I’m so weary. Of all of it. And I feel guilty for my tiredness because there’s work left to do.
There’s truth to be touted (after wading through the weeds to figure out which truth is the true truth). There are causes to support (after investigating to get to the root of said causes to determine if they are what they say they are). There are misunderstandings to clear up (because if I look at someone the wrong way or don’t dress myself up to look just like them there’s bound to be issues).
And I’m sorry, but I’m just so tired.
Gardening doesn’t excite me like it did in years past. Oh, it’s growing and we’re feasting and there are weeds to pull and work to do, but the better work of pondering and imagining and viewing the garden through the eyes of a poet isn’t getting done.
There’s work on my desk. I make lists and watch self-imposed deadlines pass without checking the boxes. The pile gets higher, the weight heavier, and I’ve little desire to do anything about it.
I struggle to read and to write. The level of focus and concentration required, for now, is lost. These simple pleasures are no longer fulfilling, but chores I slog through with minimal satisfaction.
Maybe the work in this season is different than it was last year, last decade, last century. Maybe the work now is the most important work of all. Maybe it doesn’t look like work.
The shifting sand throws me off balance. Not gonna lie. I’m wobbling. We’re all staggering around like drunken sailors wondering what happened, trying to sober up enough to regain our bearings.
We knew it would be hard, this changing and breaking down and rebuilding, but we didn’t think it would be like this. We know there’s even harder stuff to navigate down the road. We’re kinda scared.
“Some days I struggle to maintain my faith amidst day-to-day circumstances. Sometimes I wallow in self-pity and sometimes I stay in there for a while. The pain feels like it’s more than I can cope with some days. Wearing a mask of having it all together chafes. God understands our seasons of doubt and doesn’t love us any less for them. The Creator invites us to draw near in those dark times; they’re opportunities to go deeper. Wearing the prettiest I’ve-got-it-all-together mask was never the point—love was always the point.”
Linda Hoye, The Presence of Absence: A Story About Busyness, Brokenness, and Being Beloved
I think I should be able to weather this storm better than I am. I wrote an entire book about navigating my way through the squall, for goodness sake. And by “writing” I mean more than just tapping out words because writing is so much harder than that. Deep work precedes words being formed. So, I think I should have this figured out.
But I don’t and that’s part of the beautiful terrible truth of this life. We’re not meant to go it alone. We’re invited to stand on the deck long before the sun has risen and, while the rest of the neighborhood still sleeps, look up and over and around and whisper a one-word prayer.