7:52pm

It’s the last day of October. I haven’t been out of my apartment all day, but I can imagine more leaves changing color and falling off the trees and the bare branches they leave behind. I feel the start of the cold, which makes its way through my windows. I should close them, but I don’t. I can do with a little coolness in my space (and I type this propped in bed with my blanket pulled over my legs and a shawl around my shoulders). I have not been well—and, thankfully, it is nothing threatening like my body failing or some unbearable pain I have to endure. I have just been, well, sad and numb and sort of living in a haze. It feels as if I’m standing by the door waiting for something to happen to me. I am thinking especially of Ted Loder’s prayer today:  

O God,

let something essential happen to me,

something awesome,

something real.

Speak to my condition, Lord,

and change me somewhere inside where it matters,

a change that will burn and tremble and heal

and explode me into tears

or laughter

or love that throbs or screams…

At the door, I have my hand on the knob, and some days I turn it and poke my head to see what’s out there (never what I’m hoping for), but most days, I just stand there—waiting and waiting and waiting. Stuck in this moment and fixated on what’s to come as time swiftly passes by. It is unlike me, but my dishes pile up in the sink, and my desk becomes a shameful mess of papers and books. It is almost as if I give up on all the ordinariness of living, which in itself is much of life: the waking up, the conversations with friends, the showing up for work, and all the small choices that bleed into the big choices. I go days like this, living absentmindedly and with a quiet yearning that cripples me. On some days, like yesterday and today, I pull myself out of bed. I clean my place. I water the two plants that somehow haven’t died at my hands. I make a list of all the things I need to get done (they are a lot) and I slowly begin the work. Writing this is on the list. Check mark.

Gratitude does wonders for the heart, even a desperate heart obsessed with its wanting. In the car on our way from church, I tell my friends, “I have never been more grateful for community than I am right now” and it is true. This month, I’ve grown a tangible sense of friendship and it is every sweet thing. Kassandra and I go to Barnes and Noble for a reading date. We get books and journals, we sit by a glass door across from each other and read. It is the simplest thing and yet, it fills my heart with such joy. The book I’m reading is C.S. Lewis’ “Mere Christianity” and of course, I read these lines over and over again: “I am sure God keeps no one waiting unless He sees that it is good for him to wait.” It is timely and encouraging, but I have no patience left in me these days. Something to pray for, then.

A recent movie I have enjoyed is “Hustle” on Netflix; it’s a film about basketball and the beloved Adam Sandler plays a scout. It’s such a good movie about the sport, but also about ambition, hard work, sacrifice, relationships, and of course, love. My favorite line is “Obsession is going to beat talent every time. You got all the talent in the world, but are you obsessed?” I can’t get that line out of my head, perhaps because I’ve been thinking about my writing in those terms. At the gym, I tell Zainab about my lack of motivation lately. That I have no desire to face a blank page. Nothing propels me anymore. That if, truly, The Dishwashing Women is the last good story I write, I would be content with it. I can make peace with it. I am surprised by my stillness as I make this very big declaration. I am not afraid or even ashamed to admit it, which is strange because I think if the one thing I'm good at is taken away from me, that would be a great loss, and I’m sure I’ll grieve it. But what a relief to not be tied to what I do, to not have my worth wrapped up in it. That is a dangerous way to live. Anyway, I need to read more. I think experiencing the joy of reading again and touching beautiful words on a page might shift something in me. Or maybe I just need a nap. I don’t know. I wonder if all artists go through this season. I bet they do. One can’t certainly be on high all the days of their lives, can they? That’s a lot to live up to. I don’t want to be too concerned with the ‘lotness’ of life—its pressures and promises are endless. I want the moment-by-moment living, the seemingly small delights (which come with its difficulties) in all this ordinariness. I want to be content with the blessings I have, to be a good steward of what I’ve been given, and even more, to have hope and peace in God when the trials come. Yes, even in the absence of the spectacular and in the mundane of long days, I want to be present and attentive and thankful.

One Friday evening, we gather at Salome’s house to help her pack her belongings.  There are six of us from church. We eat gluten-free pizza. We pray. We play Pharrell’s song, Happy, and sing along. We pack bowls and plates, snacks and spices, clothes and shoes, and move the boxes to the door. I am told to lift the boxes with my legs, not my back and I laugh because I don’t know what that means. One of us is moving and so we come together to help. It is nothing big, nothing special, just an ordinary day with a group of ladies, and yet, it is the most tangible expression of love. Yesterday, after I left a mixture of cleaning agents in my tub for too long and came back to streaks of rusty yellow color (from oxidized rust, google tells me), I text my neighbor. I want the streaks to disappear. I feel so out of control. I want my shiny, stainless tub back. She comes over and I start to cry. I am so frustrated and can’t bear seeing the stain, which now marks my tub in three long lines. She tells me not to worry. But I cry still. And she gives me a hug. I realize I am crying for more things than one.

In all this, there is still one hum to the tune of my occasionally distressed life: I am grateful, I am grateful, I am grateful. Although I may fail to pay attention, although some days may be shrouded in uncertainty, my heart throbs, even if faintly, with thankfulness.

It's late now. I think what I would do is take this heavy heart to God. Sometimes it’s hard to find the words when I’m so burdened, but good thing He is so intimate, living inside of me, that He makes sense of my sighs and groans, of the quiet wrestling that even I can’t fathom sometimes. In the multitude of my anxieties within me, Your comforts delight my soul. Psalm 94:19