So far it’s been a hard winter. Never mind the temperature outside, that’s not what I mean by “hard winter.” Something within me rages, something akin to anger. At night I lay me down feeling bruised and beaten, though no unkind hand has wounded me. My bones ache, my head aches, my feet ache. Fighting on my system’s emotional battlefield wearies me. At night I am dead tired, with racing brain.
I am wrestling with things unseen by the human eye. I wrestle with restlessness and loneliness and a myriad of emotions flitting to the surface long enough for their discomfort to be felt. Whose emotions are these, plaguing me come nightfall when I am least able to deal with them, exhausted and disheartened as I am from a day of trying to keep on an even keel?
Oh, the wintertime landscape of my soul needs to lie fallow, to take its ease. Not all within is a wasteland; there is land cultivated by the vicissitudes of life, land which needs to lie idle for a growing season. Must I be perpetually scanning my inner landscape for signs of growth, for signs of a good crop? Would it be so awful to let go of my constant vigilance, would it make me a bad servant of what has been entrusted to me if I were to do so?
With these things and more I wrestle nightly, daily, hourly. My eyes are quick to notice a stray weed here, signs of new growth there. I do my best to tend to my crop, tears mingling with the soil as I work the land. My hands are calloused, throat parched, shoulders permanently bent from stooping in the heat of the day or from bracing myself against unforgiving winter winds.
It is enough, perhaps. Have I done all that I could? My mind reels with this unanswerable question. I’m tired to the bone, too tired to so much as clench my teeth, or my dirt stained hands into fists. Let the world revolve without me tonight. Let my sleep be dreamless and pure, like the sleep of the righteous. Or at the very least, let me sleep unmolested by emotions of which I want no part.