The problem is, I'm shrinking spiritually, not growing. Nothing seems worth saying. There is no joy in me, now power to speak of. I am dragged down by distractions and sins and must-get-to's. Dieting doesn't help, since I'm forbidding myself indulgence in comfort food (esp. spuds).
I'm finally feeling at home in this burg, though, and that's a good thing. I'm glad I'm here. I'm over grieving for my former parish. But I don't have anything like a support system in place for me here.
The night is long and dark and (right now) cold. But morning always comes. And Spring. As the Beowulf poet put it,
. . . oþðæt oþer com
gear in geardas, swa nu gyt doð
þa ðe syngales sele bewitiað,
wuldortorhtan weder. Ða wæs winter scacen,
fæger foldan bearm.
May it not be too long delayed.