Rain drizzles, the wet greens of the forest bright and bold in artificial light. There is not the slightest bit of wind, only the tapping of rain on the roof, a jet flying over the mountains, water dripping from branches to growing pools on the ground.

Miasma. That was the day.

I tried to write all day, finding myself caught in noxious fumes. Finishing tonight a little farther along, somehow squeezing some juice from what remains. Still expectant, still hopeful, really, just feeling weight in my burst of noncreativity. It occurred to me this evening that if my faith is wrong, if my beliefs have no bearing on reality, then I’m really in trouble. Not just eternally, either. I’ve leaped headlong into this and the only way through to the end is for God to come and reach out to me, letting me land softly in his presence.

If there is no presence, I’ve nothing but a long fall. There is no hope outside of hope.

It is a muddy path I now walk, my feet are covered, my boots slip. I’m a little hungry. Only to the end, though, only to the end.

I wish I could speak of interesting tidbits, and fascinating facts of this day. It was none of those things, though sitting and staring out the windows gave pleasure, watching the rain come gently, raven soaring just feet above the street, by our window, and away out of sight. It was a day for staring and watching, and a little walking. Nothing else of note. I suspected this when I woke up, and felt content to stare and drifting flakes.

In my grasping for more, in my insistence on progress, the fumes arose, and from the miasma I had to emerge this evening. My pattern of prayer was disturbed without cause, though like with writing the only response is to continue on, and forget what is past.

I pray, I hope, I trust, I yearn, feeling an inner joy, arguing myself out of it, for it does not make sense. Moments during the day, I felt the rest, felt the peace, in my deep breaths and closed eyes. The more I embrace that side the more I shall be, though I worry in grasping after that I will lose even more of my connection with the wider world.

I have not yet decided, and the choice is ever before me. I know where the road goes, however, and I already miss what I leave behind. There is joy ahead, that is the promise, that is the goal. The meats and vegetables of the slave lands come to mind, and at the moment they are stronger. So, I shall pray, and then sleep, trusting that God will reach out and take my hand, pulling me through this void. “The best of all,” John Wesley said on his death bed, “is God is with us.” A lesson and truth I still am learning. I’ve walked far, and still have far to walk. Now for rest and restoration. G’night.