i still wonder.
i wake up desiring to do something meaningful, something brilliant and good, and i go to bed wondering if i’ll ever live up to my own expectations, and i think: why is it that i can never get it right? and then i say my prayers, whispering belief in the only one who can be good. the one whose sole desire for me, every day, is to know how loved i am.
i am addicted to doing. to performing. to proving my worth, and my husband is content just breathing. he reminds me of my son this way, in love with the notion of living and doing it fully: by stretching out on a lawn chair and reading while i run around trying to prove to the world i matter.
“what is wrong?” he asks when he sees me crying into my cereal bowl and i don’t know how to tell him: i’m tired. i may not starve myself anymore, but my anorexic tendencies still show themselves through my need to control. my need to be something more than i am.
i want desperately to lay on that lawn chair and read. to hold my babies and breathe in their smell before they grow up. instead, i do the laundry, work on some articles and weep.
i’m praying for the strength to stop doing, and to start being. won’t you join me?