Running Out Of Gas

 

I remember when I had faith.   

But I cannot pinpoint as clearly in my memories when I lost it.   

I don’t guess that’s necessary though.  Except that maybe there would be some crumbs to figure my way from here—back to faith or else wherever I’m s’posed to be. 

Now don’t get me wrong: I still believe in ideals; I just don’t trust them to be approached much less achieved in the span of my lifetime nor in the path of my vision. 

Which makes me the worst kind of dreamer: I imagine the possibilities; trust their possible-ness, and will work toward them—with the sort of doomsday-ness that is “keeping it real.”  See, ‘cause “keeping it real” demands the kind of groundedness that can keep you, well, grounded. 

I dreamt I was skydiving last night.  I don’t remember the details of the dream, really, just that I was flying through the air and enjoying the quiet that is up there and the beauty of the world below from a perspective that makes it seem small and undaunting, slow moving and peaceful. The landing is chaotic if you aren’t prepared with feet out, butt preparing to skid a little in the landing.  And lately, I guess, I’m landing. 

In the matter of two weeks this past summer, D, mother of a 3 and 14 year old, was diagnosed with a degenerative disease; pregnant W’s husband was deployed to Iraq; my electricity did not stay on for one full consecutive week relegating the entire contents of my fridge to mush; my job search yielded job opportunities that are essentially pimp-ho operations—and I was not the pimp; in fact I’m on the track for one of them right now; R’s husband, on the other hand, was willfully unemployed and they were struggling to make ends meet…these were just people in my immediate circle not some folks I danced with on Wednesday nights.  Or the nameless folks who showed up at the temp job I was working then.  These are people I love and care about and who, at the very least pretend very well to, feel the same about me.  They’re good people: generous, funny, faithful and loyal.  And they call me the dreamer… 

It’s clear, whether myth or historically accurate, that dude Job (in the Bible) had something I do not. 

Because though the last two weeks have not been as markedly severe I am not feeling pleased as punch with the Universe right now.  Or willing to expect, dream, imagine it to become pleasing. 

I can be like Job in this regard: I’ll roll with the punches.  But our fundamental split: I won’t likely be saying thank you for them anytime soon. 

No sermonizing necessary folks, please save your well meaning directives.  This is part of the journey, no?  The part like the maze that is a subdivision.  Like today’s Winterarthur Lane or was it Circle?  All my mapquested directions said was “Winterarthur.”  Sometimes you gotta follow it out to the end.  You might discover you’re on the right path; you might have to turn around.  But eventually you’ll find your way.  If you don’t run out of gas first…