Self Awareness, on Work, on Serving
It usually starts with a prayer, and then some hope.
Feb 29, 2004
1115 pm
I find it hard to write. I have lost practice. My mind is rusty, my hands suddenly unfamiliar to write what my mouth wishes to speak to you. The flashes of brilliance, the light continually present – both seem to have dimmed.
Habit. Deed. I have not done much that I’ve been proud of. In fact, in all honesty I might have remained emotionally stagnant, or perhaps even retrogressed.
I have reached the bottom the past few years. I have made many, many mistakes. I have not grown to be a friend to myself, and maybe even to others.
My spiritual growth has slowed down. I have less felt yearning for You, O Jesus, now that I feel somewhat hollow.
So many things have changed. Perhaps it is not right to say that I’ve progressed so little. I think You have been instrumental in inspiring the knowledge of myself I know have: knowledge that I am not sure I would have had had you not led me to where I’ve been for the last couple of years: at work. The degree of self-awareness I now possess is great indeed: I know so much more of my motivations, my inner desires, my passions, my follies, my weaknesses than ever before. Yet still so much remains shrouded in mystery. So much remains silent and dark. Still so much has been given light.
I can now honestly say I understand what motivates me, and what does not. I can now tell what I care about, what I intend to dedicate my life to, how much I love. I understand who I am relative to my desires and my passions – how I am ruled by them, and how I can only truly be myself if I respect them.
I understand that my life has to be dedicated more to service than to self-gain. I do not understand why this is so but I realize that it must be so. I have enough self-knowledge—most especially over the last four years, beginning in third year college—to understand that the desires of my heart come before any decisions of my mind regarding preserving myself and my interest. A part of me was saddened before by this realization—I no longer can unflinchingly run after my dreams of extremely ostentatious material gain with regard for nothing else—yet a larger part was gladdened. Liberated, in fact, was my feeling. I understood finally that while both were important to me, one was more crucially linked to my happiness. Therefore priorities were set. Realizations were made. Decisions allowed to help order my life.
And now I embark upon something new. Yes I am afraid. I am scared. And a part of me remains needful of the material affirmation I know the path I’ve left will give. Yet I have profound sense of peace. A quiet faith in the life I will lead ahead. A belief in the rightness of my choice. I feel peace. Like a lover sure of the love of his woman. Or of a son whose hand tightly grips that of his father’s in a busy urban street.
Suddenly I realize that a while ago I had nothing to write about. But now I have so many. I was scared that the silence and quiet of heart and mind that I needed to be inspired to write truthfully would be difficult to coerce back into myself. Now I feel thankful that they came to rest on me so quickly and so peacefully. I am now in more familiar territory. In a place I’ve known before, in a wonderful setting of cold night breezes and clear thoughts.
It’s nice to be in this place again, after so long. You have allowed me to remember, O Lord. And so quickly. And effortlessly. I was afraid to sit down and start writing because I thought I would end up disappointed. I realize that the fear is greater than the writing. I am happy. Grant me peace, O lord. You alone are my hope.
I look forward to tomorrow. I look forward to begin writing about my dreams again.
