Two words I hate: “amazing,” and “stressful.” In themselves, they are inoffensive, but their present cultural ubiquity has made them hateful, like the Ugg boot or the shape of modern two-door sedans.
So you’ll understand that it’s no light statement for me to tell you that today was amazingly stressful.
I attribute the regrettable nature of this day to the conspiracy of many factors. A full moon. Surfeit of work that I do only for money. Insufficient time and confidence for the work I really love. An aggressive acupuncture session that chose today to kick in (rather than the twenty-four hours that immediately followed it). Waking up in a sweat at 4am. Waking up again, half an hour late.
This accompanies the perennially looming prospect of yet another move, the need of an oil change, and the tardy payment of an invoice.
I look around my little room and think “Why do I have so much stuff?” Stuff that makes a room feel homey is, in the final summation, stuff you have to move from one place to the next.
What if I just took off? Where would all this stuff go? Would I regret letting it go? These are the things that keep me where I am.
I know everybody has days like these, where you’d just like to get wasted and forget about it. My housemate has had this day, arguably worse; her daughter has had it, too (and is presently crying it out in bed).
But mine are worse. Because I have obligations nobody will thank me for keeping, and no entitlement to excuses. So now I lay me down to sleep with a quickly waning buzz, two melatonin pills, and a threadbare bromide about trusting God’s provision.
Kierkegaard says–and I think it’s fair–that resignation is not the same thing as faith. I wonder if faith is taking a chance on asking too much.