Enough

It always seems as if there is not enough time in a day, and if we take the time to realize it, there probably isn’t enough in the entirety of our lives either.

But perhaps the key to having enough time is to simply reconstrue what enough even is. It can take years, decades, or a lifetime to find purpose, belonging, and fulfillment—to elicit that wisdom and awareness ensconced in each of our souls. And regardless of our sense of patience or desperation, we cannot know whether the time allotted to us is enough.

Negligence

Just because it’s someone else’s problem, doesn’t mean it isn’t yours also.

If I possess the energy, the willpower, and the wisdom for change, to not act upon it is to neglect my duty as a human being.

An Update

It’s been over a half year since I started this blog. I have no doubt that it has been one of the most important commitments that I’ve made in my life. It has given me clarity and confidence in thought, a reason and a will to press on, and vision and purpose in the scope of my life. Some of the oldest posts in this blog originate from my journal, which I began in December of last year. While to some degree I yearn for the carefree and freely expressive nature of journaling, it doesn’t put me on the hook; it neither provides any form of accountability nor any sense of generosity on my part. It didn’t take me long to realize that I’m emotionally mature enough and ultimately far too self-aware to benefit from the emotional venting characteristic of journaling; I seldom must write my feelings down, either to make sense of them, or to mollify the unrest that emerges from the heart.

It’s also been two months since I started working for Proof. I am extremely grateful to have stumbled upon work that I can be proud to do, an organization that I can be proud to be in, and people that reciprocate love, kindness, and sensitivity. Despite approaching the opportunity with skepticism and stoicism—having learned the mistakes of my previous venture back into Paris Baguette in 2021—I do recognize that to some degree I have once again formed an emotional attachment to the work itself and the outcome of the work. Sometimes, in moments where my eyes have glazed over by weariness, or where I’ve simply detached myself from the reality of the present moment, it all feels like a dream—interposing memories of Jon’s entrancing loquaciousness and knack for storytelling, realizing that I’m actually here with the man himself, and ultimately engendering in myself the confidence that I can make a positive difference here.

I have decided that I can be at peace with the idea of committing my heart to do what it is compelled to do. I understand that it limits my bandwidth and my emotional energy that was originally focused into these reflections, and I wish to embrace that temporary limitation. And while I’ve garnered a profound sense of connection to the work and the people that now surround me, in my mind, I also vow that I will take the due diligence to frequently pause and remember—that even if all is lost, if nothing works out, and if everything is in vain—that I still have plenty of time, resources, and opportunities ahead of me to accomplish the mission I originally set out to do six months ago.

To any of you that follow this blog—while it was never the true intent of it to gain publicity or accumulate following—thank you for dedicating a portion of your life, however miniscule, towards reading what I have to say. And to those of you that I know personally, thank you for being part of my life, and part of my story.

I know

I know what I set out to do. All that’s left is to do it.

Nothing more, and nothing less.

Enough

I am aware that I have wrought my own suffering. But to be merely aware is enough. As if there was anything I could do to prevent the feelings and thoughts from their onset, without continuing to inflict more suffering upon the soul by wrestling with the heart.

The battle is ours

I've had Leeland’s “The War” in my Christian music playlist for quite a few months now. There’s a line in there that I now realize can be incredibly deceiving:

“… for the battle is not yours, but God's.”

—2 Chronicles 20:15

The thing is, to interpret this phrase in the way that most people are likely interpreting it—as if God absolved us of all our troubles, and we need not bear the abject suffering involved in life’s struggles—requires reaching such great metaphorical heights if it is to make any sense within the context of the human condition.

Are we really all that naïve? There are two types of people—one that suffers because they have no other choice but to suffer, and one that suffers but decides to make something of that suffering. For the former, when one is subject to a mental prison of their own oppressive thoughts, when one is victim to cruel and miserable circumstances outside their control, I think we can definitively say that they’ve lost whatever battle there was to be won. And for the latter—are we not the authors of our own stories? Are we not the ones that emerge triumphant from a hard-fought war?

What battle is God fighting for us? If he truly plays a role in our battles here on Earth, it is not a role that we can understand or should even attempt to understand. But in the meanwhile, the injustice and misfortune we must tolerate? Those are for us to tolerate. Those moments of pure misery and suffering we must endure? Those are for us to endure. And those harrowing ventures into the darkness and the unknown we must take? Those are for us to take. Why would God fight those battles for us, when precisely, it is in the fighting, that we derive any sense of purpose in this life? He designed this life for us, after all; we shouldn’t pretend as if he doesn’t understand it.

Continue

To dread suffering is to dread a life worth living.

To be afraid of mistakes is to be afraid of learning and knowledge.

To be a victim of our circumstances is to be a victim of our own ignorance.

Simply rest, move on, and continue to do what you set out to do.

If that’s not enough, then what is?

Have hope

Remember to have hope, but also remember—losing it will do you no harm.

Looking forward

If there comes a day where I no longer have anything to look forward to, why should I worry?

There’s an opportunity for me to finally have the time to look backward—to reflect, to introspect.

Or even better yet—here, in this fleeting and precious moment in time—to merely look.

As if I knew

And why should I pretend that I understand this volatile and capricious heart? Why should I act as if I understand human chemistry, as if I comprehended the intricacies of each interaction? As if I knew precisely the emotional reactions that would ensue? As if I could predict the future—the aggregate outcome of each and every event that would befall us? Why persist in this façade, going against every principle and lesson that I’ve ever internalized in my life? Why make an exception for our natural inclination to believe certain things—our unreliable intuition and our haughty sense of judgment—when time and time again it has proven itself excessively prejudiced and wholly presumptuous?