wake, oh sleeper

for when you're tired, and stuck, and tired of being stuck

Up too early. Body was tired, eyes were tired, but mind was awake, asking itself a ridiculous array of worrisome questions.

Do those pants fit Reagan? Should I remove those two books from the school order? The grey yarn needs to go upstairs, I wonder if there's enough of it. Where will I put the other yarn? What happened to the dustpan that's supposed to be in the upstairs bathroom? Does Finnegan know what a peninsula is?

So dumb. So stressful. It's absurd how much angst can be created by wondering if your 8-year-old is familiar with basic geography when you're in a barely-conscious stupor.

I have been tired all week, all month, all year, and I'm not really sure why because I've been sleeping fairly well lately. Relatively, I mean; a while ago I endured three years of insomnia and other health issues while nursing a baby, and I've recovered from most of it. Even Kav usually sleeps through the night now, and most days, I do too. So compared to before, I am sleeping great, just not great enough.

But it's not just physical tiredness. I am tired of keeping track of the balls in the air, and all the moving...moving...what is the phrase? I can't even think of it.

I run downstairs to ask Vin. "What's the phrase for when you're all distracted, and things are moving too much, too fast...is it moving plates? No, that's not right...parts. Moving parts." I drop my dishes by the sink without giving him a chance to answer, and run back upstairs again.

The moving parts. There are so many of them right now.

For the record though, this part – the part when you can't find the right word or phrase – is not so much exhaustion but just part of writing, and it's handy to have someone nearby to ask about these things (even if you figure it out before they have time to answer). Several years ago I was trying to think of a metaphor for something else I was writing, and asked Vin about a certain type of drug.

“Drugs?” he repeated. “No, we definitely don’t have money for that.”

Ahh, yes. The snark is strong with that one.

Generally, he's much more helpful than I'm giving him credit for here. Lately he's been helping me by sending me to bed earlier, and that is sort of good but not fixing everything, because like I said, a lot of this is not physical.

I've been unsure about what I'm doing with the post I'm on, with the book I'm on, with the season we're in, and it seems like uncertainty just sucks the energy and motivation out of things. We have been walking a long obedience in the same direction – and no, I haven't read the book but I guess I should look into it because it feels like it's the theme we're living. Having been here for so long, the long obedience in the same direction also begins to feel sort of like the popular definition of insanity, which is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. (I wonder if that's mentioned in the book.)

But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God.

– 1 Corinthians 1:27-29

When you keep going the same direction in obedience, and things still seem the same and it doesn't look like you're getting anywhere, you start to wonder if it's the right direction after all or if you missed the off-ramp somewhere.

For example, Monday: Start the week with a blank document, but that's okay because the whole week is ahead. Nothing inspired comes to the blank document, no brilliant sentences emerge, so I switch gears and spend the rest of the time working on something else. Gaining Ground is starting a new round of books soon, so the schedule and graphics need to be made. Check, done.

Tuesday: Look at the document, which is still alarmingly blank. But a meeting was cancelled that morning so there's an hour of found time, and three days is still enough time to finish a post. So Tuesday goes toward website maintenance, some content sorting, and a couple short drafts for a fun new project.

But then Wednesday comes, and now we need to get serious. The blank document only has five sentences and I want to fall asleep at the desk. The next hour is spent typing and deleting and giving the screen dirty looks, and finally, I give up and record audio because OHMYGOSH we need to have something productive to show for the day, and you do what you gotta do.

Thursday, the blank document has seven sentences. And yes, there is a certain amount of discipline in forcing yourself to sit in the chair and type, then delete, then transfer what you wrote (which definitely doesn't fit the topic you were trying to write, but it will go with something else eventually) to another document, leaving you back with the mostly empty screen and the same seven sentences. You can force some things, but not this. At least, not when you're tired and want to just curl up next to Knightley, who is napping on her cushion next to the desk.

Give it time, Holy Spirit said. Trust Me and don't push it. It will come.

That night we have friends over, and we talk and laugh and eat and laugh some more until late in the evening. Iree lingers even after they leave, and we put away food and look through some clothes she's brought over. A tiny silver moth has escaped inside and sought refuge on the arm of the couch, and I'm too tired to move it and don't want to squash it, so I lay the shirts next to it as we go through them. It doesn't seem to mind.

I go downstairs to get quail eggs and herbs for Iree to take home, and she's at the piano when I come back up. Kavanagh's abandoned plate of cold shepherd's pie is still on the counter, and I start eating it as the anthem of the hatch peals through the house.

And suddenly, not looking for them, answers are there. I realize what the post I've been working on needs, and how the book should end, and I start sketching out sentences right there on the couch. It's not exactly George Bailey's revelation from It's A Wonderful Life when he exclaims, "I know what I'm gonna do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next year, and the year after that" – no, this is just for now, just a start. But it is manna, bread for the day, a lifting from the slump that I've been stuck in this week, and for several weeks, and for a good part of the year so far.

Tomorrow when I sit at the desk, I know what I'm supposed to do. And I know where it's going.

I listen to the song and I can tell she's changed some parts, added some grace notes and modified the tempo in certain sections. But then she stops abruptly, and walks into the living room.

"What happened?" I ask.

"I lost it."

"So?"

"So I got stuck and couldn't find it, and I'd have to go all the way back to the middle to find it again." I, too, have been stuck and couldn't find it, whatever "it" was: the energy, the answers, the funding, the time, the breakthrough I can pray for but not contrive.

"So?!" This is me, mom-like, not satisfied with that answer.

She grins. "Fine." And she returns to the library, and in a minute the song begins thundering again at the part in the middle, my favorite part, when hearts leap and horses gallop, and the moth – well, I'd forgotten about the moth, but it fluttered next to me on the arm of the couch and flew off.