Sometimes I do things even I don’t fully understand.
Like meandering through what the Northwest calls “Fred Myers”, but to the rest of us it’s the love child of a grocery store and a Kohl’s with Starbucks sidepiece.
Then there’s the stress hopping, which has led me to purchasing a cool neon journal with a gold foiled “Agenda” written across the top. Totally and completely unaware that I might actually be purchasing a day planner.
Irony at its finest.
But I’ve been looking for a breakout. A breakthrough. A break.
Something to settle or shift. I’ve been searching for rhythm and rest, but nothing that’s provided it in the past seems to be working now.
Space. Trips. Sleep. Music. Wine. Family. Extended or chosen.
Even crisis use to bring me some sort of settlement and purpose. It gave me ease in knowing I wasn’t completely in the middle of wasted time.
But the more I lean into what use to soothe, the more I end up wandering grocery store aisles with day planners I thought were journals.
So maybe the obscurity of journalling over the lines and structures, the boxes and agendas is actually pretty perfect. I don’t have to do what I’ve always done to keep what we’ve come to have.
Because reality is, I know my Father has changed the tide on me and I keep trying to swim, sail, ship my boat into last year’s dock; but the waves aren’t sweeping that way anymore and I’m moving to fast to remember.
Have you ever done that thing where you move houses in the same city, and you accidentally, by muscle memory, start heading home to your old house?
You get about two or three or four turns in and realize, Silly me, I’m going the wrong way! Then you course correct.
That’s where I’m at.
I haven’t course corrected yet, but I’m laughing at myself, about to turn the wheel.
I see the waves. I don’t see the new dock or ship or harbor yet, but I know its there.
It’s out there. And I know by the time I get to it, it’ll be ready for me because my Father is good and faithful. Steady and able.