Impasse
We’ve been in one of those seasons, my wife and I, looking into new jobs and different places to live. I’ve been applying to jobs in a handful of geographically ideal places. I hope no one reading this—employer, friends, family—panics. We do this every year. I’m open about the nondescript urge I annually feel to pick up and ship out.
Spring weather helps bring it on. Our grass becomes green again, making us think where it might be greener. The county sets out the mulch it made from curbed Christmas trees. The days lengthen. There is an unmistakable feel to spring that, true to its name, soaks the world in potential energy.
This spring comes after three seasons spent hunkering down in my acceptance of things. I’ve said to my wife often recently that, between teaching and writing, I am fulfilled. Then the spring comes; a nagging force looms in the lengthening hours, telling me there is more out there, somewhere.
Only, this year, the weather hasn’t changed. Our grass is still dead. It’s been a March of wintry mixes. In a corresponding way, my internal season has been resistant to change. I’ve been suffering from a spiritual impasse.
I have to find a new sponsor. My manuscript is still homeless. I’ve been kept so busy between work and family that new writing projects cycle through in perpetual reboot. There’s the rub, always. Some gauge their spirituality by how they behave behind the wheel. My spiritual barometer is a muse—if I’m not writing, I’m unhappy.
I spent 2017 finishing a novel and building a study where I can write from home. In 2018, with the novel finished and the study renovated, I can’t write a thing. I’ve built this room to sequester my solitude, and I can’t wake up early enough to use it. Who in recovery doesn’t love a good paradox?
More than usual, the urge for more is gnawing away at all I’ve accepted as permanent.
For someone whose brand is the Miracle of the Mundane, I sure have a paralyzing fear of the ordinary.
It’s when the artistic or creative side of my life wanes that I feel incomplete. To get down to it, my greatest fear is the just factor. I’m just a teacher, just a parent. Life is just about living and nothing more.
I don’t idle well. If I’m unable to put my creativity in drive, I grow restless and discontent quickly. Like the stubborn winter outside, I am resisting something.
I can hear my sponsor speaking to me from that place we travel to in death. He’s giving me a lesson on gratitude.
If I ask him, “Is this it?” He would say, “Is it not enough for you? Maybe we should pile on some terror, bewilderment, frustration, and despair? Would it be better to go back to the psychiatric ward and alienate yourself from those who love you?”
It’s difficult to get away with anything when you talk with someone, living or dead, who knows your every secret. My sponsor knows how to draw from the well of four decades working with others: “If being a faithful husband and dedicated father who shows up to a job he loves, a job that allows him to be of service every day, is not enough for you, the problem is not with the husband, the father or the teacher.”
Then he pauses, knowing I have to ask, “Then where’s the problem?” half-knowing the answer already.
“It’s with capitol Y-O-U. It’s your ego making excessive demands of the world.”
“So what do I do?”
“Keep showing up. More will be revealed.”
It was a particularly restless Saturday at the start of March when I was left unexpectedly with both children.
I should have known it was coming. That is to say, I should have looked at the calendar and listened to my wife’s warnings, but when she walked out the door and said, “See you tonight,” I was surprised. I hadn’t planned anything. I’m the sort of parent that does not, under any circumstance, stay at home with the kids all day. A comfortable house can become trapped space after a few hours of rule enforcement.
So I loaded up their bikes in the trunk and set out for the park.
My son was scared to saddle up on his bike again for the first time this year. He only learned how to ride a year ago. I told him, “Riding a bike is like—well, riding a bike. You’ll see.” My daughter was not as enthusiastic on her balance bike. She wanted to have pedals like her brother. After a few dingers on a narrow trail, I suggested me move to the huge vacant parking lot next to the park.
Once there, my son was pedalling like a maniac, going as far as the lot allowed. My daughter took to throwing shards of busted concrete. A win all around.
The lot is the size of two football fields placed next to each other. From the far corner, I heard my son crying for me. He was biking slowly in my direction, near tears.
“Daddy!”
“What is it?”
“There’s a branch in my way.”
I looked out onto the gray expanse. There was nothing but a reed in the distance, so small in proportion to the empty lot, it was like a piece of pencil lead on a clean page.
“Just bike around it.”
“But it’s in my way!”
I looked out again, imagining that if the reed hadn’t been there, he likely wouldn’t have biked anywhere near it.
“There’s this big parking lot. You can go anywhere. Just avoid running into the branch.”
“Go around it?”
“Yes, just bike around it.”
Why my son chose to bike as close to the read as possible when the lot of least resistance sat vacant all around him I’ll never know.
Maybe it’s just human nature to focus on what is in our way, however small, rather than the freedom that surrounds us.
Last week I spoke with a sober friend of mine, a comrade in the struggle, a brother even though we’ve never met.
He’s got a great morning routine. Like me, traditional meditation has not been a very beneficial practice. He moves his body in the morning and reads something of spiritual merit to start his day.
It dawned on me that my problem has not been an inability to write in the morning. My problem has been my thought that an inability to write in the morning is a problem in the first place. Maybe my new season, as stubborn to come as our collective spring, involves a little more reading than it does writing, more questions than answers. Maybe it will involve seeing the open space around me, not the minute obstacles in my way.
Whatever the case, I know it will involve showing up.
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Maybe it’s just human nature to focus on what is in our way, however small, rather than the freedom that surrounds us….
Holy crap, man. That is so right on.
Thanks man. Some of that came from Mason Jennings. Have you ever heard him? His song “Clutch” has a chorus: was it the freedom that freaked us out? I have it on my mind a lot.
I haven’t… I’ll check it out on Napster.
Email sent. Sorry man, it’s been a crazy week.
Your son sounds like a mini you, Mark! I used to get that restlessness when I was younger. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be at certain stages of our journey. I’m just learning how to be in the moment in my 50s, wish when I was restless, I would have paid attention to it ‘in the moment’, maybe examined why. But then again, maybe it was the way it was supposed to be at that time in my journey. ♡
Diana xo
I think he is a mini me, Diana. And if that’s the case, I tell you he is as quirky as it gets! And I love it.
I’m glad to hear the restlessness has settled for you. That stillness, moment to moment mentality is creeping into my worldview, slowly.
I love this piece. Before I got to the end I was going to suggest getting used to the room before putting that pressure on it, by reading in it maybe, but you got there first. You and the room need to get to know each other before things get more intimate. By the way, your blog is not mundane… it simply highlights the beauty of simplicity. Through time and simplicity… AndX
Thanks for that Mr. Edge. I’m not sure if I got there or not—as far as the room. Suffering from immediate extremism as usual.
I was able to get into a better routine even since writing this post. Ups, downs. Strikes and gutters. Bracing for the next version of me this crazy sober life takes on.
Thanks for that kind note on the blog. I like that—the beautifully simple.
It is interesting how we can become so focused on the branch that we can’t see those other options. That the problems are all we have and the freedom of choice becomes almost forgotten.
Spring has been very slow here too. We had a week and this morning it’s a blizzard. Sigh.
You post touched me deeply today. I have been fixated on a problem in my life, only seeing all the potential hardships and pain that may come, wishing I could make things As I expected them to be. I need to step back and consider the possibility this is the right thing.
Thank you for that.
Anne
Anytime Anne! Thanks for stopping by. I’m glad there are options out there for you to choose from. Blizzard? Yikes. Hope the snow clears by Easter.
I was almost in tears, as you remind me of myself, as I always think I “should” be doing something more, or bigger, or something. Being a good wife, daughter, and aunt is not enough?
Is not volunteering, blogging, staying sober enough?
Your son was a perfect illustration to what I do everyday. I never “feel” like doing something as it’s too hard. Why don’t I go around the hard part?
xo
Wendy
What an awesome comment, Wendy. Mark, lol you better not leave right after I get there!! (Teasing of course)
Haha! That is hold be awful timing I admit. Not going anywhere as of yet. Looking forward to not wondering if HD is in town each time I head east.
I’m with you there, Wendy. Why not take the path of least resistance? I’m always amazed when I see the behavior that frustrates me in my son as the same behavior I have. It happens more often than I’d like to admit. A nice reminder too that I’m a work in progress. Bloggers sharing thoughts is enough, it must be, for now.
Love this, Mark! I want to set up my own writing area, for the same purposes you did yours. My writing space has become more a space of distraction and less of concentration. I’m holding out “intention” for a writing office where I can focus. Good head’s up on getting comfortable with any new space like that. And good reminder on not getting too focused on bumps in the road. Have a great rest of your week!
Thanks J! Yes, I regret to inform you that just building it does not require the muse to visit. I hope you can find a place to achieve the focus you’re looking for. I’m glad you stopped by and enjoyed the post.
“I am just a…” Oh, how that resonates. So much of this speaks to me. Thank you for illuminating some of the reeds and branches in each of our paths. There are so many. As my grandsons often say about their own barriers and obstacles, it’s tricky. xoxo
“It’s tricky.” Sounds familiar. 🙂
Love this post. I get that same restlessness in late winter/spring. And it does make me want to move as well. I’m still writing away, but I feel like I should be doing more.I don’t have the teaching you do to give me that feeling that I’m contributing.
I’d say it’s less ego and more ready for bigger things. But what?
Keep asking that question and I believe the answer will come! Do me a favor, when it comes, let me know what it is.
Glad you enjoyed the post. Good to know I’m not the only permanently restless person out there.