A Discipline

My thoughts are scattershot right now, puncturing here, glancing off there, not really going anywhere. Not collected or concentrated enough to have proper depth.

But, as we all know, writing is far more about discipline than inspiration, so here I am writing a blog post in the manner that one must fold laundry or do the dishes: regularly, often relentlessly, and sometimes with slight frustration.

My thoughts skitter to this book process: soon I will upload to the publishing platform. Soon after that, share the book cover, sending off this lovely thing into a sea of other lovely things, hoping it keeps it’s head above water. Then I’ll share the map which, frankly, is a gorgeous thing for its more real-world and less fantasy-like look. Then I’ll try to get my book into the hands of people I hope will love it so they will tell about it to others they think will love it and so on.

Then it will publish some time in May, perhaps only to the awkward, scattered clapping provided by the hands of friends and family. Perhaps a bit more than that. No guarantees. But I’ll keep working away on Books 2 and 3, lovingly crafting them so that they too can have that chance to stand or fall.

My thoughts float over to Jiu Jitsu. I have a competition in two weeks. I love competing. I hate competing. But also, I love competing. The week leading up to it is the worst. The nervousness becomes pervasive and distracting. I tell myself stories about Gladys Aylward and Corrie Ten Boom. Why should I be scared of this little VOLUNTARY competition when people out there have risked and lost their lives for others. If I can’t face this tiny, “eensie-beensie” (as my 3-year-old girl likes to say) challenge that I personally chose, how will I ever face a deep moral or physical challenge that is thrust upon me? Buck up and fight. Get in there and do the thing.

Now comes the thought of Lent. Musing on the importance of fasting, the underlying significance of deprivation. How does this draw our eyes to charity? What are we to learn from this? What does a physical discipline tell us about God? How can you even know what joy a feast can be if you did not have to wait for it, prepare for it, save yourself for it? It is sometimes tricky to be a regular work-a-day protestant, where you respect the traditions of the church, but lack the officialdom that assures you that you must do it one very specific way or the other.

Now my oldest is sitting next to me, watching me write, and I think I should wrap this up. Because the other thought that plagues me of late–or convicts me, rather–is that I have been too distracted. Not present enough to those around me.

So that’s it for today.