Uncentred rambling.

I am sad, and afraid, and the world has taken on a lot of very sharp edges in the past few days. A conflict has been growing in my life, shadowing larger and larger segments of thought, coyly, vying for attention; I have been trying in vain to ignore it.

It was pointed out to me some time last summer that I did not have to allow my profession to define me, that the immense stress I was under had quite a bit to do with an identity crisis. I had somehow managed to hold the impression that I had to choose humanity or reporting – to grieve for a life lost, or to cheer at a story told right. A false choice, in that respect, but the worldview it represented was more or less accurate, as far as I can see. Wrong, but accurate.

Wrong, because obviously I do not have to choose profession over humanity; that doesn’t even make sense. Accurate, because the way my mind usually works, I throw myself utterly into whatever work I have – even more so, when it’s something I’m passionate about. It was easy over the non-class summer, to spend six to eight hours at a time doing yard work, because that is honestly my natural inclination – to go overboard, to take one aspect of life and make it the whole.

It’s a good thing sometimes. I do believe that work can be a sacrifice to the Lord, if we put our hearts to it. That’s no less true now than it was over the summer, I don’t think – making a layout line up perfectly, spacing an article and a headline, spending a night working at an article that needs editing, that’s not less holy than making the facing edge of a juniper bush line up perfectly along the center of a parking lot, or raking leaves, or pulling weeds.

The problem starts to show up when the work starts to consume life – and it does, always, trend in that direction. I don’t know how to stop halfway, and I don’t know how to find a balance. So now I’ve got reporting at the center of my life, and I’m pretty sure there is Someone else who is supposed to be there. No amount of prayer by the side of the river in the night seems to carry into the newsroom in the evening, where the paper reasserts itself as the center of my heart.

Is that blasphemy? That God does not reach with me into the newsroom? I’m not saying God is outside; the blame lies with me, with my inability to change. I have been trying to remind myself that Love is the reason I am a journalist. From Love springs all light, from Love springs all that is good. From God, light, love, all. The problem is… I lose sight of that. Constantly – and I do mean constantly. I can’t seem to keep that fixed. It slips out of perception, leaving me with no center, and the first thing I come across slides in and takes its place. Which, I am pretty sure, is blasphemy. Of some sort or other – allowing something other than love to take the place in the center of one’s heart? How could it not be? (On the other hand, I’m also pretty sure it’s the origin of most human failings, and, well, Grace.)

The more I think about it, the more obvious it is that asking for grace, admitting that I need forgiveness, need grace, not only to reach for perfect love but to reach for love at all… is sorta massively necessary. I can’t look away, I can’t avoid it, and my pride is such an idiotically useless thing. It should be the easiest thing in the world to give up, and sometimes it actually makes me angry that it’s still clinging. (Which is, of course, a prideful reaction in itself. Damn it, can’t anything ever be simple?)

Anyway.

I am sad and afraid, because I am making mistakes and not doing every part of my job right, and because I have allowed my job to become the center of my heart (again), this shakes me more than it should.

The worst part is, it does need to be near the center. I just need – balance. Maybe this year I can actually work on that. Maybe.