"The Lord your God disciplines you."
On relinquishing the reins
I do not feel bad right now, but I don’t feel great. My words are jammed up in my brain. They’re not flowing out onto the page. There’s some sort of obstruction.
Part of this must be the fact that I’ve got to go to the bathroom. But I think it’s a little deeper than that (lol, how much deeper could it get?).
Could it be that I’m underslept? I mean, I’m definitely a little underslept, but I don’t think that’s the problem here. Because I’ve had good writing days after a night out and 5 hours of sleep.
The problem here, I’m almost entirely certain, must be that for this entire morning thus far I’ve not been writing honestly. I’ve been writing towards an end. I’ve been trying to chase a topic, if you know what I mean. I’ve been trying to name the topic rather than letting the topic name itself . . .
And so, in this entry here—as you might have discerned—I’m making an effort to relinquish the reins.
I think it’s quite alright to chase topics every now and then, but if a writer does it too much, then he loses himself (or herself!).
Because, you see, while a writer often writes to make money and solve particular problems, anyone who becomes a writer does so because they need to be a writer. They need writing to clarify their spirit. And for it to do that, they must write honestly, addressing whatever it is in that particular moment that their spirit is asking them to address.
I have days like this intermittently, when I become frustrated, after trying too hard to do one thing or another, mistakenly thinking it was me holding the reins . . .
Indeed, sometimes I try so hard to grab onto something that I lose my mind altogether and need, subsequently, to take a step back from my work. I probably should take a step back right now, but I’m already at my computer, so I might as well keep going.
There will be a time in the near future for me to take a breath.
I’m still in Tampa right now. It’s been a grind. I’ve written practically every morning (save for Easter) all morning, proceeding then around 1pm to my buddy’s office to learn how to sell life insurance. We leave there any time between 6 and 7ish to head back to the apartment, at which point I exercise, or make an attempt to exercise, then cook dinner, watch a movie, and hit the hay.
I enjoy this routine, but having been smacked with some unforseen tax bills and, not to mention, a $300 towing bill (I forgot to pay for parking), there bears down upon my shoulders a little more weight than I anticipated I’d be carrying at this point in time.
I’m not technically in debt, but I don’t currently have the cash to pay my credit card at the end of the month. I’ll be fine—I’m lucky enough that I’ve got people (in other words, my mother) who can lend me money so my credit score doesn’t tank.
Still, being the OCD sort of person I am, I’ve never really put myself in a situation like this before. I’ve never really been in “credit card debt.” So yeah, I’m freakin’ out a tad.
I suppose, though, that while I am bothered by what I’ve been told isn’t that much debt, I’m also kind of enjoying it. Because, you know, what kind of man has never had to deal with debt in his 20s? Or with the frustration of getting his car towed, in turn racking up a $300 bill one week after he had to pay however many hundreds of dollars in taxes, all without a steady income? What kind of man would I be if I couldn’t say I’d faced at least some sort of “intimidating” strife? If I hadn’t ever truly been forced by necessity into beastmode?
I do like this living on the edge, I must say. I don’t really like it at all, but I do.
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, there is no way to train a man into these sorts of situations. Life just makes them happen to him. More specifically, God makes them happen. Because He knows that in order for a man to be a man, he must be tested, humbled.
Just yesterday, I was reading the Bible, and came across these lines in Deuteronomy:
“Remember the long way that the Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, in order to humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commandments. He humbled you by letting you hunger, then by feeding you with manna, with which neither you nor your ancestors were acquainted, in order to make you understand that one does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. The clothes on your back did not wear out and your feet did not swell these forty years. Know then in your heart that as a parent disciplines a child so the Lord your God disciplines you. Therefore keep the commandments of the Lord your God, by walking in his ways and by fearing him. For the Lord your God is bringing you into a good land, a land flowing with streams, with springs and underground waters welling up in valleys and hills, a land of wheat and barley, of vines and fig trees and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey, a land where you may eat bread without scarcity, where you will lack nothing, a land whose stones are iron and from whose hills you may mine copper.”
(Deuteronomy 8:2-9)
It is interesting I came across this when I did. Call it a coincidence if you’d like. If I were I betting man, though, I’d say I’ve simply been reminded by the Big Man Upstairs why I’m enduring what I am enduring.
Something about these words fills me with the utmost peace and love imaginable . . . something here compels me to believe that everything will be okay. Because I know I’m not bearing this weight alone, or without good reason.
I’ve tried for so long to do everything on my own. To take control of whatever’s going on. To forge my own path.
Even in the most microcosmic of ways.
My mind constantly races and wonders and ponders and probes, in search of things I might’ve missed. Ideas, careers, tasks, topics . . .
I did it again today—I tried to name the topic. I tried to lasso it and drag it toward me, instead of letting it rise up on its own. I did not follow God. I did not listen to my spirit. At least, not until I let go of the reins and wrote this.
Every time I try and grab onto something, everytime I try and hold the reins myself, I get dragged out into the wilderness. You’d think by now I’d have learned my lesson, but it’s clear I haven’t. I know I can’t be perfect. I know this is all part of the journey. But how many more times is it gonna take for me to get the memo?
It’s true: we must be lost to be found. We must venture out into the wilderness, away from the path that’s been so diligently laid out for us, so we may be humbled. This is just how life goes.
“As a parent disciplines a child so the Lord your God disciplines you.”
What matters most, I suppose, is that—like the Prodigal son—we return. That we come home, having realized we can’t do it on our own. Knowing full well it is not ourselves who hold the reins.
