Facing the Music

the comfort of daily rhythms

I’ve found myself satisfied with holding tightly to the fruit of past creative endeavors.

I believe what I have already done is enough. There’s no more to write, no more to edit or think through, no more to discover. All the words I have are already formed in sentences and paragraphs. There’s nothing left to share.

It’s not just with writing that I feel this way.

I catch myself relying on past deeds or revelations, or times of growth to prove my faith. I believe that what I have done is good enough for God to love me. It shows the outside world that I love Him, and surely, is enough to not have to read my Bible everyday.

It’s the same with running. I’ve run 6 or 7 half marathons in the past four years or so. I’ve run long runs and short runs and speed runs and interval runs. It doesn’t matter that I’ve barely run the past year, all that before makes me a runner, right?

The fruit of things I have done grows moldy quick. But still, I hold tighter, my fingers ripping into the slimy, aged heart of the produce. I hold it high in the air and hope people see that I’m a writer, or a Christian, or a runner, or whatever I may be trying to be.

But when it comes down to it, and I examine the prize of my feats, I see that it is far from its natural state, and realize, maybe, it was never supposed to be plucked from its branch. It was never meant to be held onto, or shelved among other trophies. I discover, maybe, it was always meant t o hang from its limb and be a sign of slow growth just for me to see.

I’m not sure why I do this, but I’m not sure how not to.

I am an all or nothing kind of person. I hop from hobby to hobby calling each my passion until the exhilaration subsides and I am left wondering if I even like what I’m doing at all.

Every time I start something new, I think about what my life would look like in a year if I were to do it every day. How many essays or poems would I have written? How many muscles would be ripping through my clothes, how beautiful would God become? But after a few weeks, when I wake up tired and skip a quiet time, or a run, or the ideas stop coming to mind, I give up and justify it with the fact that I’ve already done it so many times before.

I’m not proud to admit this, but at some point you have to face the music. And in facing the honesty of the music, perhaps change can be made.

I went for a walk last night around town as the sun finished sinking behind the jail. There were a few remnants of the day lingering in pink clouds and still bright parts of the sky. I walked a nice slow strolling pace around the backstreets and shops and restaurants. I prayed and looked around at the town that has loved me so tenderly the past 5 years.

As I continued walking, I thought about all the times I’ve started something and how fast I take it. How I grab its arm and run with it as fast as I can until the exhaustion sets in. With the end so far out of sight, I let go its arm and turn around. Whenever this happens, I wish someone would grab me by the shoulders and shake me, all while screaming, “This is supposed to be fun!” in my face, until I really believed it.

I thought about all the things I do everyday without fail (for the most part). I thought about the small act of making a matcha before work, even if I’m running late. I thought about brushing my teeth and washing my face. And listening to music and driving the same way to work. Those are not hobbies, they are rhythms. What comfort I find in my daily rhythms and how sure they are.

So what would it look like to make my favorite hobbies my rhythms? That everyday I journal, and read, and pray, and move. Not for the sake of being someone who does all that, but simply for the sake of being the best Phoebe I possibly can. The one who enjoys her day to day and is comforted in the surety of all that will happen.