"And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles,
no matter how long,
but only by a spiritual journey,
a journey of one inch,
very arduous and humbling and joyful,
by which we arrive at the ground at our feet,
and learn to be at home."
I'm tired. With exhaustion comes overwhelming emotions known as the "Melodramatic chaos of Jennie's mind". I feel as though the coffers of my heart and soul were somewhat depleted this past week and I could not replenish them quickly enough. My meager self-awareness and social work education tells me that I am experiencing something known as "burn-out" and I need to be more diligent in regards to "self-care."
Hence my Saturday evening is consisting of Jennie's self-care tactics:
1.) An empty house (not through my own doing I promise)
2.) A glass of wine
3.) A bowl of custard with bananas and chocolate chips and coconut
4.) Listening to music of a deep, sincere, and gentle beauty.
5.) And I am attempting to quiet my thoughts and clear my mind. Not generally an easy task for me.
Isn't it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about
spiritual patience? Isn't it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?
Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.
Every morning, so far, I'm alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky--as though
all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined their strong, thick wings.