The last week has been difficult, to put things lightly. A relationship, a very important one, ended, and I've had a hard time regaining my footing since that dissolution. I'm not an overly dramatic person, at least not when it comes to emotional transitions, endings, or failures. But where my typical personality would be one of chatterbox and opinionated extrovert, my depressive self is insular, anti-social, and apathetic. I eat a lot of oatmeal, listen to a lot of Bon Iver.
I'm an adult, of course, and can function fine in context. I can go to work and be as efficient as ever. I can make decisions about the future, cancel things that need to be canceled, inform who needs to be informed, reconfigure what needs to be reconfigured. And most importantly, I can decide what will eventually make me feel better. Eventually, it will make me feel better to go house hunting, thus, I will now do all the things a person needs to do to prepare for that. I can find a realtor. I can gather my W2s and tax returns. Eventually, it will make me feel better to race. I can research trail races and marathons. I can weigh my options, the health of my right knee, the likelihood of a marathon in November vs. January vs. March. I can remove myself from what hurts today and set in place all the things that will eventually make me happy. I've always been somewhat impressed with that skill. It's a gift, maybe, to be able to be miserable now and in the same moment be able to plan for future happiness. It's an optimism I'm grateful for, even if at the moment it just feels a bit like a split personality.
This time around (this breakup, this failure, this falling apart), I felt like I needed to be more specific in my thankfulness. When the clouds are overwhelming it's easy to forget there's sunshine behind them. So I found an old journal, one I'd largely forgotten, and gave it a new task of detailing my blessings. It's a beautiful journal, soft leather with a beautiful fleur-de-lis imprint on the cover. A dear, dear friend bought it for me when I left New Orleans, and she inscribed her love for me and our friendship on the inside cover. The journal has gathered dust for years, so to open it on a day I'd spent crying and to read her words was a blessing in and of itself, the first one I wrote down, Blessing Numero Uno.
Since that day I've detailed several more, aiming for three to four specific blessings a day. And I try to be as pinpointed as possible, not blase in stating all of the blessings I'm supposed to be highlighting. I'm not just thankful for a good trail run. I'm thankful for the give and tug of soft earth as I run up a well-worn path, bunnies scurrying away as I breathe heavily at each footfall. I'm not just thankful for sunshine. I'm thankful for the warmth of sunshine hitting my bare thigh as I lean against my mother on a raft pulled behind the boat, thankful for the splash of cold lake water as dad speeds the boat around a corner.
I think the worst part of sadness for me is apathy. I hate the grey creeping of "I don't care" that slithers into every decision. I don't care what I eat so I'll just eat oatmeal. I don't care what I do tonight so I'll just stay home. I don't care if my friends want to see me so I'll just ignore their invites. Apathy feels like a lack of God. It feels like an absence of all that is holy and good. And while my faith comforts me that even in those grey moments I am not alone, I can't help but feel forgotten when that thick blanket of I-don't-care consumes me. And that's where the blessings come in.
Even in my darkest moments I can force myself to do a few things. There are a handful of things and people in my life that, even at my saddest points, I can rely on to tug at and restore me, proof of God in the doldrums. Anti-social I may be, but a lack of activity unnerves me. And in the woods on a run, after I've warmed up, after I'm good and sweaty, when I'm running down a hill and the wind is whipping my ponytail against my ear, I forget that I'm sad. Momentary and fleeting, but it's enough of a reminder of what Happy feels like to continue running towards it. And when my mother hugs me, when my dad kisses my cheek, when my sister squeals in delight beside me as we're pulled behind the boat, these are all moments that remind me I was happy before and will be happy again.
My hope is that the list of blessings will not be cast aside when I perk up. I'd like to build them up, list them one by one as a mighty arsenal of memories and thankfulness to fight the blues when they inevitably creep in. I'd like to read over them, remembering what it took to be grateful for four things on that Tuesday, remind myself of how wrapped in love I was then and am now, how cherished, despite frequently feeling the opposite. It's an armor of protection and love, a blessing in its own right, to be able to recognize the hints of God that surround me when the future feels sharp and heavy. That sadness and malaise and is not of God, I know, so I know that reminding myself of His presence, over time, will push the grey away. And in the interim, I will not only count my blessings. I will record them for posterity.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Sunday, July 13, 2014
A Few Different Windows
I've been a guest or confidante to a host of different families in the last few weeks. And given my Uncle Buck's recent trip to visit us, I can't help but view my own family through the lens of having recently examined the dynamics of others. Perhaps it's comparative in some ways, but I mostly just come away shaking my head, a bit awestruck, that we humans manage to connect at all on this silly planet, even with those of our own blood.
I helped a dear friend with some catering at a party today. I just provided some plating, dishwashing, filling of coffee cups, and was happy to pitch in to lessen the stress on her family. She discussed, briefly, the anxiety the day had created for her mother, some stresses with a sibling, the joy of a smiling, oblivious baby. She's an articulate woman, my friend, powerful in her ability to put words to ideas. And I was struck by how plainly she spoke of her mother's worries, her difficulties in communicating with or being understood by other members of her family. It made me thankful I could help and also gave me comfort that I am not the only well-spoken woman who stumbles her way through communicating with some of those she holds most dear.
Despite the ties of blood, we're not destined to be friends with our siblings. There is a shared history there, yes, and a common language with which we address life. We feel the weight of the same family secrets or weaknesses or tragedies. But there's no promise that upon adulthood we will sit down at a table and truly feel spoken and connected to, eyeball to eyeball, one fully formed life to another.
One of my dearest friends recently texted and asked for prayers for her family due to stresses with her own siblings, tensions and frustrations that have been building for awhile. This is a family I've known a very long time, so the tensions aren't new to me. I tried to provide comfort the only way I knew how, by telling her that the best examples of familial harmony fall outside of our home. No family avoids chaos or animosity every day. And in the seasons when your own family struggles, we can at least trust that the best image of what a father or mother or brother or sister should be remains steadfast. God hasn't stopped being God, even if your brother is being a punk. And even if the tension is miserable, the wounds deep, God still provides help in our trials with the support of friends, a patient ear, a laughing baby, a shared memory.
I've looked out of a few different windows the last few weeks. I've looked out the glass door at my parents' home and watched my uncle and dad chatting by a fire, my sister curled up in a seat between them. I've looked out a kitchen window in Montana as my boyfriend played with his niece, far flung but well-loved. And today I looked out another kitchen window as my friend's mom held her grandson, grinning enthusiastically at his adoring crowd. Families seem like such delicate machines sometimes, so tricky to handle, so easy to misuse, so quick to weaken with distance or time, and yet they do seem to continue puttering on. The burdens build, the valleys deepen and darken, and still we press on, brothers and mothers and sisters and fathers and wives and nieces and nephews and uncles and grandmothers and grandfathers...
I'm grateful to be surrounded by people who ache when their family aches, who worry when their family worries. I'm grateful to have sat at a kitchen table this morning with my own family, praying for God's continued mercies on my Uncle's cancer fight, praying for continued blessings. And I'm grateful to have stood, a couple of hours later, praying with my friend and her mom, for anxiety-free revelry. The big and the not-quite-as-big, the long trial and the new anxiety, the ache and the burden, God gives us families that create and cushion every wound. And He gave us His example, in hopes that we might love each other better through it all.
I helped a dear friend with some catering at a party today. I just provided some plating, dishwashing, filling of coffee cups, and was happy to pitch in to lessen the stress on her family. She discussed, briefly, the anxiety the day had created for her mother, some stresses with a sibling, the joy of a smiling, oblivious baby. She's an articulate woman, my friend, powerful in her ability to put words to ideas. And I was struck by how plainly she spoke of her mother's worries, her difficulties in communicating with or being understood by other members of her family. It made me thankful I could help and also gave me comfort that I am not the only well-spoken woman who stumbles her way through communicating with some of those she holds most dear.
Despite the ties of blood, we're not destined to be friends with our siblings. There is a shared history there, yes, and a common language with which we address life. We feel the weight of the same family secrets or weaknesses or tragedies. But there's no promise that upon adulthood we will sit down at a table and truly feel spoken and connected to, eyeball to eyeball, one fully formed life to another.
One of my dearest friends recently texted and asked for prayers for her family due to stresses with her own siblings, tensions and frustrations that have been building for awhile. This is a family I've known a very long time, so the tensions aren't new to me. I tried to provide comfort the only way I knew how, by telling her that the best examples of familial harmony fall outside of our home. No family avoids chaos or animosity every day. And in the seasons when your own family struggles, we can at least trust that the best image of what a father or mother or brother or sister should be remains steadfast. God hasn't stopped being God, even if your brother is being a punk. And even if the tension is miserable, the wounds deep, God still provides help in our trials with the support of friends, a patient ear, a laughing baby, a shared memory.
I've looked out of a few different windows the last few weeks. I've looked out the glass door at my parents' home and watched my uncle and dad chatting by a fire, my sister curled up in a seat between them. I've looked out a kitchen window in Montana as my boyfriend played with his niece, far flung but well-loved. And today I looked out another kitchen window as my friend's mom held her grandson, grinning enthusiastically at his adoring crowd. Families seem like such delicate machines sometimes, so tricky to handle, so easy to misuse, so quick to weaken with distance or time, and yet they do seem to continue puttering on. The burdens build, the valleys deepen and darken, and still we press on, brothers and mothers and sisters and fathers and wives and nieces and nephews and uncles and grandmothers and grandfathers...
I'm grateful to be surrounded by people who ache when their family aches, who worry when their family worries. I'm grateful to have sat at a kitchen table this morning with my own family, praying for God's continued mercies on my Uncle's cancer fight, praying for continued blessings. And I'm grateful to have stood, a couple of hours later, praying with my friend and her mom, for anxiety-free revelry. The big and the not-quite-as-big, the long trial and the new anxiety, the ache and the burden, God gives us families that create and cushion every wound. And He gave us His example, in hopes that we might love each other better through it all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)