Stuck
Lately, I’ve been feeling stuck.
I’m no stranger to this feeling.
In fact, while undiagnosed, I’ve always been claustrophobic. I never threw a tantrum as a child quite like the tantrum I threw if I was pinned or trapped underneath a blanket.
I’ve always needed a clear path out of the place I was in.
And for the first time in my life—now that I’m in my late 30s with 3 kids and 1 career—there just isn’t any way out.
In fact, you could argue, in looking at my life, that I’ve already been here about 12 years or so, ever since my first year teaching. I’ve stayed at the same school. I’ve even taught one class, American Literature, each year. But what is different now than in those earlier years?
The opportunity to leave.
This is the first spring that I won’t be scanning job markets for teaching work in New England and Idaho. I got my undergraduate degree in New Hampshire and my masters in Idaho, and a part of me always wanted to return to those beautiful areas of our nation.
Thoughts of migrating the family no longer bear validity. My older two are in a great school environment; my youngest is at a loving family day care. Both my wife and I love what we do and where we live. What is so difficult about this equation?
I hate feeling stuck.
This could explain why I’ve never really settled into things. I’m always on some crusade like writing a novel or launching a newspaper. I’ve written at length on this very blog that I don’t idle well. And I’ve also written at more length about enjoying and appreciating the spoils of idleness. It might be this exact contradiction that keeps this blog and its restless narrator in circulation. It is wanting what I have in spite of myself.
And when I stop to take stock of my life, I appreciate the multitude of gifts and blessings. I respect the people who have led me to this place of rich predictability. I honor the amazing journey of sobriety by keeping sober. And I value the little things in life by writing about them.
But I struggle.
The onset of symptoms of depression for me include this contracted sense of life. My achievements shrink. The salt of my sweat and tears begin to lose their savor. I often need great possibility to re-emerge in order to bring me out of this certain paralytic stasis. In the pandemic alone, I memorized Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, passed the road test to ride a motorcycle, and launched our city’s newspaper. Can’t this be enough for me to rest on a laurel or two?
Apparently it can’t. I’ve since been taking the bait on every writing contest that fills my inbox. I dusted off some old short stories and threw them into a collection to win possible publication. I told myself that I have to self-publish a book version of this blog by summer.
Why?
The most frequent grievance I’ve shared at meetings lately is how tired I am of having to do so much work just to feel normal. (Because I don’t like to suggest problems without solutions—I’d like to add that my response to this grievance is almost always gratitude—think of how miserable I was drinking, drugging, and living only for myself!) Sitting still is a lot more work than getting out and working, as it turns out.
My present task is this: change what it means to be stuck.
A garden analogy comes to mind.
I think Jesus spoke of seeds so often because there is nothing more analogous to the human condition. He could have used working analogies with the trades—mercantilism, carpentry, weaving—and those analogies would have also stood the test of time. But he chose to use seeds and soil. Why?
I venture it is because seeds aren’t stuck. Seeds are planted.
There’s a big difference.
Seeds know the dark nature of growth. Growth requires that great potential energy of idleness. Patience sprouts roots. It needs the help of sun and water. But it does not require much else. And when I think of my life and how sedentary it has become, I wonder why I am reluctant to acknowledge that I am planted, not stuck.
I did not choose my place of employment. It chose me.
I did not choose to have a family. My family was a gift.
I did not even choose to be me. For the majority of my life, I would have wished I were someone else.
There is no evidence that anything consequential in my life is the result of my doing. So why on earth do I continue to believe this life is about me? For it’s not about the seed, as Jesus said. It’s about where the seed is planted.
The egoist in me (my ego is painfully large, if you haven’t noticed) hates to relinquish control like this. If my mind tells me anything. It tells me that I need agency. I need control. I need to know the way out. If I am stuck, I need to move.
But that selfish reflex has not bore any fruit. It truly hasn’t. The fruits of my life have all been the result of more time-tested measures: faith, patience, trust. These are the rudiments of true growth. And while I know this, knowing this does not relieve me from my mind’s desire to mess with those ancient measures: to expedite this, to shortcut that.
Being planted means growth is beyond agency. Growth is in the external factors that allow it; not in the growth itself. And this realization should be freeing—the sort of truth that Jesus said can free a man like me. I am not responsible for the fruits of this tree. I only need tend its soil. They will flower with or without my meddling.
And for that, I should be grateful. And when I am not, I only need remember that my best ideas landed me in felt slippers and a cheap blue robe, waiting for the Abilify to kick in.
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Thanks, beautiful.
I had to learn to love “choosing” my harness.
I so get this! Great writing.
Thank you for posting about being stuck. That is a topic dear to my heart. Are we stuck or planted? The Bible says, “They will know you by your fruit.” I was listening to a meditation after reading your post and was reminded that fruit grows at the end of the branches. So Mark, sometimes we have to crawl out on a limb. I wanted to make you aware of something I saw after reading your post in the WordPress Reader. There was no way to leave a comment in Reader. Only by coming to your actual site was I able to. Just thought you should know.
Thank you for letting me know, Barbara!
Gah! I wish I was savy on these issues. I’m so afraid that in trying to solve that problem, I’ll screw up the whole site. That sort of thing has happened before. But if I can find an easy way to solve that, I’ll be sure too!
Mark
“Suffering is the result of resisting what is” Unknown “Growth doesn’t happen in my comfort zone” Unknown
“….I only need remember that my best ideas landed me in felt slippers and a cheap blue robe, waiting for the Abilify to kick in.” Yes, absolutely- all my own efforts and pursuits have led to nothing but sorrow and destruction. The “gifts” in my life, every one of ’em, came in the form of things I never wanted. Once my kicking and screaming settled down I realized how these very things became blessings. Hate to think of all the blessings I let pass me by…..
Great subject, Mark! Wonderfully expressed as always.
Appreciate that, Liz. Good to drop in on your blog, too. As you put: Thanks to be God!
Michael J. Fox wisely said, “Gratitude makes optimism sustainable.” Hang on to your gratitude and remember that you alone have maintained your sobriety, which makes all the other things is your life possible.
Love that quote. Thank you for adding to the wisdom of this post!
Hi Mark!
I can so relate!
I feel stuck, myself, as having to suddenly be caretaker to my 95 year old mom.
Yet, I’m grateful she is in a wonderful assisted living home, and happy.
Hugs!
xo
Wendy
Wow! What a great service. But, man oh man, I can imagine it’s pretty frustrating at times. Talk about patience. Nice to hear from you, Wendy.
The gift of idling. Something to think about. The ability to “just be” is learned, I think. Beyond being in a moment but letting contentment latch your door is another level. Love your posts, Mark!
It’s nice to hear from you, Cherie. It’s always good too, to get your posts. And drop in on your blog to read what’s new.
Hi Mark.. Good read for me thanks.
Hospice came calling the other day. Not wanting to open the door I sat quietly behind it hiding really, hoping they would leave. I was afraid, confined . My wide open world was now small. I struggled to breathe as if I had no air of my own.
Hospice told tales of the end of days for people who I relied on for emotional security. This was their fault.. all of it. They were stealing from me! What would I do now? What if it’s true and this news is real, they were not going to stay. They couldn’t stay even if they wanted? They would leave me forever? I began to pray. Right or wrong reasons mattered little. The surrender was needed and wanted.
As we sat bedside and talked of peace, our love flowed freely through our lives. It was no longer about me. We moved past the emotional upheaval, past the noise in the hall, the fading flowers bedside and stale cookie.
The hour was late and medication strong. The look of suffering had gone. As the breath of life became shallow and did stop it was our breath offered now that will carry the Spirit forever. We offered ourselves. The burden of life was removed..
A gift really. To be offered the responsibility of another’s life. To bring them with you as you yourself walk the Spiritual path. An open hand for as many days to come for you and yours to be shared.
Willingness is my key to Spiritual strength. Humility is in my learning to give freely. Freedom is giving away what has been offered to me without expectation. I had surrendered, then I knew.
Sherp – Wow. Just Wow.
This comment touches me, in particular, having recently gone through my father-in-law’s hospice experience.
It is amazing how life finds away to cut through all the crap and lay itself bare. The hard part is seeing it for what it is and giving it the reverence it deserves.
Thank you for doing that here, on this page, for now.
Mark
awestruck… amazing and beautiful site. i can only hope to model you. thank you for your hard work and inspiration. kw
Thank you, Keenya, for that. It means a lot to me ot hear from you. It is hard work, that’s true!