Backlog and Blues

It's the second day of the second month of the year and yet I'm already deeply mired in backlog.

I have work backlog. I can almost hear the complaints from my friends and lovedones about the state of our judicial system. Tao lang po. I have a self-imposed deadline tomorrow. I would be the first one to chastise myself if I don't meet that deadline.

Breathe.

I have reading backlog. I have books given to me years ago that are just collecting dust in my shelf. I used to be able to read one book in one sitting and two books during one period of time. Now I'm in the middle of ten. I pick one up and put it down the moment something important catches my attention.

Something important always seems to demand my full attention.

I have writing backlog. All these inputs - from people, books, devotionals, e-mails - are now crammed in my small brain and I feel like I'll explode any minute now. I try to write morning pages, random thoughts, unedited. They fail to satisfy. I need to be able to put my finger on what's bothering me and write it down before I can get over it. I have letters to write, reflections to crystallize, and senses to document.

I have emotional backlog. This goes way back to my childhood. I got so used to blocking off feelings that are deemed to be irrelevant or improper. I filter my own thoughts, edit my own words, judge my own feelings. Now they're all surfacing as I go through my pre-Lent jitters. This Lenten season is bound to be crucial for me. Do I waste my time listening to feelings? Is that a healthy waste of time? Well that's what my spiritual directress says. I'm going to a real counselor next week. They've finally found out that I'm a nutcase. There's something terribly wrong with me and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put humpty dumpty together again.

I have service backlog. Oh, to think about all the things I want to do for the Lord and the community I'm in. I've had to stop thinking of activities and projects for a few days because of physical ailments and, as has been obvious from the above paragraphs, psychological disturbances I've been having. If God is building a cathedral, then I sure tried to put in more bricks than I could handle. My back complained. My eyes grew tired. It was time to go on leave. But did I go on leave? I panick eve now just thinking of the amount of work waiting for me tomorrow. Me of little faith in my brothers and sisters and in my God.

When the Angel Gabriel told Mary that she was to bear a child from the Holy Spirit, she asked only one question and got satisfied with the answer. She said, "Be it done to me according to thy Word."

She didn't respond as Ella would respond:

What should I do in order for Your Word for me to come to pass?
Why are you complicating my life?
When shall I know for sure if I'm the one you chose?
Who else did you ask?
How do I cooperate with this impossible thing you're talking about?

Why does my heart yearn to serve full time as a missionary when I have a grownup, perfectly presentable, day job as a lawyer?

Now you know why productivity is at a standstill; why efficiency was thrown out the window; why I'm on the brink of neurosis. I'm not letting it "be done unto me". I'm doing it myself, while it was God who asked in the first place.

May the familiar waves of nausea, feelings of panick, reminders of trauma, and threats of insanity not hinder me from choosing the road less traveled.

May I face my family, career, service, and state of life as a daughter of God should - in faith, hope and love.

I pray I survive my life one day at a time. One responsibility, one book, one person, one desire, one plan, one dream, at a time.

There should only be One.