When everything feels meaningless

the value of a fragmented offering

I’ve felt stuck. Really stuck. I have fifteen posts saved in my drafts along with many other unfinished things waiting for me to pull them out of the mud of myself. The more time passes the harder it becomes. I am not sure if I ought to abandon those ideas or if the point is to keep going back for them. Honestly, I don’t know. So today is a bit of both - rescuing scattered pieces and simultaneously letting myself start over.

This is an excerpt from my “About” page:

I need space to be a human in process - to give myself that permission in a world that largely tells me that is not okay. My creative work - my artistry - is how I navigate the wild spaces of myself and this life. I need to keep practicing how to exist in a world that tells me I’m not allowed to breathe mid-sentence. But I am. You are too.

It is not a finished story but the process of writing that matters more to me. And that story is a collection of notes along the way, notes that will be expressed in any manner and medium they so choose to work themselves out… Written notes, visual notes, musical notes: it is space for my purposeful meandering in paint and ink, word and image, verse and song.

I desperately tried to give myself that permission but I faltered. When I faltered I got stuck. And when I got stuck I had a heck of a time finding a way back or forward or anywhere but more stuck. It felt like failure. I am desperately trying to make sense of this world - our place in it - our purpose in it - our role within the chaos - and find meaning within in it. My little offerings feel utterly insufficient. That’s the fear, that everything I do is meaningless. exhale. I know, that’s a heavy thing to say out loud but I need to drag it out of the muck, wash it off and give it a good, hard look.

But everything is meaningless comes from overwhelm. From feeling like everything is too much and I am not enough. From not having the answers when there are a million hands raised, including my own. From the need to be perfect rather than human. From the pressure to be profound and impressive, to do big things or don’t bother at all. From needing to fix all that is broken. From needing to be good. From trying to do something to make meaning instead of finding meaning in the making. From needing to have a 100 step plan with goals and a measurable, marketable outcome. From trying to do it all and all at once. No wonder I feel stuck, especially when none of this aligns with my true values.

This is what I actually believe: when nothing feels like it matters, everything does.

I share all of this not because I am looking for external validation but to give myself - and perhaps you need this too - another permission slip to keep showing up. The world needs our offerings. It needs us together with all our bits and pieces to get us through this season and the next. The fragments are our offering. And together they are enough. Imagine all of us pulling out what we have and piling it all on a long table. I know I’ll find treasure in what you laid there, borrowing hope from something I find, joy or wisdom from another gem heaped in there. I must believe that it is possible someone might find something valuable in what I’ve contributed too. Even if it’s broken. Even if it’s still covered in mud (perhaps figuratively, perhaps quite literally).

Thank you for being here. Thank you for continuing to gather even while I have been silent and stuck. I’m not sure if you’ll find anything of value here but it’s high time to let that fear go. Today I want to share a work in progress. I wanted to have a clear theme for a Lenten project and I couldn’t distill it down. So, I’ve been leaning into the discomfort of not knowing where I am going and see how it unfolds. I took out some clay and began to sculpt. A vase, a bowl, a vessel - nope, that wasn’t it. And then, I understood. Lungs. I sculpted a tiny set of lungs. And I set it on a tiny chair to photograph it. I don’t know where this work is going, there is only one step before the next. It feels fitting to offer it today, in its smallness and infancy, as I trust its becoming.