gap-filling

Periods of labor, periods of rest; I think that could be the motto for my blog. Last week I posted a lot, so this week I didn't. In the pursuit of mediocrity, one is necessarially constrained to accept and celebrate both the highs and the lows of production.

Or something. Really, I'm just worn out from the discernment class. I'm very much an introvert, but not always a particularly introspective one. Spending quality time mucking around in my childhood experiences, personality structure, and gifts in ministry has been a challenging process, and I'm finding myself drained by it. I've been particularly impressed lately by how malleable my interpretations of my own experiences are- I've known this before, as a theoretical matter, but it seems different when I'm trying to use those experiences to determine my gifts for ministry. A particular story, told one day, may sound like giftedness in service, and then on a different day sound like giftedness for teaching or mercy. Likewise, a story that one day sounds like an experience of detaching from experiences in order to observe them can on the next day sound like a counterphobic response or a desire for uniqueness, making this enneagram stuff sound like nonsense to me.

It's coming together, but slowly. I have no idea what the context is for this quote, but I'm quoting it anyway:
"It is not the purpose of a psychological typology to classify human beings into categories -- this in itself would be pretty pointless." - Carl Jung
I don't know what Jung thought the purpose was, but I think that someone, somewhere, must be profiting off all the angst that these typologies produce. In fact, I guess that's what I think the entire genre of self-help literature is about: creating angst within people, and then profiting off it as the suckers buy more books. Angst is a lovely renewable resource, when I think about it.

I haven't posted a poem in a while. This song has been in my head all day, so I'll just post a piece of the lyrics instead of finding a poem I like.

No one would love me
if they knew all the things I hide
My words fall to the floor
As tears drip through the telephone line

And the hands I’ve seen raised to the sky
Not waving but drowning all this time
I'll try to build an ark that they need
To float to you upon the crystal sea

Give me your hand to hold
'Cause I can't stand to love alone
And love alone is not enough to hold us up
We've got to touch your robe
So swing your robe down low
Swing your robe down low