It has been awhile since I have written.  I have been in the midst of a crazy season at work, which resulted in my taking a (brief) break from writing.  Now, the craziness has subsided and there’s nothing standing in the way of my writing.  Nothing but myself.  And sometimes I am my own biggest distraction.

I don’t know what to write about.  It’s as if all of my ideas have dried up.  I have walked through this before.  I have responded in a variety of ways.  Lately, I have wracked my brain an idea.  Any idea.  Maybe a top ten list on why I hate dating top ten lists (it’s a bit meta, but it could work).  Or perhaps I’ll read a bunch of blogs and get fired up about an issue of injustice.

I feel, at best, apathetic about these options.  I am tired.  And not just in one area of my life, but I feel wholly tired.  I suspect this may be the source of my apathy.  I always struggle to find the balance of rest and laziness.  Sometimes I fear that I will cross the line into the land of laziness.  Almost as if by engaging in rest I’ll suddenly end up like Shaggy from the Scooby Doo – the lovable loser who can be found on the couch, bag of potato chips close by.  These imaginings say more about my own issues than reality.

Yet, being a writer involves actually sitting down and writing.  I know that there is something good about creating – especially on days when the last thing I want to do is write.  I am searching for a middle ground.  I am searching for grace.

So, what does it mean for me to continue writing and yet to receive grace in my tiredness?  I don’t fully know, but I suspect it may involve my allowing myself to write a post like this.  A post that is more meandering.  A post that is honest in ways that feel particularly uncomfortable.  A post that is shorter.  Perhaps next week I will feel inspired.  Maybe I won’t.  But despite my wavering interests and excitement, I chose to continue writing.