Breathing and Disbelieving

I understand that life moves in seasons. But, I quickly moved from a vibrant, colorful summer into what feels like a very long winter, with no sign of a thaw in the next few months. I understand that I am learning, but it feels very monotonous sometimes. In comparison to the fast paced, ever fluctuating experiences I had last year, I'm stuck in a bit of a rut where I'm at right now. I can't deny that I've changed, and I've progressed in achieving my goals, but discouragement has never ceased to hold my hand. A friend said a beautiful thing to me the other day, and it was so simple. As I relapsed into complaining about my oh-so-difficult life, he said to me nonchalantly,

"You're not being unproductive, you're just taking a breather."

After a year of hyperventilation and severe oxygen deprivation, this season has provided the rest and rehabilitation I need. The stress I feel in my lungs is only building strength. I will run again. And as much as I feel at times that God wants to see me miserable, I also know that my own assumptions about His motives have always been disproved by my experience of His grace. I was listening to a song, and the simplicity of this statement spoke volumes to my perspective on my current state of following God's will:

"If you believe me, it means you have to disbelieve yourself."

At first I thought that was really stupid. But I realized that all too often I value my bold opinions over God's merciful whispers. I've got to learn to disbelieve myself sometimes in order to grasp a vision that is bigger than the parameters of my theories.

As usual, Jack Kerouac has echoed my life in his writing. My memories often resonate with his passages and observations on life. In his book the Big Sur, Kerouac describes his beatnik friends all living together in a flat in Frisco. It was like looking into a mirror of my partners in crime in Roxburgh Place. We lived like the moment was all we had, like the bottle would disintegrate were it not consumed immediately, like sunrise and sunset were inconsequential to our actions. The road came at us.

"It's a wonderful place but at the same time a little maddening, in fact a whole lot maddening... and at night there are bottlecrashing parties usually supervised by wild Pascal who is a sweet kid but crazy when he drinks... the kitchen was also the main talking room where everybody sat in a clutter of dishes and ashtrays and all kinds of visitors came-...the phone rang consistently- even wild hepcats from around the corner came in with bottles... there was Zen, jazz, booze, pot and all the works but it was somehow obviated (as a supposedly degenerate idea) by the sight of a 'beatnik' carefully painting the wall of his room."

As the dripping blue spray-paint on the wall in my brother's Brooklyn apartment reads "Look at us, young Bohemians just trying to find our way in the world." And so we do.