Is life eluding me, or am I eluding life?

Yesterday I finally went for a walk again.  Still alive, eh?

The temperature was -15 for a painful string of days.  I don't like this kind of cold.  My friend and I walked at the mall.  I'm officially old now, I guess: a mallwalker.  In my defense, I never did like being outside when it was cold.  I hated walking to school as a child, my fingers and toes aching with chill.

During elementary school, one year I had a teacher who assigned extremely lengthy handwriting practice drills.  I think he wanted us to copy over the page in the handwriting book about 30 times, or possibly more.  To me, that was simply unthinkable.  Although I was, in general, a compliant student, the overwhelmedness I felt as I stared down those vast handwriting assignments was paralyzing.  I could not make myself dig in and do so many repetitions.  Upon failing to complete the work, I was at first tremulous and fearful about what consequence I would face. 

However, I discovered that the consequence was to stay indoors at recess time.  Yes.  Staying indoors during recess was the consequence.

Since this was winter in Minnesota, I could barely believe my good fortune.  I had found a way to escape the bitter cold winds on the playground, the awkwardness of trying to find a social circle to fit into, the boredom of waiting for a turn on a swing, the violence of playground rugby matches, the humiliation of being unathletic, the hard work of suiting up in winter outerwear before going out, and the snow-melting sogginess of coming in and stripping off winter outerwear amidst a crush of other children all pushing for space and a dry place to step whilst transitioning from boots to shoes.  I sat at my desk in my classroom, free-drawing, creative writing, laughing and joking with the other rebels who also had their recess privileges revoked.  We were warm.  We were happy.  We were even unsupervised.  And our socks were dry.

I never did a handwriting assignment again.

This is just to assuage my fear that I am getting old because I walk at the mall and not outside.  Honestly, no sane person would walk outside on slick, snowy roads in -15 degrees.

I am only halfway south.  I lived in Minnesota for 22 years and in New York for 25 years.  Then I moved south to central Illinois, but clearly, this year is proving that I have not moved far enough south.

These days are so weird, these present days.  Lupus saps my energy, but I have very little to do.  I read my Bible and pray about the things that worry me.  I complete my lessons for Bible Study Fellowship (BSF).  I try to write, but lack energy and inspiration.  I take the dog out, make the bed, usually make dinner.  I shop for groceries and do laundry.  I go for walks and shoot texts to my kids in hopes of a response.  I scrub lime off bathroom faucets and try to get spots out of the carpet here and there.  I search the internet for answers to random questions that arise in my mind, but I'm getting gun-shy about that, because I can tell someone is tracking my rabbit trails, based on targeted advertisements I later receive.

One thing is certain.  I am not busy.  Nope.  Not busy.  This is not a busy season.  It has been a season of listening and seeking, and trying to be patient, trying to trust God that He does have a plan for my life.  Also, it's a time of trying not to let my bewilderment about what to do with myself result in inappropriate meddling.  I think I wish I had a job to do, but I'm afraid to say so.  Probably, I'm afraid I'll be given a job I don't like.  Perhaps God is waiting for me to come to the point where I want a job so badly, I won't complain about what job I get, I'll just be thankful.  It's nice to be thankful.

Today it is 15 degrees above zero, rather than 15 degrees below zero.  This is a definite improvement, although it comes with a flurry of snowflakes (not a ton of them, but enough to make the air blurry outside my windows, and turn the blue sky a dull white).

Shawn works at home in the mornings.  He gets up and feeds the dog and makes coffee, bringing two mugs up to the bedroom where we sit sipping together while he takes stock of his upcoming day and answers the emails that have come in during the night.  Then he goes into his study and works for a few hours while I bomb around looking for something meaningful to do.  Just before lunchtime, he packs up his computer and a sandwich so he can leave, and I say, "Don't forget to come home, 'kay?"  And then I am alone and ought to write my novel, except that it died inside me about five years ago, give or take two or three years.

Darkness falls so early these days.  We're past the winter solstice, so the days should be lengthening, but they are still remarkably short.  It makes me wonder what kind of time I have left, time to do something with my life, time to love my kids, time to make a difference.

I should pack up Christmas, but it's still nice to be able to turn the tree lights on at 4:00 when the sun goes away.