It’s Tuesday. Not a holiday, just another day. I’m starting to see a pattern in my life. I think Tuesday’s come with a semi-mandatory case of the “Blah’s.” Or at least today did. Maybe it’s the gray skies, which I am completely unwilling to accept. Seriously. Today my kids and I rode bikes in the rain to school. While they were dressed weather appropriately, I happily wore flip-flops and shorts hoping denial would remedy the drizzle. It didn’t. The rain continued on. And so will this post…
“Tuesday has no feel. Monday has a feel. Friday has a feel. Sunday has a feel.” -Newman, from the show Seinfeld.
I’m a huge Seinfeld fan. God made me that way, I will never apologize for it. It’s just who I am. And it’s because of this fact that I’ve found myself saying throughout the years that everything in life can be related to an episode of the show. So, to further prove my theory, I had to use that quote. Even though I actually disagree, and not just because Newman was never a favored character of mine on the show. I just think Tuesday always hits me like a ton of bricks. And not the foam kind that create a bit of slapstick comedic relief.
Monday’s are always busy for me. They’re my catch-up days. The day when I attack all that has been left in disarray from the weekend. When I finally go grocery shopping. When I realize I didn’t pay bills that are due because I made a whole new filing system last Monday and misplaced the priority invoices. They’re the days when I try to pen my thoughts from the weekend. Monday’s are when I finally get to have in-depth conversations with my dog about his lack of patriotism. He’s still seems to struggle with being an American.
Tuesdays? They’re the day when the rhythm of life slows down. Maybe my house is clean enough I can relax, or I just don’t care. It’s when I feel like I can breathe, and think. And though I try not to leave too much room for contemplating life and its intricacies, it always seems to happen that way. It’s the day when I listen to music and find myself becoming more inspired to play, yet can’t find my song. It’s the day when I see art and want to create, but crumble my work and dispose of it immediately after its creation. It’s the day when I read others words, and can’t write my own. It’s the day I put my fingers to the guitar strings or take hold of the drum sticks and long to create my own sounds…but find myself playing someone else’s melody. In the busyness of life, have I lost my creative voice? Have I forgotten how to embrace my artistry, and let it flow unfiltered until it becomes clear again? Have I lost who I was created to be? Am I emo?! God forbid!
See, I’m inspired but feel inferior. I desire to create, but almost self-destruct in the process. I try… and I fail. I guess that’s just life, at least on Tuesdays. I try not to compare my talent to others, as I know God has all gifted us differently. But dang it, some days I really wish I could drum like… well, lots of other inspiring musicians. Or paint like I had 1/10,000 of the talent that Van Gogh possessed. Or write like Poe. Or make boogers sound interesting, like only Dave Barry can. Or if nothing else be less critical of who I am. It’s a process I’m working through when I have to, which is most often only on Tuesdays (wow, I need to work on my denial, huh?).
I know, it’s not hopeless. I’m not hopeless. It’s just an unintentional, regularly scheduled weekly session of experiencing a dry season…that occassionally lasts longer than the allotted 24 hours. If I’m being honest, I’d say this drought has lasted months. It makes me think of the book of Ecclesiastes in the Bible, Chapter 3. And no, I’m not going to reference the verse that says everything is meaningless. The chapter starts out saying-
“There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under the heavens”
Further down the chapter, it includes a time to be silent. Which makes me think, is this my time to be silent?
Sometimes it’s hard to understand that life has its rhythms. It has its seasons. There really is a time for everything. Maybe it’s not that I’ve lost what was given to me. Maybe I haven’t grown stagnant and out of touch with my creativeness so much as I need to practice patience. Practice waiting. Practice silence. Maybe this is just a dry season in life. And seasons eventually change. I’m not really sure, as only God knows what the whole picture looks like. I guess until I leave the desert, I’ll have to deal with today, which is still Tuesday, and try to keep in mind one thing… Wednesday is coming.
And Wednesday? It has no feel.
Ever get to this place? Does it happen to you on Tuesday’s?