I'm sorting through a mound of papers in my office - shredding bank statements and saving quotes I've scribbled on scraps of paper. Four garbage bags later I turn to tackle my bookcase. As I sort books into keep and give away piles I rescue my journal from its spot on top of a stack of books ready to tip over.
I've kept journals for a good chunk of my adult life - I started with spiral bound notepads and eventually graduated to magnetized flip cover ones that are pleasing to the eye and touch. So pleasing that I can't help caressing the journal's cover as I try to remember the last time I wrote in it. I flip it open to the last time I wrote and read this:
"The other day a picture popped into my head of fear as a giant boulder I was trying to push out of the way. No matter that I could walk around it, I was spending all my energy trying to push it."
It's from October of last year, in the middle of a pity party entry that ends with "..at times I feel like it's (accomplishing tasks) all pointing to a 'what are you going to do now?' moment of my life."
That question is the same one I've been asking myself in light of these past few weeks. I felt so jolted when they told me I had cancer and then got another jolt when they caught their mistake that I think it would only be natural to ask "What are you going to do now?"
A few months ago, without any memory of that journal entry, I visualized my fear as being a tiny black rock. Not only did I see it as a tiny black rock but in my mind I held it in an open hand instead of in a clenched fist.
As I sorted my office I gathered some of my hope collection of things to place in plain sight on my desk. A desk I can now see the top of as opposed to the little cranny that was visible at morning's start. I place a green mug with the word hope engraved on it where I can reach for one of my nifty coloured gel pens nestled in its innards. An angel of hope figurine sits under my desk lamp - in front of a painting a friend's daughter did years ago of a flower stretching towards a window of light.
It's taken me a long time to be okay with the reality that hope and fear sit side by side within me. And longer to be okay with not having a ready answer, or any, for that matter, to every question that comes to my mind.
But God, I'm glad to have a chance to ponder it.
I've kept journals for a good chunk of my adult life - I started with spiral bound notepads and eventually graduated to magnetized flip cover ones that are pleasing to the eye and touch. So pleasing that I can't help caressing the journal's cover as I try to remember the last time I wrote in it. I flip it open to the last time I wrote and read this:
"The other day a picture popped into my head of fear as a giant boulder I was trying to push out of the way. No matter that I could walk around it, I was spending all my energy trying to push it."
It's from October of last year, in the middle of a pity party entry that ends with "..at times I feel like it's (accomplishing tasks) all pointing to a 'what are you going to do now?' moment of my life."
That question is the same one I've been asking myself in light of these past few weeks. I felt so jolted when they told me I had cancer and then got another jolt when they caught their mistake that I think it would only be natural to ask "What are you going to do now?"
A few months ago, without any memory of that journal entry, I visualized my fear as being a tiny black rock. Not only did I see it as a tiny black rock but in my mind I held it in an open hand instead of in a clenched fist.
As I sorted my office I gathered some of my hope collection of things to place in plain sight on my desk. A desk I can now see the top of as opposed to the little cranny that was visible at morning's start. I place a green mug with the word hope engraved on it where I can reach for one of my nifty coloured gel pens nestled in its innards. An angel of hope figurine sits under my desk lamp - in front of a painting a friend's daughter did years ago of a flower stretching towards a window of light.
It's taken me a long time to be okay with the reality that hope and fear sit side by side within me. And longer to be okay with not having a ready answer, or any, for that matter, to every question that comes to my mind.
But God, I'm glad to have a chance to ponder it.
1 comment:
"It's taken me a long time to be okay with the reality that hope and fear sit side by side within me. And longer to be okay with not having a ready answer, or any, for that matter, to every question that comes to my mind."
These are such wise words. Sometimes I do well with this and sometimes I struggle.
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