At about the age I am now, Ives has lost the drive he once had as a young advertising executive. He has made his mark in the professional world, and he no longer has to prove himself on a daily basis. Ives has made "it," whatever "it" may be. Now, he is considered a member of the old school in his place of employment, with newer, younger artists hungry to take his place. Ives is getting tired of the daily grind.
And, yes, today I am tired of the daily grind. I've been working since 6 a.m. I've taught two classes, registered close to 70 patients, attended a meeting for the university's literary magazine, and spent my entire evening on lesson plans and schoolwork. I am beat. Tired. Exhausted. Grumpy. Hungry. Short-tempered. Uninspired.
I am waiting for my energy and enthusiasm for work to return. I am waiting for the sadness to dissipate even a little. For weeks, I haven't felt normal, and I want to feel normal again. Until it does, I will be dragging myself through my days, finding inspiration wherever I can.
This morning, I saw the aurora borealis in great green sheets over a lake. That inspired me. Tonight, when I put my son to bed, he hugged me hard, told me that I was a great daddy. That inspired me. Judith Minty's poems inspire me.
Saint Marty is tired of the daily grind.
by: Judith Minty
When I lived along the coast, starlings filled my lawn.
Shrieking, the black cloud descended,
then lifted as if to shake loose the frenzy,
then lit again to pierce the soil.
They bickered and pecked in a wildness magnified by numbers, then
glinting sparks, they rose,
swarmed sideways to my neighbor's yard,
rapacious voices never ceasing, no time left for breath.
|Yup, that's inspiring|