Tonight I must be breathing nostalgia instead of oxygen. I feel it in my skin. It’s a night for old letters, strong music and a good cup of tea. Earl Grey will do and I think Cy Coleman has a map to my heart:
“I’m sentimental so I walk in the rain. /I’ve got some habits even I can’t explain. /Could start for the corner- turn up in Spain. /Why try to change me now?”
I still need to pack for school. My room upstairs is a mess. Emily and I went to dinner then did a little shopping earlier, and now I don’t have any energy to walk up the stairs and put my life in a duffel bag. I know it is necessary, but it feels like turning off the heat: without my jewelry scattered across the room it will be cold. I guess I will put on slippers.
Today I went on a run and realized, about two thirds of the way through, that I don’t know what pain is. I was tired, sure, but I could keep going. Endurance is a choice. I was moving (slowly) towards a hill that before my eyes became the rest of my life. I knew at the end there would be reward, but I also knew that I shouldn’t ignore the journey and all the pain and satisfaction that accompany it. Life itself is a choice. Is that theologically correct?
Oh goodness, I want to write songs that make me feel the way I am feeling right now. I want to write poetry that glorifies God. 10,000 hours of writing? That is the key, isn’t it? If you want to be good at something the way that Bill Gates is good at computers, the answer is 10,000 hours. Tipping Point is the name of the book that tells this story, I think.
Oh gracious, what is it that my heart is missing? I think I will go take a dip in the Psalms. All the nostalgia is making my skin dry.
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