Yes, I know this little blog has been nothing more than a sometimes trampoline the past few months, bouncing you somewhere else every once in a while. I’m really grateful for those assignments, forcing me to write something - sit down, decorate a balloon and let it go into the wind.
I know that I haven’t said too much about grad school in the nine months I’ve spent here; a bit about the experience, but maybe less than I’d hoped about what I’ve learned. I’ve been turning over why that is, and when I’m optimistic I’ll say there’s a humility in a first-year’s silence, a listening, learning, letting the questions be. When I’m cynical, I’ll say there’s nothing like the liberal arts academy to badger you out of any opinion at all, picking and policing til you wrap up everything authentic in a kerchief, hide it in your cedar chest, and batten down the lid with obscure, obscuring vocabulary spoken in a cadence of clever disillusionment.
There may be more about that later; all I’ve got now is I’m ready, so ready, to get out for a bit. It’s a sort of boot camp, a sort of monastic vow, that I really don’t resent. It’s just how this works. But I might just have found my limit for reading, writing, and overthinking things. I’m tired of the incessant demand for an immediate response. I’m craving plants and dirt, baking, people who’ve never read Foucault, people with real problems, Psalms, and the seeking after God that is just being. Going about. Waiting on wordless revelation to appear in the drugstore or the park.
One more month – finals – to lean farther into the things I’m completely tired of. This is its own discipline, one I still believe I’ve been called into. And the white-knuckled wait for spring is finally over; we’re remembering how to stroll, faces up toward the sun.
But some days and weeks and mercifully-warm months, you have to let yourself be tired even as you tell yourself to keep going, keep going, keep going.