“My secret is that I need God—that I am sick and can no longer make it alone. I need God to help me give, because I no longer seem to be capable of giving; to help me be kind, as I no longer seem capable of kindness; to help me love, as I seem beyond being able to love.”
― Douglas Coupland
I write bad poetry.
I use a journal to write things that mean something to me: thoughts, prayers, quotes, rants, Bible verses. Sometimes I write poetry: it seems to bypass the way I’d normally articulate myself. I wouldn’t normally inflict it on others though- even though I’ve occasionally used bits here- some things are better not seeing the light of day.
I write it when I feel I have ‘space’ and freedom. I look in that journal now and I see that over the last few months, notes in it are rare and getting rarer- bad poetry is even more sparse.
I think I’ve become too ‘stretched’: a combination of my current role and my bewildering variety of ‘extra curricular activities’ sometimes feels that they are exceed my ability to cope with them. I have become ‘busy’: a word I’ve always felt struggles to co exist with the word ‘pastor/minister/ vicar/priest.’ or anyone who is required to ‘hold the space’ so that others may feel safe with them.
I need God: I’m running on empty.
Sometime in the next few weeks, I’ll go to an uninhabited island with a few others for what I often call ‘a kind of retreat’. It’ll be for a whole weekend. We’ll survive with what we’ve bought with us, but also by relying on each other : in an increasingly atomised society, that has its own challenges, but also joys.
There will hopefully be silence, space, conversation, laughter, sometimes angry words, copious swearing and often, discovering of ‘soul friendship’. If you’re tempted to say ‘That sounds lovely’, it often is, but there could also be intense cold, driving rain & the difficulty of preparing food in the same, and ….trowels… plus I’ve never really liked camping- particularly wild camping.
…but I may get that indefinable sense of stillness, I may meet God – however you describe he/she/it, I may look at my life and think ‘this is ok’ or I may realise I have to change and make some hard choices. I may throw it all up in the air and start again.
But I may also begin writing bad poetry.
If that happens, that will be good.
Wearily Hopeful 