Scattershot

I have been frustrated the last couple of times by trying to work on coherent thoughts and losing concentration, time or energy about 2/3 every time. I don’t (at the present moment) feel like I actually have a coherent thought to get out, so maybe, hopefully, I won’t be disappointed 2/3 away through and pushing ‘publish’ with dissatisfaction and disgruntlement.

Relinquish. Receive. Beauty. Communion. Trust. Seek. Listen. Wonder. Witness. Confession

Previously, I had only one word for Sabbath, and that was ‘rest.’ I felt compelled by this being a concept God introduced along with creation, apart from the giving of the law, yet also distracted by “He is our rest,” and also, with frank honesty, a pile of to-do lists

Still, I’ve been fighting a building anger that I don’t have time to seek God. Even putting that into writing makes it obvious that “time” isn’t really the root issue. There are certainly things I don’t want to surrender that should be let go of — quite frivolous things, really, but all things standing by figure for the desire to be in control.

But there is also the problem that I have inescapably Grown Up. I passed the dread line of 30, I went and got a stupid doctorate degree. The starry-eyed time of dreaming about what life will be ‘when I grow up’ is quite passed, mostly, I think, replaced with the raw terror of running out of time. Realizing better now how incredibly fleeting time is comes the desire to ‘make something of it.’

Partly I think I swallowed accidentally while attempting to swim just a bit too much of the salty brine of school. The parts about having a defined plan, discrete goals, clear-cut deadlines, and then simply acting on them with puritanical industry. It was certainly pushed at me a lot, and looking around at that world, seemed to be the making of the sausage: audacity to declare the future, and then some dreadfully long hours to make it happen.

Looking at my life rapidly shrinking in front of me, I’ve felt a compulsion to define what I want and make it happen, like a properly educated individual (with very little actual living experience). But then infuriated by these attempts, because whatever else I do have, I have an ear I keep trying to tune closer and closer to truth, and none of the words I was telling myself had that tell-tale ring that guides you with the certainty of the North Star.

Do you believe that change can be forced by the outside in, or really only happens from the inside out? For me, this has not ever really be a question of doubt: absolutely, change only comes from the inside out. The outside in can throw up a veneer, it can pass to a quick glimpse, it can show an image. But to be the solid truth from bark to core, it has to be from in the inside out.

Somehow, though, I’d walked my way down a path of trying scheme appropriately to forge my outside circumstances thoroughly enough that my insides would transform (all the while give lip service to ‘of course, this must come first from the heart’). I hate how thoroughly we can deceive ourselves

That makes all of my to-do list a have-to, because I do have to — to obtain my objectives and my goals on my timeline by my strength. So rapidly I buy the lie it’s only responsible of me to do so. It’s an expensive lie, though; costly on so many different fronts.

Basically, what it comes down to, is the question of if life is taken or if it is received. If it is to be taken, there is no earthly rest to our labor at all. And if it is given, then the greatest attentiveness must be to the One Who Gives. It does you little good at all to be chasing after all these other voices while the One who is actually in fact handing you out your life is patiently trying to explain to you how this goes. As with that frustrated child on a party sugar-high who didn’t listen the first three times, and now is in serious melt down because of unforeseen circumstances, there is wailing that someone should have told them what was going on. No doubt the patient parent is holding their forehead and trying to hold their tongue

I read somewhere — or maybe heard? It maybe an Emily P. Freeman podcast — that the Sabbath is not taken; it is kept. All this weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth because there is no time to rest, only there is, only you keep giving it away for things less valuable. That was convicting for me, but not so much so that I didn’t keep trying to find better and better solutions for to-do’s and productivity and getting-these-monkeys-off-my-back.

With great grudgingness on my part, I felt goaded toward a book on “Sabbath keeping.”  I don’t know why other people always pull up children as examples of innocence and wonder. I remember being a child, and frustrated melt-downs and grudging obedience seem like much more apt embodiments of childhood. I don’t even care for the author and tone of the book (in deference to I suppose is the reason I don’t name them), but as far as I’ve read so far. . . well, more often than not, I find myself almost rolling my eyes. At myself. Because this does ring of the truth, truth I’ve already uncovered, already experienced, already known, already argued for — and somehow managed to deliberately and I suppose disobediently put aside.

Speaking of asides, I’m beginning to doubt if there is any value or applicable worth to practical techniques of surviving this life and turning oneself always back to God. Careful, I don’t mean those techniques or forms aren’t valuable, or that there isn’t any worth in trying to cope with this life and find God. I just mean, the more I look into it, the more it seems to me like these things are so individualized than to offer any assistance to anyone else. Their finders and keepers are have comfort and steadiness by them — joy to them! But it feels a bit like trying to wear someone else’s face. It only gets there by the life you live anyhow, and to pick up someone else’s and try it on. . . it’s strangely disconcerting, even though it’s a perfectly fine face.

I’ve tried several different iterations of counting blessings, or list makings as a way to journal, and I can keep it up (by effort!) for a few months, but never enough to make it life sustaining. Just a different type of chore. I suspect, should I ever find a rhythm that works for me, it will seem horribly odd and unlikely to others — just as how I sleep better in an un-made bed. I still keep leaning toward wanting to know what everyone else is doing (and so have a vague fascination with largely arbitrary ‘church calendars’), but I think it’s mostly because I’m trying to escape the work of figuring it out myself. I kind of want to take the easy way out and have the answer handed to me instead of doing the more honest work of seeking, which is where my only real answer will be.

What I do know is that I have a long list of things that I desire, that don’t seem to fit any of my carefully plotted goals. I just want them. And as soon as I issue the edict to myself to rest (which is a very hard fought war, even in the midst of sickness and ill health), I immediately revert to those things. When I declared today that I would rest, sabbath-style, today, and sacrifice my mouse-laid plans of accomplishment and needing — I had this little thrill that maybe now I could actually have time to read poetry.

That in itself was a little stunning.

I didn’t even think that was on my list of deeply wanted things.

I mean, I knew I wanted it, vaguely, in the back of my mind. It irritated my highly to recognize that some individuals get to spend vast swaths of their time — even, in many cases, earn their livings — deeply engrossed in “The Arts.” I want to be deeply engrossed in the arts! And I’m angry that I can’t find some way to square my industry and productivity and manufactured sense of responsibility with putting even half as much time as I want to into The Arts.

I’m not swanky. I’m not pretentious. I just want to.

Also, I’m angry that I can’t figure out a proper plan to allow me to.

But the Sabbath wasn’t just a time to rest. It was a time to look at all that God had done. If my artistic involvements are of God, I don’t need a 5 year, carefully delineated — in a bullet journal — with washi tape — plan of how I will get there. I need to sit down, shut up, listen to what God is saying, and receive what He is giving (up to and including  — wait for it — rest).

That looking to see what God has done, to me, is about beauty. It’s looking for and participating in the beauty, because the beauty is from Him. What are the beautiful (never mind if impractical) things to observe and do? Are those not good things for a sabbath?

Mostly, I’m in a dreadful hurry to write this down as a testimony to myself. A witness that at one point, I did too know better. That this is a thing that resounded with truth and should be held on to.

But also I am a little hesitant, wondering what a deliberate intent to look for God looks like for me. I did read a poem today, A Forest Hymn, and one line got stuck:

Ah, why  
Should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect  
God’s ancient sanctuaries, and adore  
Only among the crowd, and under roofs  
That our frail hands have raised?

 

Why did it get stuck? Because I’ve never felt I was adoring Him while among the crowds. Only ever in those ancient sanctuaries. The more people there were, the less I felt there was anything meaningful going on at all.

Curiously, to me, I have felt a little bit of that corporate worship — more so in the “higher” church services (if you can count things so). It’s curious to me, because I disagree resoundingly with so much of their theology. But I like their liturgy. I like the responsive readings and prayers. I like their more elemental music where we can actually hear our own hearts.

And in some fashion, I’m drawn to a liturgy for myself. I doubt the “church calendar” will give me any satisfaction. But I like the idea of a rhythm and framework to hide myself in, predictable but different, always there but speaking something different, that would give a home within the day. And I can’t imagine myself not giving in, again and again, into petty to-do lists and plans, if I don’t have a More Important framework to build around. If you don’t declare what is important, either someone else does for you, or you spend your time getting grey hairs chasing around minor stupid things that don’t matter in any real scheme of the universe.

Not passively observing. Actively declaring, and disciplining yourself to that confession, and by that I mean “not allowing the pressing importance of reading web-comics to de-rail all values and intentions.” Some things rightfully ought to hold more weight. I don’t mean we never get to unwind. But I do note, wryly, that if I can keep the electric siren away from me, I do seem to fall into prayer a good deal more often. Because I’m not so full on cotton candy and pork rinds that I can’t fit even one bite of pot roast in my mouth.

If life is a process of editing out the things that don’t actually give life and actively seeking the things that do, there are a good many changes that should be made, because there will be much (and immediate) rejoicing, is all. You feel better when you aren’t about to explode from eating junk food, even if it is ok to indulge once in a while.

What I do know was that when I was out of work for three weeks to do nothing but heal, I felt a good deal closer to God and instantly gravitated toward things that fostered that. But when I am busy, I keep doing all this crap that doesn’t help me at all and I feel very far from God — and by far from God, I mean it both ways. It’s so much harder to pray, and so much harder to have any sense that He is present.

It’s not a struggle of knowing the truth. It’s a struggle of pride, of vying for control, and of thinking too highly of my own priorities to put God in His rightful place.

Repentance does not come easily, but it is freeing.

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o so tired

One of the things that makes me angry about work is that I feel like it demands to be my god. I don’t “get to” show up for work; I “have to” show up for work. I don’t get to decide what is important enough to do. I get told what I have to do. And the rest of my life? The rest of my life gets the “leftovers,” after work has made it’s demands and I am ragged and thin and unable to really apply myself.

 

This is where most people roll their eyes and make a cutting comment about how being a grown up is so hard and welcome to the real world.

 

I don’t glamorize the tiny house movement, because in all actually, living in tiny cramped spaces is fairly unpleasant. But the truth is, living for work is really unpleasant, too. It might be a bit dour to say that most life is about choosing which unpleasantness you want to live with. I want to be able to structure my life around the things that I matter most, and work generally equates itself to money in my mind, and money is so very, very low on my list.

 

You have to eat, people say. Bills got to get paid, they say. But as anyone who looks around with even remotely half an eye open, some people manage to do that a good deal more frugally than others. Would I take living on rice and beans to actually be able to prioritize my life in an authentic manner to what I truly believe? Yes. In a heartbeat.

 

I wish I could not be so angry about this. I wish I could be a hopeful dreamer, a persistent laborer with the goal fixed before me. Instead, it seems I find myself stealing myself to do something both drastic and defiant. I don’t care what you think, I don’t care what you say, I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. Which only explains exactly how much one does care. Defiance usually is an expression of fear, and I will confess I am that.

 

I’m afraid of quitting a job I labored for countless years to get. I’m afraid of what would be next. I’m afraid there wouldn’t be money for bills. I’m afraid I’ll be found an idealistic fool, who was incapable of doing basic math. But also, I am terrified of this crushing feeling of being trapped, a growing case of claustrophobia; a situation where everyone simply resigns themselves to being victims of fate. I hate that: vicitimhood and fatalism combined in one toxic dose.

 

That does sound a bit like childish idealism, doesn’t it? I know. I worry about that. I am enough of a responsible big girl to know that nothing is free, and this world down here is not heaven, and it is all laced through with the burden of the curse. But I also loathe the hypocrisy of saying I value one thing and then lamenting that I can’t actually live in such a way as I claim to hold to “because I can’t.” That sounds like a cop-out, the coward who is not willing to make sacrifices for what they believe in — and if you aren’t willing to make sacrifices for it, do you really believe it?

 

I don’t think major life changes should be motivated by anger, fear and defiance. But stopping doing the responsible thing in the witness of the whole world takes a tremendous amount of courage. Especially when you are currently more defined by what you don’t want than what you do want.

 

I have been thinking about life as a process of editing. Somewhere along the line, I swallowed the thought that becoming an adult was about having things in your name. The more I have actually tangled with real life, the more I find that the “things” are actually mostly silly. The grandiosity of the things of this life can’t actually hide the reality that we brought nothing into this world and it is certain we cannot bring anything out of it. In our mindsets, I think it would be healthier to consider what needs to be brought along for the journey than settling down and stock piling.

 

There’s a little bit of terror to not having enough and to running out. There’s also a little bit of terror to not being in control and running out. And, I think, for some of us, there’s a terror in living a lie or lying to yourself. I have a growing determination that after three years at my current job, I’m quitting. It makes me happy to write that, even. But I’m scared to say it outloud, because I’m afraid my unhappiness with my current situation is deluding me into thinking that something irrational is rational, something foolish is wise, something entirely selfish is God-led.

 

I don’t care, I say. I’m quitting. But who am I saying “I don’t care,” to? My employers, my co-workers, to whom I can offer no real explanation except that, “this isn’t for me; I’m done.” My family members, who are already incredulous that I took on legal responsibility for untold thousands of dollars of debt for a job that would never make sufficient money to clear the debt. My own self, who cannot bear the idea of walking away without some kind of understanding of what I am walking toward.

 

Then there is the quiet and intimidating question of what is faith. Is faith laboring for years and incurring large loans just to walk away? Is faith stepping away without know what you are stepping toward? One year down, two years to go. I have time yet to figure this out, to move from faith instead of angry defiance. It scares me a little that I have so much joy in the idea of quitting and no hope at all in “making it worse.”

 

But I also cannot deny that every time I hear my brother talking about me being in the profession for 10 years, I silently affirm that will never happen, cannot happen, will utterly kill me if I do. It makes logical rational sense to him. I know it will not be. I know it.

 

It would make rational sense to quit working for formal employers, be control of my own destiny via self employment. But I’m not at all sure that is right, either. From everything I have heard from small business owners, the small business tends to consume them from the inside out. I don’t really see my clouded glimpses of the future as one who becomes a motivated, “successful” business owner. In part because I don’t see myself as being defined by any one thing. Will my profession still have some role in my life, in some shape or form or quantity? Probably. But the whole point is that I refuse to be defined by my profession, self-owned or otherwise.

 

What, then, do I see my future looking like? It’s undefined nature is a large part of what leaves me tossing and turning and fidgeting within the shell of my current life. I have struggle with my share of 3 and 5 year plans and found they don’t really hold water with me. I dislike the unknown, but I find there is little in planning like that besides self delusion. Sometimes, I still try to peer through the fog and see what comes at me, vague ideas of what should be, what is worth coming into being.

 

— I want to put time and energy into feeding and growing meaningful, lasting relationships.

— I want God to be the intentional center, not the squeezed in leftovers.

— I want to be able to be more fully in the present, more aware of the beauty and grace created in each passing moment.

— I want to read, I want to create, I want to sing, I want to maintain less objects with more care.

— I want to attend to my own personal rhythms, resting when I am sick, being still to listen, and working with a great fury and passion only some of the times.

— I want to learn.

— I want to stay away from ambition and work hard on compassion

— I want to cook more, to nourish in all of it’s meanings.

— I want less hustle — meaningless hustle — and more texture and depth

— I want to grow and move

— I want to be outside more, more in communion with the creative handiwork of God.

— I want to have less things, a more edited, curated life that knows what to hold on to and what to let go of.

— I want time to reflect and recharge.

— I don’t know how much of that can be had in this life.