I'm having one of those weeks where I have so much to say that I'm not saying any of it. I guess I'm processing. Self flagellating. A little congratulating.
Lots of praying.
Meanwhile, I'm reading this book, Barefoot, in which one of the characters is diagnosed with lung cancer. 31. Young kids. Not a smoker. And she's always been a list maker. Now that she is dying, she only keeps one list. A running list.
Things which no longer matter.
I've found myself keeping that running list this week as I process and/or self-flagellate. Friends coming over when the house is a pit. Throwing out something someone gave me that I never used. Taking sloppy joes to a friend because there is no energy to take something more elaborate. Pitching half the contents of my baking cabinet. Letting kids go to bed grummy. Eating popcorn for lunch.
The thing is, I try my best. My best is never good enough and never will be. I will always say stupid things. I will never be the perfect person I want to be. And even in the rare moment when I am proud of myself, there will immediately follow a moment of self-loathing.
I guess that is why we have Jesus, eh?