My heart tends to live in the past or the future. Regret, grief, longing, hope, need: these all have objects that lie, so often, outside of my control in the past or the future. I wish I had what I had then. I wonder if things had just been different. I can’t change it now. When won’t I feel this way? How can I be filled? Where should I go?
This body that contains my memories and dreams trundles through the quotidien, mundane, and demanding activities of health and home.
I don’t mean to say that I do not ever enjoy my days or that I never stop to acknowledge the gift of every new morning. But my soul often struggles to rest comfortably inside me in a present moment. And, to be honest, I think I’m pretty good at trying to be awake to my surroundings, to notice, love, and savor. (Notice that I needed “I think,” “pretty,” and “trying.”) Still, the sense of longing never seems to lift.
Yes, I believe there is longing built into every heart—an existential, ontological, theological longing. But, this is not a piece of writing about that.
Let me be specific and concrete: I miss dancing and the life of performance on which I cut my teeth and wished to dine upon forever. And now, I am forever wondering what’s next. Twenty years have passed in the meantime. Twenty years that include marriage, children, friends, projects, ideas, and products. Still haven’t found what I’m looking for in the U2/psalmist sense. But if this isn’t an essay about that…
It’s about knowing a feeling, seeing other people (Out There) having it, and being jealous. Not a very bitchy jealousy, my jealousy is perfectly happy to hunt for opportunities and work hard. But on what? How? Where? When? What? Who?... It’s a regular Busytown Mystery up in here. Why am I not a songwriter? I’d know what to do then. (quick answer: I don’t sing or play an instrument well. Just a guess.) What if I go to improv classes? That could be a trailhead. Which agent will finally bite and sell my novels?
I am always asking “where to” instead of “what NOW,” like, actually now. The train of my life stops in the station of each day, each hour. I need not wait to get out until I get There. Who knows where that is anyway? Would I even recognize it? Best to stretch the legs in Now. So how do I engage these parts of me that I enjoy, that I am meant to use, now? Sometimes it’s easy and glorious (and usually involves nature or my children). At other times, even my best efforts get buried in laundry, dog vomit, etc.
Enter this question: what is the strength that you have? In a Biblical story from Judges, a nobody with no confidence is given a big job and a bizarre set of resources. He wants a big result (and to not die). When he waffles to God, he is told, “go in the strength that you have.”
This question can appear with boldness in the parade of modern encouragements to be present. It represents a “growth mindset.” It encourages me to Steal Like an Artist, to pursue my own Hidden Wholeness.
One strength I have is to write short, personal nonfiction essays between school drop off and gathering my house back together from the weekend. Others are: Texan chutzpah, a high tolerance for being a dork, a very active imagination. And a really beautiful log house on the third best United States island. I’m riding the high of having hosted a retreat there this past weekend, my first ever hosted, guided retreat for creative types. It was awesome, and I’m looking forward to sharing a short, personal nonfiction essay about it soon.
What is the strength you have?