Newsletter from Jay Wilcox - November 2024: On Curling and Crayons

Good morning/afternoon/evening!

I'm not on top of anything. I finish each day feeling like I didn't do enough--like my to-do list is some massive curling stone slipping away across the ice. I can't touch it. No, I must instead furiously sweep the path ahead, handling a million small tasks just to facilitate the interminable glide from one day into the next. Speaking of hard, well-swept surfaces, parenting has taught me the nap-worthy comfort of hardwood floors. We bought Ursula a massive playpen, which is great, because I can climb in with her and lie down and wake up mere seconds later to her drumming her little goblin hands on my skull.

How can I stay on top of my life when I'm buried under it?

I start feeling angry and hopeless when I get tired--and I'm writing now as a means of orienting myself, examining the values at my core. These days, for want of free time, I have to be extremely efficient in getting work done. I use crayons to color-code my tasks. They've long since lost their wrappers and eroded down to nubs, caked in grime from my backpack's deepest recesses--but no matter how worn down they get, they never stop being crayons. Similarly, no matter how worn down I feel, I must never lose my ability to make a clear mark. To communicate thoughtfully and with love.

I find myself thinking about Abraham Lincoln. At no point was he like, "All right, here comes the Civil War! Now's my chance to be Abraham Lincoln!" No, he strikes me as an ordinary guy suddenly thrust way out of his depth. Were this not the case, the war wouldn't have aged him so dramatically. We're all out of our depth. We're all being destroyed, ground down. Who are we, at our cores? I never want to write a rallying cry--some cheerful call to "keep on keeping on"--but I do want to examine persistence through exhaustion. As you may know, a big election is coming up, and if you're like me (whatever your beliefs) your stress probably extends beyond the present moment. Figuratively and/or literally, we're all trying to calm the kids, to convey normalcy. I certainly was when I taught an 8 AM English class on November 9, 2016, slapping on a smile and thriving on a half-hour of sleep.

Anywho, back to my point. Who am I, in my inmost heart? No matter how much gets broken and rubbed away, can I be decent and compassionate and patient all the way through?

You may be asking similar questions, and I truly wish you well. I appreciate you as a reader and a friend--and, as always, you're welcome to write back.

Infinite Regards,

Jay