“I don’t feel like writing,” I say to myself — not out loud, of course, that would be weird. It’s just I have moments like this when I have to keep writing even if I don’t want to, you know? Life is not what you feel like doing, it’s about what must be done.
“Must?” something inside me scoffs. “Do you really believe that you ‘must’ fill blank pages with words? Do you honestly think anyone cares?
I have no answer for that. The best I can offer is that since the beginning of time, people have been grasping for meaning, for a sense of understanding why they must do what they are compelled to do, and that occasionally one lifts his eyes from the task at hand and concludes, “Meaningless! Everything is meaningless!” only to discover short time later that there was a divine purpose and a reason after all.
And so I fight through the feeling that it’s all silly and useless, and I keep scrawling words across the page, even if only a handful of people will notice. I do have a sign on the wall that says, “Be silly sometimes,” and so I must do whatI must, even if I suspect it might be silly.
It’s said we perform for an audience of one in the end, anyway, so numbers of readers are meaningless, too, aren’t they? What do you think, God? Are the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart acceptable to you, O Lord? I do want to cultivate the fruit of the Spirit, and not just because it’s right but because of the peace in my soul when I consider what is right and true.
As I was writing these words, dawn became morning, and now it’s closer to the time when I feed the dogs and replenish the bird feeder. And there is a simple purpose in itself: to provide nourishment to those who could use a hand. Oh, these hounds and those dozens of birds could fend for themselves — and the birds do find food and shelter on their own all the time. Still, my hands and hearth can make it a little easier on them, and we taught the dogs to depend on us.
And so I will now stand up and fetch the bag of bird seed I bought yesterday, and then I’ll dole out some vittles from the dog food supply, and the proverbial circle of life turns for another day. I’ve even filled some blank pages after starting with a sense that I had nothing to say and wondering why I felt obligated to try to say anything at all.
I’m not sure I can articulate the purpose I’ve found in all of this, but the words are written, and in a moment the birds and the dogs will be fed. I suspect that’s enough.
