I met my husband in Paris. Six months into our relationship, I moved (back) to London, and so we spent a time taking in turns to visit each other in Paris and London. Ten months after that, he took a job in Dublin, and I decided to move there, too. After two years, we moved back to Paris, and got married there - here - a few weeks later.
To have lived in London, in Dublin, in Edinburgh, where I grew up - what a gift. These beautiful, rich, magical cities, settings of countless novels and movies and poems and songs. The objects of dreams and fantasies and aspirations. Objects of wanderlust.
I do genuinely feel very lucky that my life circumstances have allowed me to live in each of these places. For the most part, it was just chance, or luck (in French, chance means luck). Of course there were moments when I forged a path in a particular direction - especially in the case of my initial move to Paris, motivated by an inadvisable and doomed romance - but for the most part, I just landed where life propelled me.
Lusting after a place offers most, if not all, of the same pitfalls as lusting after a person. For one thing, it sets us up for disappointment; our imaginings are rarely fulfilled, and even if they are, the thrill it gives us is brief. For another, we can “objectify” a place in much the same way that we can objectify a person: we have an idea of how we want it to be, how it should be, that blinds us to the fullness of what is before our eyes. The people we encounter fit a narrative we set before we ever encountered them, the places are part of a story we want to tell when we get home. It is hard to accept the places we lust after for what they are - or else we cannot see it - in the same way that we cannot see clearly a person for whom we lust.
Of course, it’s not bad to want to travel, or to live in other places. The desire to see new places, meet new people, observe different cultures and traditions, sample unfamiliar foods… This is a way of seeking God, too, in His endless richness and variety. Equally, there are good reasons to want to make a permanent move, whether it’s local or further afield. I’m not saying that we should all just stay put in our homes and local neighbourhoods and renounce the wider world. Some people might be called to that, but in the 21st century, most people are not.
The oft-quoted line from St. Augustine comes to mind in this context: “Thou movest us to delight in praising Thee; for Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee.” On the one hand, travel can “move us to delight”, move us to praise God for His Creation and the endless ways we can encounter Him in the world. On the other hand, this quote reminds us that our restlessness cannot be fulfilled by anything in this world, and that often the restlessness we feel is pointing us to a need to dig deeper into our relationship with God; to look for our fulfilment in Him.
A few years ago, I got interested in Benedictine spirituality. One of the things that really stuck out to me is that in addition to vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, Benedictine monks and nuns take a vow of stabilitas - stability. This means that they commit to their specific monastery, and not just to the order. They commit to living within those walls, and the people they share them with, come what may.
As someone who has ostensibly lacked stabilitas throughout my life - I moved three times in my childhood, and eight times in the 15 years since I left home - this idea drew me in. Many of my moves in adulthood have been driven by little more than agitation, a sense that the grass is always greener. What could it mean to commit to a place? Given that this notion has been elevated to the level of a vow in one of the great spiritual traditions of the Church, there must be something I could learn from it.
“By making a vow of stability, the monk renounces the vain hope of wandering off to find a ‘perfect monastery.’ This implies a deep act of faith: recognizing that it does not matter where we are or whom we live with. …All monasteries are more or less ordinary.… Its ordinariness is one of its greatest blessings.” Thomas Merton, quoted here by Hannah Brencher
It’s not much of a stretch apply this same idea to the lives of lay people. How often do we “wander off” in search of something “perfect” - be it a new home, a new parish, a new job, a new [fill in the blank]. It goes without saying that there are plenty of valid reasons to do these things, but it is also undeniably true that humans are blighted by a disdain for ordinariness. Even if we think we have happily settled for “ordinary” lives, it’s easy to fall into a pattern of contempt for the reality of ordinariness: our impatience with the people around us, our desire to be surrounded by something more beautiful or exciting, our frustration with our own limitations, and so on.
What would it mean to see ordinariness as a “great blessing”? Not ordinariness in the romanticised sense of a rosy domestic life, but in the sense of the piles of laundry and toys strewn everywhere; the fact that everyone in your house needs to eat several times, every day; deciding to put the kids in front of the TV for half an hour just so you can sit down without being asked to do something. The kind of ordinariness that humbles us, that forces us to confront our limitations, that insists we accept that things are not, and never will be, just so. Can I see this kind of ordinariness as one of my “greatest blessings”?
“[Stabilitas] was a commitment to trust in God’s goodness – that he was indeed there, in that very place; and that holiness, happiness, and human fulfillment were to be found, not tomorrow or over the hill, but here – today.” Paul Wilkes, Beyond the Walls: Monastic Wisdom for Everyday Life, quoted here by Hannah Brencher
It’s hard to talk about this without stepping into the territory of saying that we - mothers, especially - should accept boredom and burnout joyfully, that wishing for change is somehow wishing away our blessings. I strongly resist this narrative - ongoing feelings of frustration, exhaustion, or apathy suggest that change is needed, and seeking one either short or longterm is important for the wellbeing of the mother and the rest of the family. This in no way negates our gratitude for our families, our homes, our lives.
Rather, what I’m trying to say is that it’s important to recognise that if we are always looking “over the hill” for a greater sense of happiness or fulfilment, we may miss the particular blessings of “here, today.” Having lived in some of the most romanticised places in the world, I can affirm that life is no more magical or exciting in Paris, London, Edinburgh, or Dublin than it is anywhere else. There are perks, but there are also costs (literally and metaphorically). Having been lucky enough to travel pretty extensively before I had kids, I can assure you that while I appreciate those experiences, they didn’t satisfy me in any lasting way.
There is nothing wrong with wanderlust, with a little escapism to get us through the day. The chance to see new places can be enriching, and a true blessing. But I don’t think it’s where we’ll find fulfilment. Stabilitas is unexciting, but that’s perhaps why it offers such fertile soil for deep communion with God; without the thrills and exhilaration of the new, the different, the extraordinary, we find a path to a less exciting but more abiding encounter with the Creator.
Love this. I went to grad school at a Benedictine university and worked there for many years after. Even from afar I learned so much from the monastics about stability. Their stewardship of the place - the land, the buildings, the people, the resources, the possibilities - is such a huge part of their charism and it's changed how I think about my own home & small piece of land.
I loved this reflection on stability. Growing up, I moved 7 times before I turned 13, and then once I entered adulthood, I moved another 4 times. I met my husband and we've lived in the same place (town/area, but one move to a larger space for our family) for 10 years, which is the longest I've lived anywhere in my life. It was hard to shake the feeling of wanting to move again, but more recently I've found myself looking at ways I can really make this a home (not physically, but in my heart) and I've come to really enjoy it. I really loved your thoughts and reflections on this.