I am feeling VERY IMPATIENT this afternoon. I have people I want to talk to and e-mails I want to answer, I reallyreallyreally need to take a shower, there are dirty dishes sitting in my sink at home, and ohhhh man do I want it to be Friday.
Yeesh. I feel antsy in my skin and my desk is a mess and I slunk into Patrick's office because I know he keeps Werther's caramels and I had an impatient hankering for sweetness. He chuckled at me and pulled out the bag. (I took three. I've already vacuumed down two.)
I'm impatient to get to what I imagine will happen when I am able to complete the actions in the first paragraph: I'll get advice, more information, closure... I'll feel nice and showery soapishly clean so I can go to Erin's improv show tonight... My kitchen will be much more usable (I love dishwashing, it's always been my favorite chore, right there with weeding - both are so therapeutic!)... And Friday (which I cannot control, silly me, which arrives of its own accord) means welcoming in the weekend: seeing my love, eating chicken pie and picking out Charlotte city landmarks on Homeland.
(I have slowly started to unwrap my third Werther's. I love how the gold wrapping crinkles. I can smell the aching syrupy sweetness.)
I am IMPATIENT. I want to KNOW THINGS and DO THINGS that will somehow move me from Point A to Point B, even if it is a teensy tiny miniscule hop from here to there. What is it with us wanting, needing to move forward All The Time? I mean, I'm right there with you, I hop skip and jump as much as anyone - but I'm also just wondering why.
(I can now fully see the caramel, lying in its open wrapper. It's so round and shimmery golden perfect.)
Right now, it feels like if I get to all of these items on my to-do list, if I "solve" them, if you will, then I will feel much better than I do right now. My legs are crossed tightly, I keep staring out the window into the thick gray clouds. I hear bells pealing under my computer's drone.
(I have officially picked up the caramel. I feel its slight stickiness. I drop it on the table. It sounds like a clattering coin.)
All of these thoughts and things and items will come and go with time and fade out of my consciousness pretty quickly, I know - and then a whole new bumper crop of them will burst forth. Ugh. It's my brain, my big brassy brain riddled with anxiety that I cling to like a twisted badge of honor, faulty proof that I've got it all under control. "Look! I've thought of THIS horrible outcome! If it happens, I'll be ready! Ha HA, universe!"
(All right, final caramel is en route to being eaten. Yum.)
Peace be within thy walls. I know the writer of Psalm 122 is talking about Jerusalem (still so relevant), but this Thursday afternoon, the fifth day of Advent, I claim it for myself, too, for all of us. May my walls, my skin and bones and breath and most of all my brain, that mystical instrument that takes in and believes and gives out and affects and plans, sometimes too much too much too much - may these walls that build me up be peace-filled. Enthusiastic but unhurried. Strong but restful. Courageous but trusting.
God, help me to switch off my insane brain and move forward step by step. Walk with me.