Just about Lent.
The time of year when I seem to dust off my blog and try to write stuff.
It’s kind of funny, I think. Because it’s not like I plan these things. And yet, when I look back over the years this blog has been in semi-existence, I notice that I tend to make renewed commitments to blog more come February.
Last year, however, I did not.
I haven’t looked back thoroughly enough to see if last year was the only year I didn’t make an attempt to write and blog in February, but as I scan quickly through my memory files (you know, the ones in my brain), I conclude that it’s possible. How very telling–of what, I’m not quite sure yet–that last year would be marked by an absence of my mid-winter ponderings. Perhaps because last year was one of the worst ever. Maybe worst isn’t the right adjective. Maybe stretching/growing/owie/darkest/most oppressive/most soul sucking . . . yeah. Worst might actually be just the right adjective.
So, that was last year, this is this! And here I am: back at the keyboard, doing my clickety-clack thang.
My last post is from nearly two years ago. And I’ve moved three times since then. More if you count the number of times we moved ourselves and all of our stuff in and out of a condo-like, hotel-ish lodge place during the late summer/early fall of 2013.
We’re resettled now. In a different town, in our beloved home state, with a different vocations for each of us. As we settle into our new life, I feel hopeful that this is where we’ll stay settled and content for a good long while. And yet, I’m scared to death even to think such a think even for one instant!
We’ve been beaten down, stretched, wrung out, pulled, pushed, dragged, shoved, beaten some more, lifted up, and spun around. We stand just inside the threshold of a whole new edifice, both literally literally and literally figuratively.
I want to say we stand here full of hope, overflowing with hope and confidence in our new beginning. I want to say with certainty that we are in just the right place, at just the right time. I want to say that we know something. anything.
But I can’t. Because beaten down, stretched, wrong out, pulled, pushed, dragged, shoved, beaten, lifted, spun.
But this tired feels different from a tired we’ve experienced in the recent past. This tired doesn’t feel like the one that results from submission to the oppressive and relentless burden of a taskmaster. This does not feel like the tired of surrender, or of defeat.
No, this bone-weary tired feels like the exhaustion that overcomes and overwhelms on the far side of the finish line. In the collapse after the marathon. Now, you know I’m no runner (even if someone were chasing me, I envision myself turning and trying to have rational conversation with my pursuer), but I would imagine that there’s a space in time, after the race has been run, but before victory has been appreciated (whether that victory come from winning the race, or, simply from meeting the goal), when one simply collapses, knowing it’s now an option. A moment when the tension that kept the legs pumping, the feet hitting the dirt, releases, giving way to a trembling weakness. A moment when, with a dizzying rush, the brain goes blank, no longer seeking out the finish line, but not yet assessing the outcome, simply standing still for that moment.
I imagine this time after a race. And maybe it doesn’t exist in real races. But it exists now, here, in my life. We have passed a finish line for a race that seems to have started four years ago. My
legs lips tremble, salty liquid escapes my brow eyes. I’m not exactly sure where I am or where I need to go next. Have I won the race? Have I lost?My mind can’t even go there yet. All I know is that I’ve finished. Something. And for now, for this moment, I can stop. Every cell of my being is consumed by the gift of knowing I can stop. And for right now, for this moment, that’s all that matters.