A warm day spent inside, realizing in the few moments out how warm the sun felt, and then realizing it was my red skin which felt sensitive. Usually I wear a hat when I am out, now I remember why. Ah, the uncomfortable beginning of summer season, when my Irish/Scottish skin must reacquaint itself with the UV. The wind is soft, crickets and I believe frogs are making their noises in the distance. A lovely mountain evening, in which I spent a fair moment just standing and staring outside, not at anything in particular.
Tonight I feel the fraud, the sham, the strong sense that at any moment someone is going to pull the curtain and see me for who I am, or maybe more so that they already have, and I’m doing my little dance while others snicker.
All that I write, all that I yearn for I realize is perfectly true, only I’m not suited for it, I’m not disciplined enough, or wise enough, or plain holy enough to grasp what it is which is right before me. I only have to reach out, and I sit back, wasting time, acting a part I’m not really playing.
Curiously, this isn’t mixed with any sort of depression, more of a distant look back at myself, who I am, the opportunites missed, if only… I was what I should be. At what point, I wonder, do we fatally wound ourselves from achieving our real purpose. and are let loose to drift on the turbid waters.
For all my words of Wesley, of the monks, of the others who expressed the reality of reaching back to the God who reaches out, I feel my only hope lies in a God who reaches all the way and reels me in.
I take stock of my heart, and am not pleased by what I see. If I had faith I would be so much more, even in this situation.
There is nothing else but to continue onwards, however. So, I’ll go to sleep and aim a little sharper tomorrow.