You’ve probably known this—I’m probably slow—Enough-O’clock: it doesn’t exist. Why am I so late to the of-course-not party?
So often, I discount the sacred echoes enslaved within the deep of my spirit. All too faithfully, I set aside my passions – determining that I don’t have enough time to dive in and do them justice.
Not so, says Jessica Turner, who recently released her first book, The Fringe Hours. For the last few weeks, I’ve been reading along with a lovely bunch of ladies from the (in)bloom book club, and reflecting on the fringe in my time.
These aren’t fluffy fringe hours that Jessica speaks of; that’s not a book that would have piqued my interest. Her premise is one of uncovering those moments that lie on the perimeter of our days – the minutes that, when combined, accumulate in time…and treasure. The loveliest of treasure—treasure of purpose fulfilled. A fringe that challenges the not-enough-time myth.
Please tell me I’m not alone. That your life is loud, and demanding, and all-consuming too. That you also struggle to hear the bellowing of your soul amidst the relentlessness of the daily.
One thing the Lord’s teaching me this year, and Jessica’s book mirrors, is that when I suppress the hunger pangs of my soul—my callings as a daughter of God—then I’m living right smack within the city limits of my own narcissistic form of holy discontentment. I can check every item off of my to-do list (a sister can dream), and I can even do it with a smile on my face, but this restlessness—the one that begs to be fed—the one that was drawn into me by my Maker for His purposes—it clatters against the prison within. Frustrated. Hungry. Unrequited.
I wake up with it. I walk through the dailys of life with it. I tuck it in beside me at night. It shadows my everything—waiting for the clock to strike “enough”; waiting to dance freely, feet unchained.
The beautiful, blessed, chaotic daily’ness of life—it should serve as inspiration for the inner art, not as competition for it. Diluting the temporal by pouring in a heavy hand of the eternal—doesn’t come naturally. More often than not, my inner feels subservient to my daily. How unfortunate. The temporal—it’s ever-constant; it’ll meet me there every time…right in the daily. Oh, but the eternal—the mystery of power bound up inside the elegance of a soft mist. Hollow unless it’s uncaged, fed, nurtured. Worse than a Survivor contestant going home with an immunity idol in his pocket, is a gift—a calling—dusty, still in its original packaging, waiting to be explored.
Today, I’ll set out to be a student of the soul. Rather than wait as the sands of the hourglass fall to rest at Enough-O’clock, I’ll unchain the inner cries, beholding as they dance freely – with purpose – as if they were created for it. Careful to let the fringe accumulate in time…and treasure. Sure, you’ll still find me thick in the blessed-busy of the daily. I’ll fix supper. I’ll make appointments. I’ll laugh, and possibly cry, with my people. And…
And, perhaps, sneak up on the first buds of spring with my eager new zoom lens.