When the forest is bathed in an encroaching mist, lit by the setting sun below the horizon, it is a mystical scene. It speaks of times before time, and I don’t know why. I feel drawn into it, entranced, in awe.
The gentle breeze blows, the mist shrouds any light. I feel the scene in my soul.
Maybe this is it, or maybe it is something else. I feel the encroaching acedia biting my being. It wants to take hold, seize me in its smothering embrace. All day it sought me, all day I went from one task to the next. Learning, exercising, keeping my body and mind moving despite the enervating force.
I consider again what it is I am doing, and feel again that all there is to do is carry onward, do that which I know to do, that which will again occupy weeks. Other tasks loom distant, presenting themselves, though not fully, whispers, hints, which raise expectations without yet being revealed as anything more than shadows.
I grasp, and what I take hold slips through my fingers. My heart exults, then drifts down to earth. I feel the way Wesley noted when I consider standing outside in a prayerful pose. There is no relationship there, not really. I do, because it is right. My heart connects with God only through the translation of others. I consider whether this is a sign of artificiality on my part, or whether God only presents himself to me through the eyes of fellow believers. Alone, staring into the mist, I see nothing, feel nothing which speaks of friendship.
That doesn’t detract from my yearning, my seeking, for I know enough to say that God is likely drawing me ever onward. There is contentment in the presence of God resting. There is delight in experiencing in full the wonder of the divine. Enough so that we stay. We do not know what to do with joy, so we squander it. And God knows how easily we can become amused, so he distances himself, letting us seek him in the only way which works, through the emptiness, through the unsated thi
Ah, but the call upon us does not guarantee utter delight. None of whom I’ve read speak those words through their lives. Not David, not Wesley, not Mother Theresa.
So, I feel as I do, without letting these feelings burden me with a false sense of reality. This is the reason for always keeping one’s eyes on the goal. Only understanding the end can make the path worthwhile.