It’s two weeks into vacation and I’m finally going to say it: I’m bored.

I have a list of projects to tackle, and ample books, and a car, and, oh yeah, the Internet. But boredom is clever and can slip through the cracks. It settles thick on your chest and rattles your ribs. As I think about each of things I know I love doing, all I am meeting is a big wall of resistance. You know how Wile E. Coyote winds himself up, ready to finally catch Roadrunner, and then hits a wall? Or falls off a cliff? That’s how I’m feeling.

Each of these words feels so heavy to type. The words in my books seem foreign. I’d love to write poetry but I have less than nothing in the tank. There’s not even any sunshine to nap in! I can’t even be productively bored. But I suppose that’s the point sometimes.

“Neither I nor the poets I love found the keys to the kingdom of prayer and we cannot force God to stumble over us where we sit. But I know that it’s a good idea to sit anyway. So every morning I sit, I kneel, waiting, making friends with the habit of listening, hoping that I’m being listened to. There, I greet God in my own disorder.” – Padraig O Tuama


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