I know my soul is exhausted when I’m on the cusp of something tremendously obvious, thinking I’m onto something startlingly original.
When my spirit is flat my thoughts are a naked man in a trench coat. In a flash they’re over and done with. Leaving nothing surprising or shocking–just silly and puerile and pitiable.
When my spirit is flagging sometimes the only remedy is the feeling of having all the time in the world. The feeling of open afternoons and eternal weekends.
There is only so much deconstruction and exhaustion tolerable. Only so long that time can be choked off. But construction, creativity, active and holy longing do not have limits. They cannot be exhausted. Cannot stop reviving things around them.
To know this, in the fog of the moors is to still be alive to possibility. To know, as I’ve just read, that God is sheer joy and that she made the world because sheer joy demands company (Aquinas) is to sense the blue heavens above the indefinite grey.
To know that God desires to sip hot Java from a paper cup with me across the table is to have time curve away from every clenching immediacy, and be.