When Movement is Best Found in The Standing Still

We have a running joke in our family about the time my husband went to Washington D.C. with our oldest son for his senior trip. They spent a total of 15 minutes in the National Gallery of Art.

15 minutes.

Long enough to go to the bathroom.

5 years later my son married an art history major.

Because balance had to be restored in the universe.

This same art history major, my daughter-in-law, encouraged me on my recent trip to D.C. to please spend more than 15 minutes in the museum.

"We'll see," I said. I didn't want to admit that I was also an art heathen. I wasn't too keen on long hours spent staring at artwork I didn't understand. So when I first arrived at the museum, I went to the information desk and asked what she would recommend I see.

The woman pulled out a brochure, entitled, "Less Than One Hour?" (Apparently I wasn't the only one looking for the quick and easy experience.)

"Here is a list of 12 of our more popular pieces," she said. "But I'm sure you will discover other treasures."

I started at the top of the list: Duccio di Buoninsigna's The Nativity with the Prophets Isaiah and Ezekiel. I gazed at the Virgin as she reclined on a red mattress and looked at the Christ Child in the manger.

I shrugged. Not my style.

I moved to the next piece. And the next. I was determined to spend more than 15 minutes, but not be there any longer than necessary.

I continued down the brochure, like shopping at the grocery story, checking off the paintings on the "Less Than One Hour" List.

Leonardo da Vinci's Ginervra. Check.

Raphel's The Niccolini-Cowper Madonna. Check.

Hendrick ter Brugghen's The Bagpipe Player. Check.

My footsteps slowed. I found myself looking at other pieces in the room.

I had spent the morning in the Natural History Museum and the Air and Space Museum, but had found the spring break crowds and the detailed displays too taxing for my tired brain. The National Art Gallery was a completely different experience. Six - eight pieces of art in each room. No other displays. Nothing to read. Just a small sign with the title and the artist. No other words. 

No. Other. Words.

I didn't know how to act. I realized I had never been to a museum alone before. Just me and the artwork with no words.

And in my world of too many words - words of terminal and loss and cancer and there's nothing more we can do, I found solace in the silence.

I wandered the halls, meandered aimlessly through rooms.

I stopped to photograph two paintings with soap bubbles. I smiled.

Soap Bubbles by Charles Amedee Philippe Von Loo

Soap Bubbles by Jean Simeon Chardin

I lingered in the room with Impressionist art. Van Gogh. Monet. Cezanne. Renoir. I was struck with the thought that these masterpieces hung in no other galleries. They were unique. Originals. One-of-a-kind.

 I was staring at Woman with a Parasol, by Monet, when a tour group came up beside me.

"When you look at this painting, how do you know there is movement?" the docent asked the group. "How do you know it's a windy day?"

"The clouds," one man said.

"The grass is moving," commented another.

"Her clothes."

The tour moved on, but I remained. The picture was not on the Less Than An Hour brochure. 

I, a woman with too many words always crowding for space in her brain, stood and looked. And gazed some more. No longer concerned with how much I conquered in one hour. Not moving as I focused on a painting with movement.

"The Spirit of God is like the wind," Jesus said in John 3:8. "The wind blows wherever it pleases."

And if this is true, is it possible the best time to discover a wind-blowing God and to sense his movement is in the standing still? That sometimes the only time we hear is when there are no words?

"Be still and know I am God," the Psalmist says (Psalm 46:10).

The being and the still leads to the knowing. How easy that is to forget.

I cannot explain it, but in that museum, in front of the Woman with the Parasol, I felt the stirring of a breeze. Nothing earth moving. No tornado. No stormy gale.

A simple flutter of movement. A peaceful breath.

The Spirit of God? Maybe.

All I knew was two things: First, I could tell my daughter-in-law I spent more than 15 minutes at the National Gallery of Art.

Second: for the first time in my life, I understood why people go to art museums.

I went back later and captured this photo.

Today on your journey of faith, I pray you stand still long enough to feel the wind, whether in your face or at your back and then you will know.

It's One More Monday which you can read about here.

I would love to have you join me.

Here is my list for this week:

One prayer I am praying. 

Jesus, this week I leave for my mother's service in Minnesota and to pack up 55 years of memories at the family home. May I find moments of stillness in all the movement. May I find beauty in the difficult and healthy grief surrounded by family and community.

One verse I am pondering.

I am currently memorizing 2 Corinthians 4:16 - 5:4. I'm going to be focusing on these verses at least a month, as I find the words are healing broken places inside me at the loss of both parents. The section ends, "So that what is mortal will be swallowed up in LIFE."

One beauty I am creating.

I am working on words to share at my mother's service, a woman who did not let cancer define her purpose, her beauty or her relationship with God.

One thanks I am giving. 

For 25 children, spouses and grandchildren making the trip to Minnesota where we will join countless friends and extended family.

One person in my inner circle I am loving. One person in my outer circle I am reaching.

In a week with over 200 people expected at the memorial service, I want to be mindful to find moments with the one. As an introvert, it is the only way I can tread this emotional minefield.

One step I am taking toward a bigger goal.

Packing up memories. One box at a time.

That is my list. How about you? What are you doing with your own One More's?