Rest

Rest by Pablo Picasso, 1932

I chide myself for being so inward-focused. If my mind is in a state of distress, I tend to think about the reasons why. Because I don’t have a therapist or depression medications or even a really good friend who can keep me accountable whenever I need it, I try to be that for myself. Things I tell myself: You’re going in a downward spiral; stop thinking like that! Read the Bible. Play the piano. You need Mt. Dew. Your life is not bad. The higher reality of heaven is waiting. Do I listen to myself? Not really. It doesn’t work.

What does work? Waiting for it to end. It always ends. It always will end. Will parts of my life be ruined or forever changed in the process? Maybe. Oh well. God is the potter; I am the clay. Will it feel like it will never end? Yes, and I’ll even believe that at times. Will I fail? Yes. I will always fail. Does God fail? Nope.

Is this surviving instead of living? Good question. I don’ t know. Maybe my real living is really just waiting. Seems like it most of the time! I don’t even really know what I’m waiting for. As the kids grow up, I spend time waiting for them to need me. It used to be they always needed me, 24/7. Sometimes I feel like I’m waiting until I have more time to myself. I know that our lives go in phases, and someday I’ll probably have a phase where I’ll be more solitary. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe there will always be more people moving in and out of my life, needing me in different ways. Or I need them. Maybe I’m waiting for my husband to make up his mind what he’s going to do, or else I’m waiting for his strange life to catch up with him, forcing him to make a decision. That’s a hard wait. And he doesn’t like change.

The Picasso painting, though. It’s restful. She’s waiting, too, but in a restful way. She’s an inward-thinker, too, and that’s okay. She’s resting, thinking, being who she is.

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