We Know Too Much, We Know Too Little

It’s hard being a human these days.

Maybe it’s hard being an animal too (Have you watched Penguin Town yet?! If not, go find it on Netflix!)

But we humans have to contend with sensory overload. We simply know too much, and too little at the same time. Without some sort of a filter, everything coming at us can quickly lead to feeling overwhelmed.

Too much, going on too fast. Climate change. Wars and chaos. Laws changing to the detriment of women and voters.

It can make your head spin. Like one of those tops that start off centered, but then progressively wobbles until it eventually stops and lays down on its side.

I don’t want us all to drop down like that top, out of pure exhaustion.

The world has need of you and me, more than ever.

The world has need of our clear-headedness.

The world needs us to wake up and be our best self, or as close to our best self as we can.

The world needs us to be open, compassionate, flexible.

But here’s the million-dollar question:

How do we filter all of it?  How do we know just how much we can handle, and when it’s time to shut the door?  

To clear out some space, so that we may find a little shelter, a little sanctuary.

A spot where we can breathe deeper, rest, relax, rejuvenate.

The world has need of you. But first...

Where’s the place you can gather yourself?

Or maybe you need a place where you can un-gather yourself, a place where you can release all of the “shoulds” and expectations.

Today I sit by a lake, the surface calm like glass, the birds chirping their morning songs.

There are also planes flying overhead, and two men conversing on a dock on the other side.

There is a whole world moving and humming away, just beyond the edge of this peaceful place.

And still - this world has need of me, has need of you.

But for now, first, I will listen a little longer to the birds, who are not worrying their little heads off.

For now, I will watch the concentric circles that ripple out across the water, after the fish jumps up and then returns back under.

Back to his world, back to his daily tasks, whatever those are for a fish.

But he did come up momentarily, and I think we must too.

We must find a way to get our heads above the water.

Find a way to stop the flailing about, so that we can see clearly again.

Maybe this is the “calm before the storm,” or maybe not.

Maybe we can learn to carry some of the calm with us.

Carry some of the peaceful waters that have been there all along, before the churning of the day.