I fear to write anything because doubt plagues my every thought. Call it a perpetual existential crisis. Call it being addicted to futility of thought. Whatever the name for this state shall be, one thing is certain: reality is bigger than my mind and the relations between them oscillate from gentle love to vicious rape.
My battle in life seems to be contained in this so-called crisis. Struggling to land on the Rock, and find myself therein. The digging only stops when I choose the bedrock that Jesus is. The mystery doesn't cease but the threat of it does.
The "digging" usually centers around my motives; scrutinizing my true heart and grasping for the bottom of it. It usually proves to be a maze that grows in correlating spurts to my effort. The rest comes when I throw my hands up and scream for rescue.
The easiest thing in life is to be still. The only problem is that it is against our nature entirely. Ironic, how frantic effort leads to dysfuntion, stress, guilt and futility and faithful stillness leads to ease, peace, inspiration and accomplishment.
I think I may tattoo that to the back of my eyelids.