Losing one’s grasp on a life of intentionality never seems to happen all at once. It’s a slow loosening and there are signs.
For me, it's laundry.
No, not dirty laundry. Clean laundry. Just sitting there. Waiting to be put away. I call this “the laundry in the coal mine”—warning signs of apathy and listlessness growing like a mysterious puddle all around me—suffocating all would-be canaries.
As much as I say, “Eh, I’ll put it away in a sec,” I usually end up dressing that week from the unfolded mounds of clean pants and shirts. Hmm, funny how the exercise gear goes untouched during these times as well. This not only means my options are limited to what I wore a few days ago, but they’re also usually wrinkled—the wrinkles of shame.
There are other omens of indifference.
The length of my grass.
A teetering bin of recyclables.
Accumulations of random documents on my desk.
Though such elements seem to indicate a need to keep up with regular chores (an aspect of adulthood of which I was never warned), the markers of ennui also rear their head in how few of my self-supporting habits I keep in motion.
A Kindle screen accumulating a dusty glaze.
Expansive date gaps in the pages of my journal.
The hour of the morning in which I get to sleep.
Such languid monotony bleeds into my personal interactions including:
Screen-free moments with my son and his most recent fascination
Coffee breaks with my wife’s soft gaze, warm smile, and massaging laugh
Unscripted conversations with Ribbono Shel Olam (the Master of the Universe)
May we remain keenly cognizant of the laundry in our coal mines—not as a jittery guard on a watchtower, but as a sailor at the helm making gentle adjustments through the winds and swells that would send us off course and capsize a life of meaning.