November 19, 2015


Characterized by a lack of quiet, repose, or rest. Not able to rest, relax, or be still: a restless child. 

Restless child, that's me. Typically I'm steady at work and school, but yesterday when I managed to get about one third of an essay revised, stared blankly at a post I'm editing, and moved from sprawled on my bed to sitting at my desk to sitting downstairs, to perched on the porch.... I was wondering, quite frankly, what in the world had come over me. I'm self-diagnosing restlessness. 
I'm learning that sometimes it's okay to loosen up and soar with the strange breezes that spring up. So yesterday, after hours of fighting against the wind, I just let it have it's way. Forget school! Forget blogging! Forget my projects! Tomorrow, perhaps, the wind will be in their favor. 

I went outside (which I would recommend as a cure for ailments such as sadness, lethargy, anger, pent-up energy, confusion, and the like), a prime example of classiness in my black athletic pants and horse-manure caked cowboy boots. I admired the rich black soil in a corner of the woods, tucked under inches of fallen leaves. Raked loads into a ginormous black trash bag and trudged to dump them in the garden. My garden's a hoot. Blanketing the soil for the winter is a hodge-podge of hay, leaves, old plants, manure, shredded paper, and cardboard. It's a mess. Like you wanted to know that... :P 
I went for a run in the wind and the rain and listened to music, which I never do on runs. Ran a mile and a half in the rain and the mud in July in Chey - no, that's not right.... 
Then I wrote a few friends whom I've never seen in person (this online college life is strange, but it's wonderful).
Then I read, and went to bed early.

I'm still restless, which is why I'm typing here instead of in a Word document for school. But it's okay. 
It's okay to not be perfect. Because, as my mama likes to say, If we were perfect, then why would we need Jesus? If I was always on task and never procrastinated, then by golly, I'd imagine I was in charge of my life. Which we all know is a lie. So even restlessness has a purpose. Our less-than-perfect days serve to perfect us.