It’s a very golden morning, and I’m sitting in my new living room with coffee dregs and the knowledge that I will be late for work.  Doesn’t matter, as Lalo has assured me at least once a week that I’m my own boss and there’s no such thing as “late,” as far as they’re concerned.  (And how did I get this job.  It’s too good for me.)  But I still need to stop at the day’s gate, look through before walking through.  I want to meet the day, move toward it as an equal, before stumbling over the threshold and being blown away in its strange & unpredictable winds.

Last night I had a moment of really horrid jealousy—a former friend with whom I’ve never made up was on my mind, her dramatic & colorful life, how (in my mind, anyway) she will never have trouble making friends but I will always, always struggle to get close to people.  Since friendships are a great life force, for me, this is a massively troubling thought, one that morphs into nightmares in which I become a weed growing in a crack in the interstate median.  The speed and force of other people’s lives passing by is boggling.  Mine moves so slowly, things change so slowly.  Even the things that change in a lightning strike take months to settle, and then the new life that follows from that change lays itself out in a solitary way once again, in which there is occasionally some sprinting but lots & lots of trudging.

Instead of trying to trudge through a psalm or a gospel, this morning, I picked up Buechner’s Listening to Your Life, a “daily meditation” book thing with excerpts from his novels, essays, and nonfiction books.  He’s an eager writer, articulate, insistent, hugely generous, and when I read today’s excerpt (about his writing, esp. his fiction) I was so gently encouraged to let my life be alright without comparing it to any of those people with whom I love to compare it.  (Prepositions bedamned.)  A recent message from my friend Rachel made me feel like this too.  Why, I wonder, sitting in my second-storey apartment window, looking out at the morning sun through maple and hackberry leaves, does it take so much for me to be returned to myself?  Why do I need Frederick Buechner’s writing, and the stillness of a quiet house, and coffee, and early morning sunlight filtering through big windows, to rediscover a kindness for myself?

Not sure.  But I’ll take the gifts of the day as they’re offered.  I’m so in need of them.  And I want to be a writer.  As in, a read writer.  So.  I need to figure out how—outside the pleasantly rigid structure of graduate school—to do that.  Difficult.  But possible.

 

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