Hosted by Myself

Image of a sharp pencil on a black sketch book page - taken by Kelly Sikkema

We’re in transition, navigating uncharted territory. No longer parenting young children, but not yet parents of fully-fledged adults, one chapter is drawing to a close while the next is yet to be written. To give ourselves head and heart space, my husband and I are taking a gap year—a chance to ask big questions about purpose and passion. Transitions are both exciting and unsettling, mostly because they shine a bright light on the habits we need to change.

Thankfully along the way, precious insights steady our steps. Last week I recognised the limits of my ability to host myself - I’d love to know if it resonates with you.

Monday was an unexpectedly clear day. A precious treat. In my inbox was a video introduction to mixed media prayer journaling by the talented Jenna Burne, which had sparked my interest.

Here was the perfect opportunity to offer myself a nourishing morning. I had woken tired, and in some pain, but with no particular time constraint, I could choose a pace to suit. The day was completely in my hands, and I knew I wanted to spend time with this precious gift.

It would have been fantastic if I had used the supplies list to gather supplies from around the house. And if I could have cleared my desk of clutter. To ease my body, I could have stretched for 10 minutes before starting. Taken some deep breaths, welcomed myself into the space, lit a candle to dispel some of the February gloom. Settled in comfortably. But. I didn’t.

Perched on the side of my chair in a non-committal posture, I pulled out my art pad and enjoyed the space of a blank page. As invited, I picked a pencil and started to make marks. Curls of squiggling lines, looped and twisted back on themselves covering the crisp white page building energy. Soon the marks became fierce and jagged. Tension and frustrating found expression, obliterating the page.

As Jenna switched to paint, I reached for the few tubes of acrylics and couple of brushes I keep by my desk. Though I have many scrumptious supplies, here I was choosing to make do with only what I could reach — even dipping my brush into the dregs of my tea rather than walk to the tap. Ridiculous.

Jenna’s a great teacher. Her videos drew me in and despite my stinginess, I found myself connecting with myself and hearing the Divine.

My scribbled markings got covered with splodges of brown paint, the least colourful colour I had. Adding water it became a brown sheet, I moved paint around it like a farmer ploughing a field, before leaving it to dry.

Jenna then selected a scrunched piece of wrapping paper left over from a gift and chose from a selection of ink pens. Watching her pour her thoughts onto the page was mesmerizing and beautiful. Switching from white to black ink, changing direction, writing over text and then using water to smudge and blur her words created interesting effects. I used the next page on my pad and a plain black biro. Beautiful it was not. Still, the words surfaced and lead me in surprising directions.

To stay in flow and build up her page, she moved on to stitching and used vibrant decorative papers, mine were inside our house. As I watched I improvised obscuring my words by doodling over them. A gentler shape formed that looked somewhat like a bulb. My resistance was weakening and, attempting to further blur them, I reached for fresh green colouring pencils. Once I admitted the paucity of my limited resources, I finally left my space in search of some decorative papers and ink stamps.

My finished page was a sprouting bulb planted on a brown background with an image of a desert stronghold in the background. I had written “don’t be afraid of the dark and all that is buried there. Out of the depths comes life, in all its fullness.”  Precious words of wisdom and encouragement that I needed to hear and was grateful to receive.

But something in me still felt unsettled and unsatisfied, and I carried that feeling with me into the afternoon. Later, as I reflected on the day I noticed that the tiredness and discomfort I woke with had lingered. Though I had done what I set out to, I didn’t feel refreshed, restored. 

I noticed how conflicted I was about how to spend the day. We’d been away for a few days visiting our daughter at university. Returning home I again felt the loss of the chapter that is closing and was trying to control the despondency I was feeling at not yet starting the next. I felt a pressure to get back to work, to be productive, to be creating something of value that was mine. I wonder if you recognise that drive?

To spend the morning creatively felt like an indulgent luxury that I hadn’t earnt, didn’t deserve, shouldn’t prioritise. What value would it add? What would it change? I’d totally lost sight of my deepest values and purpose. So easily done in these often disorienting, liminal seasons.

The darkness of the season can often leave us scrabbling about for direction and footings. It’s then we most need welcoming hosts to give us precious rest and food.

When I was hosted by the sky of many blues and by the moor, I left nourished and refreshed. Both were such generous hosts, freely offering all they had to me. And it was glorious. Exquisite shades of colour, breathtaking composition, micro and macro attention to detail all lavishly spread out.

In contrast I offered the bare minimum, and kept the rest hidden away.

When I long to play creatively, I often withhold time, resources or encouragement from myself. But creativity and hospitality are two of my key values. I love celebrating and encouraging others to play and experiment. I know it’s power to release and transform, to nurture joy, wonder and curiosity. And I love making people feel welcome, seen and heard.

Good hosting isn’t about having the best to offer, it’s about being willing to share what we do have.

Here I was failing to offer myself all that I had from the two streams of nourishment I so eagerly seek to offer others. No wonder I finished the day flat and depleted. I hadn’t honoured my desire. Treating it like an inconvenient guest.

And this practice wasn’t just about me. It was prayerful way of using creativity to enable us to drop beneath the surface of our immediate thoughts and words and invite the Divine to meet us there.

This wasn’t just about hosting myself - it was about creating welcome for the Divine. I was ending that day with regret and remorse that I hadn’t given myself wholeheartedly to the practice. I felt like I’d offered stale crumbs to the one who receives me with such generous feasts. That’s not the kind of host I aspire to be!

But prayer is simply offering the Divine ourselves, just as we are. It can be sobering to see our true state. Perhaps that’s why we’re reluctant to pray. Yet our state is irrelevant, Love is always waiting to welcome us fully. How remarkable.

Writing this I’m reminded that in prayer we offer the Divine ourselves, just as we are. It can be sobering to truly see the state we’re in. Maybe that’s why we’re often reluctant to pray? It’s humbling to realise our state is irrelevant. Love’s always waiting to welcome us fully, just as we are. How remarkable is that.  

Realising the limits of my hosting was an uncomfortable insight, but it brought me back to the question that haunts all liminal spaces.

What’s my North Star? The constant point that keeps me steady?

The scriptures I’m rooted in call me to love the Divine with my heart, soul and strength and to love my neighbour as myself. Time and again they demonstrate how rest and replenishment, liberation and healing are found in love.

This is my North Star, to know myself beloved and to pass that love on. It’s a constant through every chapter. What changes is how that finds expression and hopefully deepens. Hosting myself more generously allows the Divine to meet me more fully. By scrimping on my welcome, I restricted my ability to receive Divine refreshing and restoration. Still, by slowing down and paying attention at the end of the day, I gave wisdom the opportunity to bring clarity that I can use to facilitate change.

Next time

In the room where I’ve gathered my art materials, I’ll light a scented candle and hold some stillness and silence. As I drop my gaze, I’ll place one hand on my belly and one on my heart giving gratitude for the breath and beats that sustain me. When I’m settled, I’ll raise my gaze and say:

Divine Love,

enable me to embody your values of creativity and hospitality.

Train me to host myself with your tenderness and compassion.

I trust that you bring life in all its fullness from the tender soil of my being.

As I keep learning to host myself with generosity, I’m curious – Are you also navigating transition? What’s helping you steady as you go? And as the days lengthen and warm, what are you opening to?