I find myself with an unexpected chunk of time devoted to absolutely nothing, and coincidentally, I also have a few thoughts rattling about in my head. Here they are, in no particular order and of no particular importance:
- T. S. Eliot had a good understanding of acedia. “And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! / Smoothed by long fingers, / Asleep…tired…or it malingers, / Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.” (from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)
- Preschool kids have a delightful (and terrifying) ability to unquestioningly absorb whatever I tell them and spit it back at me in unexpected ways. One takes one’s life in one’s hands when one asks for a preschooler’s opinion about God. I try not to do this if upright and holy old people are near.
- Pop music has an absurdly colossal capacity for the inane and mundane. My most-loathed song has a refrain that runs something like this: I wanna love somebody, I wanna love someone tonight. I wanna love somebody, I wanna love someone tonight… (Repeat ad nauseum.) Unfortunately, the more brainless or silly the song is, the catchier the tune seems to be. I come home from work humming mind-numbing twaddle thanks to our local radio station. Any suggestions for music by artists that make thoughtful music? I need someone besides U2 to listen to.
- My brain is starving. I haven’t had time to read anything stimulating, and as satisfying as artsy endeavors are, they leave a certain portion of my mind unfulfilled.
- This week was a difficult one. I struggled, all week, with the temptation to uncaring boredom. Consequently I’ve worried about why acedia has been affecting me so deeply, if my medication has stopped working, or if I’ve suddenly morphed into a ‘bad’ person. And this insidious whisper comes: Perhaps my husband is the root of it all. Yes. That’s it. Thankfully my dear friend caught an off-hand comment I made about sleeping poorly all week and stopped me rudely. “You’re not angst-ridden. You’re sleep-deprived!” she said baldly. And there went all my aspirations towards becoming the next Lord Byron. So today I have been almost sickeningly cheerful. There will be no fame for me, but at least I’m happy again.
- Thanks must go to my long-suffering husband. The whiplash he must get from my overnight change from anxious, snappish, and moody romantic to bouncy, cheerful, mild-tempered practicality!