The busyness of the summer has caught up to me.  I feel exhausted by the end of each day, toss and turn through the night only to wake up tired each morning.  I trick myself into thinking that I need to keep going.  That I need to check things off of my never ending list.  I’ve come to believe that my list is self-inflicted busy-work.  I forget how to slow down.  How to be still.  How to relax.  Perhaps it is my own restlessness that pushes me into a sense of spiritual apathy that I have been experiencing for a while now.

All goes back to the earth,
and so I do not desire
pride of excess or power,

but the contentments made

by men who have had little:
the fisherman’s silence
receiving the river’s grace,
the gardener’s musing on rows.

I lack the peace of simple things.
I am never wholly in place.

I find no peace or grace.
We sell the world to buy fire,
our way lighted by burning men,
and that has bent my mind
and made me think of darkness
and wish for the dumb life of roots.

“The Want of Peace” The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry (Washington, D.C.: Counterpoint Press, 1998), 29

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