The Slow Journey

Yet another mopey entry. I have been in an entirely too contemplative mood for the last few days, I suppose finals have a way of doing that to a person. I do wish they were kinder to my mind and body.

Lately I feel like I can't shut my mind down. That all the burdens I have placed upon myself and all the fears, desires, duties and yearnings for freedom have weighted down my soul beyond all capacity. Like an overburdened and exhausted horse, my soul struggles to regain its feet. Time and time again, it heaves and throws all its dwindling strength into the desire to stand firm again, only to settle weakly back to the ground. I have not been a good owner to my soul. I have worked it beyond it's capacity. I have driven it beyond its limits and I have loaded it down to the point of folding. And yet, still I ask it for more. I stand above it and plead, then yell, then rain abuse onto it's sad body. If only I would stand back, if only I could give it time to recover- to remove some the load, to unharness the cart. But I too am trapped. I fear too much to allow it the rest it needs so much. If I fail, I loose so much. I feel balanced between these cliffs- to loose my soul or to loose my way.

And so, I plead- I tell it "only a little more" I say, "look, there is the end!" And like a good horse, it struggles slowly to its feet and we plod on, side by side. One day, I know, I must pasture my friend, my loyal companion, my soul. I must give it good food, a pasture, a warm blanket. But in this wilderness I traverse, there is no soft place to rest. My only hope is the end of trail, so close now that I can feel the breeze of it wafting through my soul- speaking of waters and green grasses and the scent of flowers. And I pray that the wind does not lie. Because for better or for worse, I am committed to the end of my journey.

Along the way I am learning to hold close small victories- to raise them to proportions out of bounds of everyday life. Being raised and accepted as a lay reader, holding the processional cross, a hand weighted on my head with all the blessings of a good man, and the warm touch of oil on my forehead. I hold dear a quiet thanks for speaking my mind at a faculty-student meeting which allowed others to raise doubts. The knowledge that my voice was finally heard and I am no longer shouting in the dark to stone effigies in the shape of faculty. A quiet morning spent with friends. This is the fodder my soul is using to keep on the plodding journey. And now is not the time for parsimony.