Kind of Tired

I forgot what it was like to feel tired like this. It's the good kind of tired, the kind that happens when you've spent most of your day on your feet teaching and engaging, giving bits of your knowledge and yourself away without any expectation of reciprocity. It's the kind of tired you feel after your body has carried you places you never thought it'd go, muscles feeling that exhausted tight-looseness as you stretch and settle into a chair for the first time in hours. It's the mental quietcalm that comes as you push open the door to your home after a long drive, leaving the rumble of the road for the stillness of being here. It's the slow blink, eyes open then shut for seconds, as you lean into the last sentences of a conversation you don't want to end but can't continue. It's the kind of tired that makes settling in to your bed at the end of the day feel like your wages for the day, letting your mind slip off to sleep unconcerned for tomorrow because you know that you did as much as you could today.

I long for this kind of tired when I don't have it. I'm frustrated by the kind of tired I've been: tired of the election, tired of thinking, tired of being lonely, tired of trying, tired by the mountains we've set before ourselves, tired of the mountains we've brought down upon ourselves, tired of worrying, tired by the things I do to avoid worrying, tired of carrying around the weight of this tiredness. That's the tired that chains you to the bed or to the couch, the kind of tired that makes you ask whether anything would really be any different in the world if you just didn't get up today. This kind of tired claims victory over your crumpled body, crows over your admission of defeat, promises you that you will never stand again because you're incapable. This kind of tired assures you that you are alone, have always been alone, will always be alone, and fantasizes about tomorrow when its mass can press down on you again, cracking your ribs and crushing your windpipe.

I love this time of year, when the air's crisp, wakes you up when you step out the door. I love watching the leaves change. I miss the daylight when it's not there, but I can't say that I mind the extra quality time with the stars. It's been quite the week, between last week's post and a birthday and writing eleven pages and driving to New York City and then Rhode Island, then running a half marathon in the pouring rain, then driving back, returning the rental car, and starting a new job the next day. I've earned my exhaustion. It's good, it's all been good, but it makes me wonder about who I am, who I've been, when the weather isn't kind and my friends aren't around and the days aren't packed. Am I allowed to be displeased with who I am in the desert, even as I live my life in the harvest?

I got ninety million questions about how we move forward as individuals and communities and as a nation. I want to give my life to answering them, to help us all heal from the pain the world's thrown at us. I want each day to end with that good kind of tired.

Let's see what we can do.