I Said There'd Be Days Like This

I try to be a reasonably productive person. At a few points, I've even been described as "high capacity." Those moments went something like this:


Me: teaching four college courses, raising three children, and painting a bedroom over a random weekend.

Random Person: "You're high capacity."

However, in more recent years — this post-pandemic era, if you will — I've noticed varying degrees and instances of capacity loss. How much decline am I talking about, you ask? Well, on certain days, I still fire on all cylinders. Other days, I imagine a narrator speaking as if I were starring in a prescription drug commercial, "Are you suffering from moderate to severe capacity loss?" Cue camera panning as I shuffle despondently down my hallway while wearing a blanket draped over my shoulders.

That was the case yesterday, a rare obligation-less Tuesday. I had no classes to teach. No office hours to host. No work meetings to attend. No children were at home. I had one brief morning appointment, then a refreshingly light amount of grading earmarked for the afternoon.

You would think I'd enjoy the day immensely. That I'd knock out my work early, then fill the remaining hours with other fulfilling tasks or happy moments of leisure. That's why I was so surprised to reach the end of the day and have nothing to show for it. Nada.

Brain: "We had a day off. We must have been used it productively."
Me: "No."
Brain: "Well, then we must have rested."
Me: "Somehow, also no." 

What did I do? How did I fill the day? It still eludes me.

I putzed, but without pleasure. I dabbled on the computer, yet didn't manage cross off a single item from my to-do list. If I had ended the day feeling more refreshed than when I started, I'd count it as a success. But, sadly, that's not the case, either. I received no checks in any win column, neither rest nor achievement.

Did I read a book? No. Grade assignments? No. Exercise? No. Watch a movie? No. Clean a closet? No. Enjoy the fall day with a pleasant walk? No. Prepare a nice dinner? No. Connect with a friend? No.  

There are days like this. Blurry days, squandered days. Days when you exist to recover from earlier days. Days when you wither like you're suffering from a Victorian wasting disease. Weird days when you ironically have all the time in the world, yet no gumption or verve or plan.

Today, however, the sun rose again, as it reliably does. Things were different. I exercised. I taught three solid classes. I met with students, caught up on email, finished yesterday's grading, and planned an upcoming lesson. I made strombolis and assembled a salad. My kitchen already is cleaned for the evening. Apparently, my capacity has returned.

In light of these adjacent experiences, I need to remind myself of a few core truths:

One, there will be days like this. Both versions. High capacity and low capacity days are two sides of the same coin. Nobody — I mean nobody — always can function at full throttle.

Two, worth doesn't change depending on the version. Yesterday's version of me, while not ideal, was just as loved, just as valuable, as today's more productive version. God's love doesn't waver based on how much I achieve. His love is contingent on His faithfulness, not my own. It's a constant force, hearty and steadfast and underserved and inherent, regardless of my performance and productivity, or lack thereof. This is hard to fathom, yet good to remember.



And I said I'd love you though all those days.
-- God

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Happy Little Rituals

Every evening in fall and winter, I brew a cup of tea. I'm a simple creature — and one of habit, I suppose, so even the flavor remains consistent. It's mint. Always mint. If I'm tired, mint refreshes. If stress lingers after a long day, mint soothes and settles. 

I've never felt worse after drinking a cup of tea.

I'm not sure when I started this ritual. The practice drops off each spring and isn't even a blip on my radar during summer, but once the sun begins to set earlier, once leaves are tinged orange, and once the edges of each day carry briskness in the air, it's time.

Dishes from dinner are put away and the kitchen is cleaned. I change from my work clothes into comfortable sweats. The shades are drawn, lamps turned on, and perhaps a good book is in hand. Beside me, simple and stable, is a cup of mint tea.


Tonight, in fact, as I contemplated whether I'd grade a few more assignments or call it a night (I called it a night), I wrapped my hands around the mug, warm from the seaming liquid inside, and felt at ease. It might merely be a cup of tea, but it feels like something more. It's a happy little ritual, one that closes a day with a small familiar gift.

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