PUT DOWN THE PEN

 

It was 5 a.m in February, which is really just December in disguise. The kind of cold that feels personal, like the air itself is disappointed in your life choices.

The woods were dark and quiet. Frost on the branches. Snow under my feet. Rosary beads tangled in my gloves like Christmas lights.

I was walking because anxiety makes me pace, and pacing in nature sounds healthier than pacing in the kitchen.

Eventually, I started talking to God.

Out loud.

Because this is who I am now.

“Okay. I’m here. I don’t know what to do.”

Nothing.

Just my footsteps and breathing.

“I’m trying. I’m knocking. It feels like nobody’s home.”

I kept walking.

Then something came to me. Not a voice exactly. More like a thought that felt deeper than the other thoughts fighting for space in my head.

I’m here.

I stopped.

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Nothing dramatic followed.

No explanation.

No promise everything would be fine.

Which, frankly, would have been helpful.

“I’m scared.”

I kept walking.

“I don’t know what happens next.”

That was the part driving me crazy.

I wanted the plan.

I wanted dates, outcomes, instructions, preferably something laminated.

“Just tell me what happens next.”

Nothing.

Then a thought came so clearly I almost laughed.

You’d try to control it.

Fair.

Because that is what I do.

When something goes wrong, I make a plan. Then another plan. Then a backup plan for the backup plan. I call, email, research, negotiate, worry, and occasionally attempt to personally supervise the universe.

The universe has never requested my assistance.

I kept walking.

“I’ve made a lot of plans.”

Most of them failed.

Then one more:

Put down the pen.

I stopped again.

The sun was starting to rise, just a thin streak of pink behind the trees.

For most of my life, I had believed my job was to write the next chapter before I reached it.

Fix it.

Control it.

Make sure nothing surprised me.

But standing there in the cold, I had nothing left to write.

Snow beneath my feet and a rosary in my hand.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

And for once, I let that be true.

I stood there a little longer. Then I started walking again.