I have a favorite poem. It is the “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot. It is a poem of a tired soul. The first stanza in particular resonates with me today.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
I feel old today. Though I am just past my middle years, I am tired, tired beyond my years.
Sunday, my family checks into the hospital so that my son can have two more surgeries in one week. That will bring our grand total to 5 this year.
I have lost two close friends this year, one to death another to relocation. My job is uncertain, its value questionable at best.
I feel old.
The VACTERL beast breaths down my neck. I will fight him the best I can and live to fight another day.
But I am tired, so very tired.
My world is shrinking. My focus narrow is narrow. I have to be there. I have to be strong.
I long for connectedness, for relevance, for value. But these are luxuries for those who have climbed Maslow’s mountain. I am at its base bearing the weight of the world.
Talk is cheap. The pills are weak. I must trudge on and on and on.