Christmas is
coming, season of goodwill. I know I sleep well, many hours, many times, yet
here at year’s end I know I’m deeply tired, a level below. A low or depressed
energy or mood is natural at the end of any great enterprise, even when we
succeed. We’ve called on all resources, needing replenishment now. Celebration,
and fatigue.
A word of many guises. In the
military, a punishment detail. For architecture, the state of materials worn to
their last. Of action, to subject to stress, often repeatedly, to the point of
exhaustion. Then we add Christmas, formerly Saturnalia, when the slaves took
over the shop. Wearing in its own little way. What is called consuming.
Competition is fatiguing. So is
campaigning. Conditional love is exhausting: a lot of this around. Passion
(especially passionate about) fatigues by definition: suffering. When intelligence
appears, Lao Tzu says, a tiresome hypocrisy accompanies; when disorder is orders,
we see loyal ministers with words to wear us out.
Whatever has come to be has already
been named, says Ecclesiastes: the more words, the more vanity. Fulfil your purpose,
says Lao Tzu: sometimes push forward, sometimes rest behind. Breathe. Become as
a little child.
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