Picking up a stack of (mostly free) magazines laying around my apartment, I couldn't decide what to do with them. Clearly, if I had time to read them, I'd have done so by now. So why hesitate to simply throw them out? Maybe it's that gap between reality and who I'd like to be. I'd like to be the kind of guy who's in the know about film and music and art and literature and politics and technology and ministry and a ton of other things I could read about. And I live in a time and culture where the sheer amount of information I can access is staggering, almost infinite. But I'm limited, and I hate it. I can't be that guy, even if I can surround myself with the trappings. I only have one life, and that means saying no to far more things than I can say yes to—even if I don't say no, the options still close off. Every potential can't be realized, every possibility can't be pursued. And I hate it.
I'm running up against something, over and over again. I don't know what it is, but I know the feeling: failure. Almost all of my dreams now are about one failure or another. Objectively, I know it doesn't wash. I have a good life. There've been losses, certainly, and sacrifices, and mistakes. But that's true of all of us. Is what really gets to me the fact that I'm imperfect and limited, that I can't do it all, have it all, fix it all, be it all? How do I let go of that?
Just let go, I suppose. Over and over. Take up my cross. Die to self. Maybe that's what it means.