Projects big and small are piling up. Some are started, though with short-lived enthusiasm. Many await the development of brilliant ideas. Most will require all-day, if not multi-day struggles, to move them along towards completion.
I fret, I fuss, I wonder what's wrong with me. I have a list, a long, scrawled list, but it's not helping. I've tried periods of chaining myself to the computer (i.e., sitting at the screen, typing whatever just to get something up there, knowing I can go back and fix it, wanting to get up, not getting up, finally getting up to visit the box of crackers in the kitchen; repeat).
It is a crisis of confidence: can I do all this?
It is a crisis of perfectionism: can I do all this and please myself?
It is a crisis of collaboration: can I depend on others to help me? And oh, gosh, can they depend on me?
Is it all worth doing? What about all the other things there are to do? And what about all this anxiety I feel? What about the waking up at night? And how I can't quiet my brain during yoga.
I write about it. I read what I write. A light bulb: time to cut back on the caffeine again.
Darn. I have rules about coffee. But I cheat.
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- Perverse Lutheran
- What is a perverse Lutheran? As a child memorizing Luther’s Small Catechism I learned to say “This is most certainly true” with the emphasis on the adverb. But now, older, wiser, and more contrary, I ask, “Is this — most certainly — true?” You won't find anything of much importance in the big wide world here. But I've been blogging for a long time and a lot has happened—stories of grief and joy, wonder and grace, questions asked, answered, and stewed over. What does it all mean? And does it mean anything if I don't take time to sit and write about it?