Present Over Perfect

voice that tells me to hustle can find a to-do list in my living
room as easily as it can in an office. It’s not about paid
employment. It’s about trusting that the hustle will never
make you feel the way you want to feel. In that way, it’s a
drug, and I fall for the initial rush every time: if I push
enough, I will feel whole. I will feel proud, I will feel happy.
What I feel, though, is exhausted and resentful, but with
well-organized closets.
Who told me that keeping everything organized would
deliver happiness? What a weird prescription for happiness.
Why do I think managing our possessions is a meaningful
way of spending my time? Why do I think clean countertops
means anything at all? Well, certainly, my Dutch roots
might have something to do with it, and my Midwestern
upbringing.
And I know that activity—any activity—keeps me from
feeling, so that becomes a drug, too. I’ll run circles around
this house, folding clothes and closing cabinets, sweeping
and tending to things, never allowing myself to feel the
cavernous ache.
Which brings us, literally, to the heart of the
conversation: the heart, the cavernous ache. Am I loved?
Does someone see me? Do I matter? Am I safe?
For most of my life, I’ve answered these questions with
theological abstractions, and then filled up any remaining
uncertainty with noise and motion and experiences. In my
teens and early twenties, this was mostly road trips and
closing down bars and kissing and all manner of adventures.