Slow Burn

In Autumn, I watch for the slow burn trees, the leaves that turn orange or red low to the ground, then the color eats its way upward, eventually consuming the tree as the lower leaves blow away like cinders. The feast of colors lasts for weeks, even months as there are always more trees to feed its hunger. But the trees are not the only things burning this time of year, as we each turn inward, out of the cold.

I’m reaching a point of becoming frustrated and raw. And not the cool raw, like the kids scream while walking home from school. It’s the bad raw, the sense of being rubbed repeatedly in the same spot until the nerves are exposed. It’s losing the ability to weather the low level annoyances with patience as the pain slowly consumes my brain. It’s the knee jerk responses, the sudden tears, the wincing and bristling to fend off more contact. And it’s a growing realization that adjustments need to be made, that what used to be a small imbalance may eventually turn into a gaping wound.

These days, Sean may still wake me up for feedings, but it is my own mind that keeps me awake for hours, creating whole new worlds in the darkness. Six months ago, when Sean was born, I said that I had no career ambitions, that I was flexible and wanted to just take what life offered me. But now I am kept up at night by my conscious dreams. They are expansive, noble, concrete, and that word I claimed not to be: ambitious. Any one of these fantasies could consume a lifetime to realize and perfect. One is starting a leadership academy to teach young men who have barriers to traditional employment how to start their own businesses. Another is creating a combination GED/adult literacy/Montessori child care program that incorporates family literacy. Of course, I can never forget my lifelong fantasy of becoming an author of internationally renowned and classic literature. The others are much more feasible. But where do Sean and Evan fit into this grand scheme I have designed? These visions are interrupted and interchanged with my lesson plans for home schooling Sean and any other children who come along. I do not believe in reincarnation, but I might sleep better at night if I had the reassurance of more lifetimes to follow.

During the day, I am consumed and largely entertained by my daily tasks: feeding Sean, going to playgroups, making meals, cleaning, registering students for GED class, spending time with Evan, attending community meetings. And while all of these are necessary and fulfilling pursuits, there is still something growing inside me that needs to be vented, some discontent increasing my longing for a different life. I feel guilty for dreaming, and even worse for being frustrated when my daily plans are foiled by Sean’s fussy exhaustion. I ask myself: why are my roles as wife, parent, and community member not enough? Do I not value my own work and place in society? Why must I seek new projects, serving unmet needs, taking leadership roles? Are these just delusions of grandeur, or is this like the fire God placed in Jeremiah’s bones? At an early age, I internalized two important lessons: that there is always injustice to be remedied, and that I can always work more effectively or with more knowledge in any task. So even though doing the daily maintenance caring for Sean, our family, our home, and our community often take up my whole day, my body and mind still pace the dark rooms of our house. Jeremiah was a prophet, and speaking the words allowed him to unburden his soul of its duties. Will writing these words be enough for me? Or am I doomed to share his fate, to feel my bones burn when I am silent, but when I speak to expose myself to greater trials? What will bring me peace? Or have you granted my foolish prayer? “God, my soul will remain restless until it rests in You.”