Bookmark #589

After days of being out of sorts, as one tends to be now and then, I woke up today with a relaxed heart. I made coffee, returned to bed and sat in it for a good hour, doing nothing. It is winter, after all, and this ritualistic slowness is part of the package you get with the slower months. Over the years, I have learned that I must keep going until I reach the moment when my body, not my mind, wants rest; the mind gives up faster than the body does on most days. We can work our way around a rebellious mind, but we cannot talk an uncooperative body into action. We must lay down our figurative swords on its first suggestion, and then, as it suggests, we must rest. To begin the day, once and for all, I got out of bed and sipped the coffee, now lukewarm. Oh, the sinful pleasure of intentional tardiness. As I sipped the coffee, the world echoed: there is still time; I believed every word.

And if for some reason, you want me to inquire about what happened, it is too late for that. We can never know what truly happens when we lose our spirits. The soul is surrounded by shaky scaffolding. It is there, in all its glory, and it is also continually being built. And a lot can happen when things are being built: a can of paint falls now and then, a ladder slips sometimes, and some ropes come loose here and there. It says little about what is being built, which is what happened here too. I could not be too sure what it was, but we should try not to worry about it. Time is an astute sculptor. We must let it do its work and shake things off when chaos arises.

“Nothing happened”, we should announce, “nothing at all. Let us resume our duties. There is a life to build.”

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