting me to let go, so that something new can be born in me?
5. How can I welcome the slow, steady arrival of Christ’s light in my life and calling?
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Season of Advent: Week One — Hope, Waiting, and Finding Ourselves
The Season of Advent marks the beginning of the Christian year—a four-week journey that leads us to Christmas. The word Advent comes from the Latin adventus, meaning coming or arrival. It is a season that holds two truths at once – We remember Christ’s first coming into the world and we anticipate Christ’s continued coming into our lives. Advent invites us into a sacred kind of waiting—a waiting that is active, intentional, and grounded in hope.
The Season of Advent invites us into a sacred kind of waiting—an expectant pause that holds both longing and hope. As the first Sunday of Advent arrives, the soft glow of a single candle cuts through the early winter darkness, reminding us that even the faintest of times, light has the power to guide, comfort, and reorient us. Advent is not simply a countdown to Christmas – it is a spiritual posture. This is a season in which we intentionally prepare our hearts, examine our lives, and remember that God is already moving within and around us, even before we are aware of it.
This first Sunday of Advent centers on hope—a hope that does not deny pain but speaks into it. It invites us to notice the shadows in our lives and in the world – not with fear, but with a grounded assurance that grace is already present. This is the essence of Prevenient Grace, the first movement of grace in the Wesleyan tradition. Prevenient Grace is the grace that goes before —the quiet, persistent love of God that surrounds us from our earliest moments which is in a constant motion of nudging, stirring, and inviting us always, regardless of where we find ourselves in this world.
When we integrate this understanding of grace with the realities of our own wellness and self-care, the First Sunday of Advent becomes even more meaningful. For many, the holiday season does not arrive with ease. Anxiety, depression, grief, seasonal affective challenges, and family stress can make this time feel heavy rather than hopeful. Yet, Prevenient Grace reminds us that God’s presence has already arrived. Before the candles are lit, before the hymns are sung, before we utter a single prayer—God’s compassionate movement in and around us is well underway.
In self-care work, we often speak of the importance of noticing – noticing our breath, noticing what is happening inside us, noticing what we need. Prevenient Grace is a theological parallel to this practice. It frames our self-care as a gentle reminder and prompt to seek support – to reach-out in the fog and to be open to the unexpected kindness of a friend—each action to be understood as an expression of grace going before us.
On the first Sunday of Advent, as we light the candle of hope, we are invited to embrace the truth that hope does not require us to be fully healed or emotionally steady. Hope is not the absence of struggle, rather it is the belief that struggle is not the end of the story. Advent’s opening movement encourages us to take one small trusting and hopeful step forward.
Prevenient Grace whispers that we are never alone in our mental, emotional, or spiritual journey. And as we enter Advent, may we lean into this understanding of grace—quiet, steady, and already at work—guiding us toward healing, grounding us in hope, and preparing our hearts for the One who is coming.
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Taking a Collective Breath in a Season of Thanksgiving
As we enter the season of Thanksgiving, many of us feel a familiar mixture of anticipation and saturation. This time of year, brings a flurry of gatherings, travel, planning, emotions, and expectations. It can be a life giving season —and it can be a complete drain on the spirit. Somewhere between preparing the meal, navigating family dynamics, and keeping up with work and life, we can lose track of what this season is truly meant to offer – a moment to pause. A moment to breathe. A moment to remember the sacredness woven through our ordinary, full lives.
Taking a collective breath does not mean ignoring what is difficult. In fact, it invites us to acknowledge the full landscape of our lives with honesty and tenderness. Gratitude is not about pretending everything is perfect; it is about recognizing that even in seasons of strain or uncertainty, there are small, steady gifts that sustain us. In a world that often asks us to move faster, gratitude gently asks us to slow down and notice.
This year, perhaps more than most, the invitation is to approach Thanksgiving not as a single day of celebration but as a spiritual posture—a widening of the heart. Many of us carry layered stories into this season – memories of those we miss, anxiety about what the future holds, questions we cannot resolve. Still, gratitude offers a soft-landing place. It allows us to hold both joy and sorrow without needing to choose between them.
Taking a collective breath also reminds us that we are not alone. Community is formed in moments of shared humanity – laughing together at the table, grieving together around an empty chair, or simply sitting quietly in the presence of those who know our hearts well. These moments stitch us together, piece by piece, into something resilient and whole.
Breathing together—literally and figuratively—grounds us in our common life.
So, how do we take that breath? We pause before speaking. We soften our shoulders. We remember the people and experiences that shaped us. We practice gratitude not as a requirement, but as a rhythm—one that keeps us connected to ourselves, to one another, and to the sacred presence that moves gently through our days. Gratitude, at its core, is an act of attention. When we pay attention, even briefly, we find blessings hiding in the folds of the ordinary.
As this season unfolds, may we enter it with intention. May we find moments of quiet in the noise, spaciousness in the hurry, and tenderness in the complexity. And above all, may we take a collective breath—a breath that steadies us, reminds us of what matters, and opens our hearts to the deep and abiding gifts already present in our lives.
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Saturation Point
There comes a moment—sometimes quietly, sometimes all at once—when we realize we’ve reached our saturation point. It’s that internal threshold where the weight we’ve been carrying begins to spill over the edges of our capacity. We feel it in our bodies before we can often name it – exhaustion that doesn’t lift after sleep, irritability over minor things, an ache behind the eyes, or the sense that one more request, one more need, one more email might simply be too much.
For me, these moments of complete saturation come when I lest expect them although in retrospect, these moments are of no surprise. Like so many, I try to ignore this moment. I push through, convincing myself that if I just organize better, adjust my attitude, or power up for a few more days, things will ease. But saturation doesn’t work like that. Just as a sponge can only absorb so much before it stops taking in water, our bodies and spirits can only hold so much before they start signaling that they are full.
Reaching saturation isn’t a failure. It’s data. It’s the nervous system’s way of telling the truth long before we are ready to speak it ourselves. We reach saturation not because we are “weak”, but because we have been strong for far too long without adequate relief, support, or rest. We underestimate the cumulative weight of caregiving, leadership, emotional labor, or simply being a human navigating a complex world.
The invitation in recognizing our saturation point is not to push harder, but to pause. To interrupt the patterns that got us here in the first place. To ask ourselves with honesty and without judgment: What is mine to carry right now? What can be set down, shared, or delayed?
For people in helping professions—clergy, therapists, educators, caregivers—saturation often arrives quietly, because the work itself demands presence and compassion. But, being saturated limits our capacity to show up in the ways we intend. We cannot pour from a vessel that is already overflowing with the needs of everyone but ourselves.
There is grace in naming our limits and creating boundaries. There is courage in saying, “I need a moment,” or “I need help.” There is wisdom in stepping back to breathe, even briefly, before continuing forward. Rest is not indulgence; it is repair. Boundaries are not barriers; they are our responsibility.
If you feel yourself approaching or already sitting in that saturation point, consider this your gentle nudge toward compassion—for yourself. Begin with one small act of release: a quiet cup of coffee, a slow walk, a deep breath with no agenda, or a conversation with someone who can listen. Saturation is not the end; it’s an invitation to recalibrate and begin again with steadier hands and a fuller heart.
May you have the courage to honor your limits and the grace to let yourself be human.
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The Danger in Filling in the Gaps
As humans, we are wired to be meaning-making creatures. When we encounter something we don’t understand—a silence, a delay, an unanswered text, an ambiguous look—we instinctively fill in the gaps. Our minds rush to complete the story, to make sense of what’s missing. It’s a survival mechanism, meant to keep us safe. The problem is, most of the time, the story we create simply isn’t true.
We fill in the gaps with stories and assumptions that reflect our fears more than reality: “She must be angry.” “They don’t value me.” “I must have done something wrong.” These thoughts can spiral quickly, shaping our emotions, our relationships, and even our actions. Before long, we’re responding not to what is but to what we’ve imagined.
This is the danger: When we fill in the gaps with our own interpretations, we stop being curious and we close off possibilities. We stop asking questions. We stop listening. Instead of holding space for mystery, we demand closure. Instead of compassion, we choose certainty—no matter how inaccurate or unkind it might be.
In the therapy room, I see this dynamic often. Someone feels hurt by a colleague’s silence, a friend’s absence, or a family member seeming distance. The silence feels unbearable, so they fill it with stories: “They’re disappointed in me.” “I must have failed.” The pain of these imagined conclusions becomes real, even when the assumptions aren’t.
Yet the truth is that silence, uncertainty, and ambiguity are part of every relationship. There will always be gaps between what we know and what we long to know, between what we expect and what actually unfolds. The invitation is to resist the temptation to fill those gaps with fear.
The work, then, is to pause before the story takes hold. We can practice curiosity. We can pause and ask, What else could be true? This pause—this space between assumption and truth—is where emotional intelligence grows. It’s where empathy lives. It’s where relationships have a chance to stay grounded in reality rather than reactiveness.
In this pause we can assume generosity, not judgment. We can remember that our perspective is partial, our understanding incomplete. This is not weakness—it’s wisdom.
The discipline of not filling in the gaps requires humility and patience. It means trusting that some things will reveal themselves in time, and others may never make full sense. It means learning to live with mystery. When we stop rushing to complete the story, we open ourselves to grace. We make room for truth to emerge, for relationships to deepen, and for healing to take place.
So, the next time you find yourself filling in the blanks of another’s silence or uncertainty, pause. Breathe. Ask what might happen if you didn’t finish the story just yet. You may find that in the unfilled space, something sacred is waiting to speak.
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The Significance of Remembrance and Ritual: Halloween, Día de los Muertos, and All Saints Sunday
I have a handful of bucket list items that I slowly plan and experience as the years move forward. One anticipated experience that has reminded constant and at the top of my list, is a trip to Mexico City for the annual Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration. I want to be in the city among the marigolds and candles, to celebrate and remember, to build a collective ofrenda (alter), and to join in the rituals that honor those who have gone before. There’s something profoundly beautiful about a culture that meets death not with fear or avoidance, but with color, music, and reverence—a celebration that reminds us that love and memory can outlast the grave.
This celebration and this time of year holds a sacred rhythm of remembrance. The veil between what is seen and unseen seems thin, inviting reflection on life, death, and the enduring presence of those who came before us. Across cultures and traditions, the days surrounding the end of October are filled with ritual, story, and light in the midst of a perceived darkness: Halloween, Día de los Muertos, and All Saints Sunday each offer a unique expression of what it means to remember.
Halloween, often stripped of its deeper roots, began as All Hallows’ Eve—the night before All Saints’ Day. It was once a time to light candles and ward off the darkness, to acknowledge both mystery and mortality. Costumes and lanterns symbolized our dance with fear, transforming what frightens us into something playful and human. At its heart, Halloween invites us to confront the unknown not with terror, but with creativity, laughter, and courage.
Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, offers a more colorful and intentional embrace of memory. In this tradition, families build ofrendas—alters adorned with marigolds, candles, and photographs—to welcome the spirits of loved ones home. Food, music, and prayer turn grief into celebration. It is a living reminder that death does not sever love – rather, it transforms it. The relationship continues, even if the form changes. Día de los Muertos teaches us that remembering is not about sorrow alone—it is about connection, gratitude, and joy.
Then comes All Saints Sunday, a time within the Christian tradition to honor those who have lived faithfully and now rest in the eternal presence of God. It is ritualist, communal, and deeply personal. We read names aloud, light candles, and pause to honor those who shaped our faith and our lives. It is a ritual of belonging—reminding us that the communion of saints stretches across time and space, binding us together in love that death cannot destroy.
Each of these observances invites us to hold the tension of life and death, to see how remembrance gives meaning to our days. In remembering, we affirm that our lives are part of something larger, a story that continues long after we are gone.
I invite each of you to take time this weekend to light candles, tell stories, or place a photograph on an altar, as we remember those who have loved deeply, faithfully, and surround us always.
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“Grief is Love With No Place to Go”
In the changing of the seasons from summer to fall and from fall to winter, I am intimately reminded of the seasons and changes we experience in life. This includes the change and loss of relationships, often ushering us into a season which we call grief.
And what is grief, really?
Grief is often described as a storm, a wave, a shadow that lingers long after loss. Yet, beneath every metaphor is the old adage, grief is love with no place to go. When my father died 16-years ago following a prolonged and progressive illness, I felt – and still feel – the ache of love that seems to have lost its destination. And although my relationship with my father can only be characterized as a complicated one, I still miss the voice I can no longer hear and our weekly visits around a cup of coffee at the local Borders Bookstore. The simple truth is, when love has been so deeply woven into our lives, its displacement leaves us raw and searching.
In grief, the love we once so freely gave has nowhere to land. It turns inward, swirling through memory and meaning, begging to be witnessed. We might find ourselves replaying conversations, imagining what we would say now, or feeling waves of longing that surprise us in ordinary moments. This is not a sign of weakness or inability to “get over it” or “move on,” rather it is a sign that we have loved deeply, and that love does not end simply because a life or relationship has changed or has concluded.
Over time, grief invites us to transform that unspent love into new forms. The parent who loses a child may find purpose in mentoring others. The widow may plant a garden in remembrance, nurturing life in the very soil of sorrow. The friend who loses someone dear might tell stories, ensuring their laughter and wisdom continue to ripple outward. In each act, love finds a new direction—not as a replacement, but as a continuation.
Still, we should not rush the process. There is holiness in the waiting, in the empty spaces where love aches and echoes. These spaces remind us that love is powerful enough to endure absence. They teach us to carry tenderness alongside pain, to let memory be both comfort and teacher.
To say grief is love with no place to go is to recognize the persistence of love. Even in the deepest sorrow, love remains—stubborn, faithful, and unrelenting. Perhaps the task of healing is not to send that love away, but to learn where it now belongs. Sometimes, that means offering it to others who suffer. Sometimes, it means offering that love to ourselves.
Let us remember: Grief reshapes us. It softens what we once thought unchangeable. It reminds us that love is never wasted, even when it hurts. And though the path through grief may be winding and uneven, it is, at its very core, a journey back to love—learning again and again how to let love flow, even when its first home is gone.
*Photo of my father’s Memory Plaque; First United Methodist Church, Albuquerque
*Today’s blog written in loving memory of Carol Crawford and Sharon Kay Johnson
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Shoshin: You Cannot Do a New Thing While Constantly Defending the Old Thing
I recently learned of a Zen Buddhism concept known as shoshin: the beginner’s mind. It is the state of openness, curiosity, and receptivity that comes when we approach something as though for the very first time. In the teaching of a beginner’s mind, there is freedom from assumption, pride, and the need to prove what we already know. “In the beginner’s mind,” wrote Zen teacher Shunryu Suzuki, “…there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s, there are few.”
The challenge for me – and perhaps for many of us – is that most of us have spent a lifetime becoming experts in something; our work, our beliefs, our identities, even our pain. We cling to what we know because it provides a sense of stability. Yet, this attachment can quietly harden into defensiveness. We protect the familiar – not because it still serves us, but because it feels safer than the unknown. And in doing so, we make it nearly impossible to truly experience anything new.
The truth is, you cannot do a new thing while constantly defending the old thing. The mind cannot be open to fresh growth while it’s busy justifying old conclusions. Think of a cup already full—nothing more can be poured in. The spiritual and emotional task, then, is to empty the cup, even slightly, so that something unexpected might enter.
The beginner’s mind does not mean abandoning wisdom or experience rather, it means holding our experiences and wisdom gained of the past lightly. It means we show up in life—in our relationships, our faith, our work—not with the armor of certainty but, with the humility of wonder and curiosity. When we release our grip on the old narratives such as, “this is just how I am,” or “this always happens,” or, “this is how it should be”, we create space for the sacred new.
In practice, this looks like listening more than speaking. This looks like pausing before reacting. This looks like noticing when we are defending what we perceive as correct, righteous, or just instead of sitting with patience and empathy and discerning. It looks like asking, “What if this moment has something to teach me that I don’t yet fully understand?”
The beginner’s mind is not naiveté—it’s courageous. The beginner’s mind is the willingness to enter unfamiliar territory without the safety net of expertise. It’s saying yes to the possibility that life might still surprise us.
In a world that prizes mastery above all else, the spiritual invitation may be to unlearn, to loosen, to become curious again. To stop defending what once worked and instead open ourselves to what might yet be possible. Only then can something truly new begin – Shoshin.
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“I Like Boring Things”
Artist and creator Andy Warhol once famously said, “I like boring things.” At first glance, this may sound odd coming from one of the most iconic, eccentric, and creative figures of the 20th century. Warhol, with his soup cans, celebrity portraits, and avant-garde films, hardly appears to be someone enthralled with the ordinary. Yet this statement carries a truth worth pausing over: what we often call boring may hold an invitation to look deeper.
In our modern world, boring is something to avoid at all costs. I remember vividly my father saying to my mother, “Donna Kay, I am bored – Entertain me!” My father had a busy brain and when that busy brain had run out of steam for the day, he would desperately seek entertainment. My father, like many of us, would fill his calendar and seek constant stimulation. If a conversation lags, if silence lingers, if a task feels repetitive—we label it boring and move quickly to something else. But perhaps boredom is less about the activity itself and more about how we encounter it – A lesson that my father never truly mastered!
Warhol saw beauty in the everyday. A Campbell’s Soup can, something most of us would ignore, became a canvas for play and reflection in Warhol’s art. He once said he wanted to paint things that people see every day but don’t stop to think about. In other words, boring might be just another word for unnoticed and underappreciated.
When I think about the moments I’ve called boring—waiting in a line, folding laundry, or walking the same neighborhood street—I realize those moments also hold a strange curiosity. Boredom can make space for the mind to wander, for imagination to bubble up, for gratitude to appear in small ways. What if boredom is simply the doorway to noticing what has been there all along? The warmth of a sunbeam on the carpet, the rhythmic sound of footsteps, the comfort of routine. What if when I find myself waiting in a line, I recall times when I was waiting in line with my daughter to ride a greatly-anticipated ride at Disneyland – an activity that always brings a smile to me face.
Warhol’s love of boring things challenges us to reconsider what we overlook or underappreciate. Perhaps boring is not the enemy of creativity, but the soil from which it grows. In repetition and ritual, we find pattern and comfort. In silence, we hear what is often drowned out. In stillness, we uncover presence.
The truth is, life isn’t always exciting. Much of it is seemingly ordinary—grocery runs, email replies, the commute home. But maybe the invitation is not to escape the boring but to live into it differently. To hold the ordinary with curiosity. To recognize that what is boring may actually be the texture of a grounded and full life.
So next time boredom creeps in, instead of running from it, perhaps we can sit with it. Look closely. Pay attention. As Warhol reminds us, even the boring holds a second glance.
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