There has to be some value in flailing. Some method to the madness that can be all-consuming and far from navigable. Some purpose in idleness, some significance to spinning in the mud. Perhaps it is a lesson in humility, a tutorial in patience and optimism. Some days the flailing is an impetus for crucial reflection – a slippery slope that can turn dangerously south without conscious direction. More than a bruise to my ego, there is value to be had in the puddle boots and cups of coffee that are required to endure these passing periods. No matter how infuriating and belittling, I have to believe there is some benefit to be ascertained in the interim created by confusion. In the space between purpose and potential, I have to hope that there is something to be gained.
But the distance demanded by these perspectives is nearly impossible to grasp from the eye of a storm or the void of a vacuum. So flailing usually just feels like flailing – all icky and unproductive and stuck – I have to be able to pull myself out, or I have to at least know how whether I am able to or not.
If there is grace to be had in the calm acquiescence to floundering, there is infinite value in stillness. To be acutely familiar with my own recipe for steadiness and to love and be loved by somebody who creates the space for that concoction is one of my greatest blessings. It’s rubber boots on a rainy night, a cozy restaurant and a big fire, a page to be read or written, an overstuffed couch to collapse on and a friend to fall into. Lucky me. And all of it falling out of flailing.
“….so let’s turn to the west and let’s turn up the music and let’s hope it’s always as good as this…” – Chris Pureka