Twenty minutes ago I went chasing for coffee and spilled forty-three percent on the counter, my shirt, and the floor. It got me thinking of all the things I've chased over the last twenty years. Chasing dreams, chasing others, chasing change, chasing purpose, chasing my wonderfully naive idealism, chasing the beauty of the world down to try to make it mine. The results of the chase have indeed changed me, but never as I expected. A lot of life has happened. I've drunk and spilled a lot of coffee. I've won some and lost some. I've captured a few and been captured by a few. I've felt the cold and I've delivered coldness. I've wronged and been wronged. I've been sure I've had enough yet never enough. Sometimes everything is _____, sometimes nothing is_____. I've had long nights and short nights; big days and little ones too. But now, here I stand at forty-three, truly humbled by the chase.
I am peacefully grateful. I've gotten it so terribly wrong so many times but grace is bigger still. And grace has brought me home too many times to count. The season of realism seems to be setting in and it is a new and unexpected gift. That doesn't mean I've got anything figured out, my need for grace is as great today. Even after the prosaic years of chasing, I've not caught much in the shapes I was preoccupied looking for, but as I reflect I sense I've always been caught by a magnificently monstrous lover. I'm the one who has been chased!?
I've long experienced birthdays as days of both reflection and celebration, and on this one, I'm simply mirthful. The message of rest and the Aristotelian virtue of equanimity are in bloom. Tomorrow's worries are for the nits. I'm savoring these days, these trivial gifts that get trampled when chasing.